Table of Contents

"Owen Hartley; or, Ups and Downs"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

"Paddy Finn"

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.

"Paul Gerrard"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

"Peter Biddulph"

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.

"Peter the Whaler"

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.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Chapter Thirty Six.

"Peter Trawl"

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.

"The Pirate of the Mediterranean"

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 Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Chapter Forty.

"The Prime Minister"

Volume One—Chapter One.

Volume One—Chapter Two.

Volume One—Chapter Three.

Volume One—Chapter Four.

Volume One—Chapter Five.

Volume One—Chapter Six.

Volume One—Chapter Seven.

Volume One—Chapter Eight.

Volume One—Chapter Nine.

Volume One—Chapter Ten.

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.

William H G Kingston

"Owen Hartley; or, Ups and Downs"

Chapter One.

“Well, boy, what do you want?”

These words were uttered in a no pleasant tone by an old gentleman with a brownish complexion, a yellowish brown scratch wig, somewhat awry, a decidedly brown coat, breeches, and waistcoat, a neckcloth, once white, but now partaking of the sombre hue of his other garments; brown stockings and brownish shoes, ornamented by a pair of silver buckles, the last-mentioned articles being the only part of his costume on which the eye could rest with satisfaction.

On his lap was placed a pocket handkerchief, of a nondescript tint, brown, predominating, in consequence of its frequent application to a longish nose, made the recipient of huge quantities of snuff. Altogether there was a dry, withered-leaf-like look about the old man which was not prepossessing. His little grey eyes were sunk deeply in his head, his sight being aided by a large pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, which he had now shoved up over his forehead.

He was seated on a high stool at a desk in a little back dingy office, powerfully redolent of odours nautical and unsavoury, emanating from coils of rope, casks of salt butter, herrings, Dutch cheese, whale oil, and similar unaromatic articles of commerce. It was in that region made classical by Dibdin—Wapping. The back office in which the old gentleman sat opened out of one of much larger proportions, though equally dull and dingy, full of clerks, old and young, on high stools, busily moving their pens, or rapidly casting up accounts—evidence that no idleness was allowed in the establishment. On one side was a warehouse, in which large quantities of the above named and similar ship’s stores were collected. In front was a shop, the ceiling hung with tallow candles, brushes, mats, iron pots, and other things more useful than ornamental. From one end to the other of it ran a long, dark-coloured counter, behind which stood a man in a brown apron, and sleeves tucked up, ready to serve out, in small quantities, tea, sugar, coffee, tallow candles, brushes, twine, tin kettles, and the pots which hung over his head, within reach of a long stick, placed ready for detaching them from the hooks on which they were suspended. In the windows, and on the walls outside, were large placards in red and black letters, announcing the sailing of various ships of wonderful sea qualities, and admirable accommodation for passengers, with a statement that further information would be afforded within.

“Speak, boy; what do you want?” repeated the old gentleman, in a testy and still harsher tone than before, as he turned round on his stool with an angry glance under his spectacles. “Eh?”

The person he addressed was a fair complexioned boy, about twelve years old, with large blue eyes, and brown hair in wavey curls, a broad forehead, and an open, frank, intelligent countenance. He was dressed in a jacket and trousers of black cloth, not over well made perhaps, nor fresh looking, although they did not spoil his figure; his broad shirt collar turned back and fastened by a ribbon showed to advantage his neck and well-set-on head. It would have been difficult to find two people offering a greater contrast than the old man and the boy.

“Please, sir,” answered the latter, with considerable hesitation, “Farmer Rowe wished me to come here to see you, as he hopes—”

“And who in the name of wonder is Farmer Rowe, and who are you?” exclaimed the old gentleman, kicking his heels against the leg of the stool.

Before the boy could find words to go on with what he was saying, or could check the choking sensation which rose in his throat, a clerk, the counterpart of his master, in respect of dinginess and snuffiness, entered with a handful of papers which required signing, and a huge folio under his arm. As, in the eyes of the old gentleman, his business was of far more consequence than any matter which could be connected with that pale-faced, gentle boy in the threadbare suit, he turned round to the desk, and applied himself to the papers, as his clerk handed them to him in succession.

The boy was, in the meantime, left unnoticed to his own reflections. While the old gentleman was absorbed in the folio, the clerk gave a glance round at the young stranger, and the expression conveyed in that glance did not add pleasantness to the lad’s feelings, as he stood clutching his crape-bound hat. Leaving the two old men engaged in their books and papers, a fuller account must be given of the boy than he was likely to afford of himself.

Some thirty years before the period at which this history commences a young gentleman, Owen Hartley, who was pursuing his academical course with credit, preparatory to entering the ministry, fell in love during a long vacation with a well-educated young lady of respectable position in life, if not of birth equal to his. She returned his affection, and it was agreed that they should marry when he could obtain a living. Being ordained, he was appointed to a curacy of 50 pounds a year, in which post he faithfully discharged his duty, expecting to obtain the wished-for incumbency. Susan Walford existed on the same hope, but year after year passed by, and she grew pale, and even his spirits sometimes sank, when the realisation of their expectations seemed likely to be indefinitely deferred. At length, however, he obtained a living. It was one no person, except in his circumstances, would have taken. No wonder; it was among the fens of Lincolnshire, and, after certain deductions, scarcely produced a hundred a year. Still it was a living, and a certainty. At the same time Susan received a legacy. It made their hearts very grateful; although the amount was small, yet, in their eyes, it seemed magnificent, a clear 350 pounds. To be sure, 300 pounds would produce only 12 pounds a year when invested, still, that was something added to a hundred.

The extra fifty was retained for furnishing the vicarage. Ten years they had waited patiently, now they were married, and were contented and happy. They did not live for themselves alone, but to be a blessing to all around them. True, they could not give money, but Owen gave Gospel truths, simple and without stint; and she, kind words and sympathy, and a portion of many of their scanty meals. The hale as well as the sick were visited, believers strengthened and encouraged, and inquirers instructed. They reaped a rich harvest of affection from their parishioners. Three years after their marriage a son was born; he was a treasure for which they were grateful, and he was their only one. The little Owen flourished, for he was acclimatised, but the breezes which blow over those Lincolnshire fens are raw and keen, if not generally unhealthy to the natives, and the vicar and his wife began to complain of touches of ague, which became, as time went on, more and more frequent. An income of 112 pounds a year will not allow the happy possessors to indulge in many of the luxuries of life, and certainly not in that of foreign travel. When, therefore, the parish doctor hinted that a change of climate, and more generous diet and port wine, were absolutely necessary for their restoration, Mr Hartley smilingly observed, that as he did not think a better climate would come to them, and as they certainly could not go to it, he did not see how the combination could be brought about; and as to port wine, it had long been a stranger to his palate, and was likely to continue so. Still the doctor urged that he must take it, and sent him some from his own store, and, moreover, spoke so very earnestly to Mrs Hartley, saying that her husband would altogether be incapacitated from performing his duties unless he was supplied with stimulants and more food, that she resolved to do what many have resolved to do before, and will do again under similar circumstances. She did not exactly kill the golden goose, but began to sell out. It was indeed pleasant to have 20 pounds at command. She ordered wine of the best, with beef steaks and mutton chops, such things had rarely before been seen at the vicarage. The butcher wondered, but she paid regularly, and he asked no questions. She, however, only made-believe to eat of them herself, that Owen might have the more; and when he came home to dinner she was sure to have taken a large luncheon while he was out. She thought that his health was improving, and he declared that he felt stronger.

So delighted was she with the result of this new system, that she ordered more port wine, and still more amply supplied the table. Yet the doctor was not satisfied, and urged change of air for a short time—“His life is so valuable,” was his remark, and the doctor’s observation conquered all scruples. A clergyman to do Owen’s duty was to be obtained, no easy matter, and he must be paid. One was found, and the excursion made. Mr Hartley felt wonderfully better, but not many weeks after his return the terrible ague again attacked him. Week after week he was unable to perform his ordinary duty. He staggered to the church, and in a voice which he could with difficulty render audible, preached the glorious Gospel as before.

The parish did not suffer so much as it might have done, for Susan visited the parishioners more frequently than ever. At length the faithful wife herself fell ill.

The disease made more rapid progress in her weak frame than it had done in that of her husband. Owen now compelled her to take the same remedies which she had given to him; both lingered on, striving to do their duty. The vicar was apparently getting better, and Susan revived sufficiently to enable her to assist in the education of the younger Owen. Year after year showed the ravages illness was making on their frames; the doctor shook his head when the parishioners inquired after them. Susan died first, Owen did not mourn as one without hope, although it was evident that he had received a terrible blow. Since his marriage he had placed all worldly concerns in Susan’s hands—no child could have known less than he did how to manage them—the consequences were inevitable. The vicar got into debt, not very deeply at first, a few pounds only, but to these few pounds others were gradually added.

The vicar had a faithful servant, Jane Hayes, who, when a girl, had come to him and Mrs Hartley on their marriage, for her food and enough wages to buy clothes. Jane went and went again to the shops for such provisions as she considered the vicar and Master Owen required.

One was too ill, the other too young to make inquiries or consider how they were to be paid for. When by chance any tradesman demurred, Jane was very indignant, asserting confidently that the vicar would pay for whatever he had when his dues came in.

Mr Hartley now no longer rose from his bed. A neighbouring clergyman, not much better off than himself, came over occasionally to perform the duty in the church, getting his own done by a relative who was paying him a visit. Mr Hartley, although ready to depart, clung to existence for the sake of his boy. When he had sufficient strength to speak, he repeated to young Owen the advice and exhortations he had constantly given him when in health. They came now, however, with greater force than ever from the lips of the dying man, and words which before had been heard unheeded, now sank deeply into the heart of the boy.

Young Owen knew nothing of the world, he had never left home, but he was thus really better prepared to encounter its dangers and difficulties than many who go forth, confident in their own strength and courage. He scarcely had, hitherto, realised the fact that his father was to be taken from him.

“My boy,” said the village doctor, as he led him into his father’s room, “you must be prepared for the worst.”

These words made Owen feel sick at heart.

While the vicar clasped the hand of his boy, and gazed into that beloved young face, his gentle spirit winged its flight to heaven, and Owen knew that he was an orphan. He was not aware, however, how utterly destitute he had been left. The vicar had to the last been under the impression that the larger portion of Susan’s fortune, for so he was pleased to call it, still remained, and that it would be sufficient to start Owen in life. He had paid great attention to the education of his boy, who possessed a much larger amount of general knowledge than most lads of his age. The principal people in the parish attended the coffin of their late vicar to the grave. They had not far to go from the vicarage to the churchyard.

Farmer Rowe, who lived near, at Fenside Farm, had been the faithful friend of Mr Hartley from the time of his first coming to the parish, and taking him by the hand, followed as a mourner. Owen bore up during the ceremony, but on returning to his desolate home, at length gave way to the grief which was well-nigh breaking his young heart.

“Don’t take on so, Master Owen,” cried Jane, leading him to his little room; “he who is gone would not wish you to grieve. He is happy, depend upon it, and he wants you to be happy too. We shall have to leave this, I am afraid, for they will not let you take your father’s place, seeing you are somewhat young, otherwise I am sure you could do it. You read so beautiful like, and I would rather hear a sermon from you than any one.”

Owen shook his head.

“No, Jane, I should have to go to college first; a person must be regularly ordained before he could come and preach in our church.”

Still Jane was not convinced on that point, and she inquired from Farmer Rowe whether he could get Master Owen made vicar in his fathers stead.

“That is impossible, Jane,” answered the farmer, smiling. “We will, however, do our best for the boy; we must look into the state of his affairs, for I can hear of no kindred of his who are likely to do so.”

Owen was allowed to remain at the vicarage longer than might have been expected. It was not easy to find a successor to Mr Hartley. The place had a bad name, few incumbents had lived long there. The tradesmen of Reston, the neighbouring town, however, somewhat hesitated about supplying Jane with provisions.

“But there is the furniture,” she answered, “and that will sell for I don’t know how much; it is very beautiful and kept carefully.”

In Jane’s eyes it might have been so, as it was superior to what she had seen in her mother’s humble cottage. In the meantime she employed herself in preparing a proper suit of mourning for Owen.

“The dear boy will have to go out among strangers, and he shall be well dressed, at all events,” she observed as she stitched away at his garments. She had to work up all sorts of old materials. Her own small wages were due, but of that she thought not; her great desire was that her young master should be properly dressed.

At length, however, the creditors put in their claims; the furniture and all the property of the late vicar had to be sold, but it was insufficient to meet their demands. Farmer Howe, knowing he matters were likely to turn out, took Owen to his house.

The farmer had a large farm of his own, but there had been a bad harvest, and at no time had Fenside Farm been a very profitable one; he therefore could not do as much for the poor lad as his kind heart dictated. His second son David, the scholar of the family, as he called him, who was articled to an attorney in a neighbouring town, happened at the time to be at home.

“David,” said Farmer Howe, “surely the vicar and his wife must have had some kith and kin, and we must find out who they are; they may be inclined to do something for the boy, or, if not, they ought to do so.”

“The first thing I would suggest, father, is to question Owen, and hear what he knows about the matter,” answered David; “we may then see what letters the poor lady or the vicar have left; they may throw some light on the subject.”

Owen was forthwith called in. He had seldom heard his parents allude to their relatives, but he held an opinion that his father had several, and from the way in which he had heard them spoken of he fancied that they were some great people, but who they were he could not tell. They certainly, however, had never shown any regard for Mr Hartley, or paid him the slightest attention. Owen knew that his mother had relations, and that her father had been in some public office, but had died without leaving her any fortune; his grandmother had also died a year or two after her marriage. This much Owen knew, but that was very little. “Oh yes,” he said, “I remember that her name was Walford.”

“Well, that must have been your grandfather’s name too. Do you know what your mother’s maiden name was?” asked David.

Owen could not tell.

“Perhaps it will be in some of her books,” suggested David. “They sometimes help one in such cases as this.”

“The books, I am afraid, were sold with the other property,” said the farmer.

“Then we must find out who bought them,” remarked David; “perhaps Dobbs of our town did. I saw him at the sale. He is not likely to have disposed of them yet; I will get him to let me look over them.”

David fulfilled his promise. Mr Dobbs allowed him to look over the library of the late Vicar of Fenside, and at length he came to a volume of “Sturm’s Reflections,” on the title page of which was written, in a clear mercantile hand, “Given to Susan Fluke, on her marriage with Henry Walford Esquire, by her loving cousin Simon Fluke.”

David bought the volume and returned with it in triumph. “I have, at all events, found out the maiden name of the boy’s grandmother on his mother’s side, so, if we cannot discover his relatives on one side, we may on the other. We have now got three names—Fluke, Walford, and Hartley. The Hartley side will give us most difficulty, for it is clear that the vicar and his father held no communication for many years with any of the relatives they may have possessed. Fluke, however, is not a common name; we will search among the Flukes and Walfords, and see if any persons or person of those names will acknowledge young Owen. Simon Fluke, Simon Fluke—the London and County Directories may help us; if they cannot, we must advertise. It will be hard if we cannot rake up Simon Fluke or his heirs. To be sure, that book may have been given to his grandmother fifty years ago or more, and Simon Fluke may be dead.”

David carefully locked up the book. “It may tend to prove your relationship with the said Simon Fluke; and who knows that he may be, or may have been, a rich man, and that you may become his heir,” he remarked to Owen.

Owen, although he listened to what the young lawyer said, scarcely understood the full meaning of his observations. Farmer Rowe, ill as he could afford the expense, sent David off next day to London to make inquiries. Both the farmer and his family did their best to amuse the orphan.

Although the hearts of the young are elastic, his loss had been so recent, and his grief so overpowering, that, in spite of all the efforts of his kind friends, he could not recover his spirits. Owen, however, had become calmer when Jane Hayes came to wish him good-bye. She had been offered another situation, which, seeing that he was well taken care of, she had accepted. Owen was in the garden when Jane arrived; the sight of her, as she came to meet him, renewed his grief. They sat down on a bench together, under a tall old tulip-tree, just out of sight of the house. Owen burst into tears.

“That’s just what I feel like to do, Master Owen,” said the faithful woman, taking his hand; “but it seems to me, from all master used to say when he was down here with us, that up there, where he and missis have gone, there is no crying and no sorrow. So you see, Master Owen, you should not take on so. They had their trials on earth, that I am sure they had, for I seed it often before you was born; but when you came you was a blessing to them. Now they are happy, that is the comfort I have.”

“I am not crying for them, Susan,” said Owen, trying to stifle his tears, “I am crying for myself; I cannot help it. I know you love me, and you always have ever since I could remember—if you punished me it was kindly done—and now you are going away, and I do not know when I shall see you again. Mr Rowe is very kind and good, and so are Mrs Rowe, and John, and David, and their sisters, but, Jane, it is from pity, for they cannot care much about me, and I feel all alone in the world.”

“Well, I will give up the place, Master Owen, and work for you; I cannot tell how I should ever have had the heart to think of going away and leaving you among strangers, although I have known Farmer Rowe and his family all my born days, and good people they are as ever breathed.”

Owen took her hand and put his head on her lap, just as he used to do when he was a little child, and thus he remained without speaking. Jane looked down on him with the affection of a mother, and tears dropped slowly from her eyes.

“The Lord bless the boy,” she murmured to herself, as she lifted her face towards the blue sky, “and take care of him, and give him strength against all the enemies he will have to meet—the world, the flesh, and the devil.” Her plain features—for Jane had little to boast of in regard to good looks—were lighted up with an expression which gave her a beauty many fairer faces do not possess.

Owen lay still for some time; Jane thought that he was sleeping, and was unwilling to arouse him. At length, looking up, he said—

“I never can repay you enough for all you have done for me. I should be acting a cowardly part if I were to let you give up a good place for my sake, and allow you to toil and slave for me, when I am ready enough to work for my own support; you cannot tell how much I can do, and how much I know. I do not say it for the sake of boasting, but my father assured me that I knew enough to teach boys much older than myself. If I was bigger, I could become an usher at a school, or perhaps Mr Orlando Browne, David Howe’s employer, would take me as a clerk. So you see, Jane, that I am not afraid of having to work, or afraid of starving; you must therefore go to Mrs Burden’s and look after her children, I am sure that they will love you, and then you will be happy. It is the knowing that some one loves us that makes us happy, Jane. I know that you love me, and that makes me happy now.”

“Ah, Master Owen, there is One who loves you ten thousand times more than I can do, and if you will always obey Him, you will never cease to be happy too. Master often used to say that to us, you mind. Ah! if you think of his sayings—and he spoke the truth out of the Book—it will be a blessing to you.”

“Thank you, Jane, for reminding me,” answered Owen, his countenance brightening. “I do, I do; I will try ever to do so.”

“That’s right, Master Owen, that’s right,” said Jane; “it makes me very glad to hear you say that.”

The shades of evening were coming on; they warned Jane that she ought to be on her way. Unwillingly she told Owen that she must be going. He accompanied her to the gate, for she could not bring herself to go in and say good-bye to the farmer’s family. “They will know that it was from no want of respect,” said Jane. “God bless you, Master Owen, God bless you.”

Owen looked after her until she was lost to sight at the end of the lane. It was some time before he could command himself sufficiently to go back into the house.

Chapter Two.

David Rowe had been a week in London engaged in the search for Owen’s relatives. At last a letter came from him, desiring that the trap might be sent over to Reston, as he would be down, God willing, by the coach that day.

His arrival was eagerly looked for by all at Fenside Farm. David’s laconic letter had not mentioned anything to satisfy their curiosity.

“Well, lad, what news?” exclaimed the farmer, as David stood while his mother and sister Sarah assisted him off with his great-coat. “Have you found out friends likely to help young Owen?”

“As to that I cannot exactly say,” answered David; “I have discovered a relative who ought to help him—the identical Simon Fluke who gave the book to Susan Walford. Simon Fluke must be the boy’s cousin, although removed a couple of degrees; but that should make no difference if Simon had any affection for his cousin, for the boy is certainly her only surviving descendant.”

“But have you had any communication with Simon Fluke?” inquired the farmer.

“No, I thought that would be imprudent; it would be politic to let the boy introduce himself. I made all inquiries in my power, however, and ascertained that Simon Fluke is a bachelor, reputed to be rich, and has a flourishing business as a ship’s chandler. As to his character, all I can learn is, that he is looked upon as a man of honour and credit in his business, although of somewhat eccentric habits. In regard to his private character I could gain no information; he may be as hard-hearted as a rock, or kind and generous. I went to his place of business in the hopes of having the opportunity of forming an opinion for myself, but I failed to see him, and therefore had to come away as wise as I went.”

“What step do you advise us to take next?” asked the farmer.

“Send him up at once, and let him present himself at Simon Fluke’s—say who he is, that his parents are dead, and that he wishes for employment. Do not let him appear like a beggar asking for alms; he will succeed best by exhibiting an independent spirit, and showing that he is ready to do any work which is given to him. We know he is quick, intelligent, writes a beautiful hand, and has as good a head on his shoulders as many a much older person.”

“But surely we cannot send the boy up by himself,” urged Mrs Rowe; “and you, I suppose, cannot go again! David?”

“I’ll go with him, mother,” said John, the eldest son, “and willingly bear the charge, for I should be glad to get a chance of seeing the big city. If Simon Fluke were to refuse to receive young Owen, what would become of the boy? I have heard of dreadful things happening to lads in London, especially when they have no friends to care for them.”

And so it was settled. John undertook to start the very next morning, if Owen was willing to go.

Owen, who had been out in the garden making himself useful, now came in. David gave him the information he had obtained, and inquired whether he wished to pay a visit to his supposed relative?

“If he is likely to give me something to do, I am willing to go and ask him,” answered Owen.

“There is nothing like trying, and you can lose little by asking for it,” observed David.

Susan had prepared Owen’s wardrobe to the best of her ability, so that he was ready the next morning to start with John Rowe. They duly reached the great city, and John and Owen managed to find their way to Wapping. They walked about for some time, making inquiries for Paul Kelson, Fluke and Company, whose place of business was at last pointed out to them. They had passed it once before, but the name on the side of the door was so obliterated by time that it was scarcely legible.

“Now, Owen, you go in, and success attend you,” said John, shaking him by the hand, as if they were about to separate for an indefinite period. “Do not be afraid, I will not desert you!”

Owen, mustering courage, entered the dingy-looking office. John remained outside while Owen presented himself, as has been already described, to Simon Fluke.

Faithful John walked up and down, keeping a watchful eye on the door, in case Owen might be summarily ejected, and resolved not to quit his post until he had ascertained to a certainty that the boy was likely to be well cared for. “If the old man disowns him, I will take him to some London sights, and then we will go back to Fenside, and let him turn farmer if he likes, and I’ll help him; or it may be that David will hear of something more to his advantage, or perhaps find out some of his other relatives. David is as keen as a ferret, and he’ll not let a chance pass of serving the lad.” John’s patience was seriously tried. He saw seafaring men of various grades pass in and out, corroborating the account of the flourishing business of Paul Kelson, Fluke and Company, and he concluded, while Simon Fluke was engaged with them, that young Owen would have but small chance of being attended to.

“Well, I can but wait until they are about to close the place; then, if Owen does not come out, I must go in and look for him,” thought John. He was resolved, however, not to do anything which might interfere with the boy’s interests; it took a good deal to put John out of temper.

Meantime Owen’s patience was undergoing a severe trial. The two brown-coated old gentlemen appeared to him to be a long time looking over those big books. They had just concluded, when a junior clerk came in to say that Captain Truck wished to see Mr Fluke. Glancing at Owen as he passed, Mr Fluke hurried into his private room, while the old clerk, tucking the big books under his arm, and filling his hands with the papers, left the office. He stopped as he was passing young Owen.

“Sit down there, boy,” he said, pointing to a bench near the door; “Mr Fluke will speak to you when he is disengaged.”

Several persons came in, however, before Captain Truck had gone away. They were admitted in succession to speak to Mr Fluke; so Owen had to wait and wait on, watching the clerks as they sat at their desks, and observing the visitors as they paced up and down, while waiting their turns to have an interview with the principal of the establishment. This impressed Owen with the idea that the brown, snuffy old gentleman was a far more important personage than he had at first supposed. Several of the clerks who were moving about with papers in their hands frequently passed the young stranger, but no one spoke, or bestowed even an inquiring glance at him. Owen, who was tired with his journey and long walk, was, in spite of his anxiety, nearly dropping asleep, when he heard the words—

“Well, boy, what is it you want? Quick, say your business, I have no time to spare.”

The words were spoken by the brown-coated old gentleman. Owen, starting up, followed him into the inner office. Here Mr Fluke, nimbly taking his seat on his high stool with his back to the desk, again asked in a testy tone, “What is it you want?” Owen stood, hat in hand, as he had done nearly two hours before, and began briefly recounting his history.

“Tut, tut, what’s all that to me?” exclaimed the old gentleman, pushing up his spectacles, and taking a huge pinch of snuff, as he narrowly scrutinised the boy with his sharp grey eyes. “What more have you got to say for yourself?”

“I did not explain, sir, as I ought to have done at first, that my mother’s name was Walford, and that she was the daughter of a Miss Susan Fluke, who married my grandfather, Mr Henry Walford.”

The old gentleman had not hitherto ceased kicking his legs against the high stool, a custom which had become habitual. He stopped, however, on hearing this, and looked more keenly than ever at Owen.

“What proof have you got, boy, that your mother was once Susan Fluke?” he asked in a sharp tone.

“David Rowe, who is clerk to Mr Orlando Browne the lawyer, found the name in a book which had once been my grandmother’s, and left by her to my mother, called ‘Sturm’s Reflections.’”

“I should like to see the book,” said Mr Fluke, in a tone which showed more interest than he had hitherto exhibited.

“David Rowe has the book at Fenside, but I could get it sent to you, sir, if you wish to see it,” said Owen.

“I do wish to see it; I want proof of the strange story you tell me,” said the old man, taking another pinch of snuff. “And suppose it is true, what do you want of me?”

“I want to find employment, sir, and the means of supporting myself. I don’t wish to be a burden on Farmer Rowe, the only friend I have beside Jane Hayes, my old nurse.”

Mr Fluke surveyed Owen from head to foot. “What can such a boy as you do, except run errands, or sweep out the office?” he asked in a tone of contempt. “What do you happen to know? Can you write? Have you any knowledge of arithmetic?”

“Yes, sir,” said Owen, “I am tolerably well acquainted with quadratic equations; I have gone through the first six books of Euclid, and have begun trigonometry, but have not got very far. I am pretty well up in Latin. I have read Caesar and Virgil, and a little of Horace; and in Greek, the New Testament, Xenophon, and two plays of Aeschylus; and my father considered me well acquainted with English history and geography.”

“Umph! a prodigy of learning!” muttered the old gentleman. “Can you do the rule of three and sum up?—that’s more to the purpose. What sort of fist do you write? Can you do as well as this?” and he exhibited a crabbed scrawl barely legible.

“I hope that my writing would be more easily read than that, sir,” answered Owen. “I could do the rule of three several years ago, and am pretty correct at summing up.”

“Umph!” repeated the old gentleman, “if I take you at your word, I must set you down as a genius. I don’t know that the learning you boast of will be of much use to you in the world. If, however, I find the account I have just heard correct, I may perhaps give you a trial. I am not to be taken in by impostors, old or young; you will understand, therefore, that I make no promises. I am busy now and cannot spend more time on you, so you must go. I suppose that you did not come up here by yourself?”

“No, sir, John Howe, Farmer Rowe’s eldest son, accompanied me, and is waiting outside; if you cannot give me employment, he wants me to go back with him to Fenside.”

“Tell him to stay in town until I have seen the book, and have had time to look into the matter,” said Mr Fluke. “Where are you stopping, in case I may wish to send to you? But I am not likely to do that. Come again when you have got the book.”

“We are stopping at the ‘Green Dragon,’ Bishopsgate Street, sir,” said Owen.

“Well, write down your address and the name of your friend,” and Simon Fluke handed a pen to Owen, and placed a piece of paper on the desk before him. “Umph! a clear hand, more like a man’s than a boy’s,” muttered the old gentlemen to himself as he examined what Owen had written. “You may go now, and remember what I told you.”

Saying this, Mr Fluke turned round on his stool, and applied himself to his work without another parting word to Owen, who, making the best of his way through the office, hastened out at the door. He looked up and down the street, wondering whether John would have got tired and gone away, but John was too faithful a friend to do that. He had merely crossed over the street, keeping his eye on Paul Kelson, Fluke and Company’s office. Seeing Owen, John hastened over to meet him.

“Well, what news, Owen?” he asked, without uttering a word of complaint at the time he had been kept waiting.

Owen described his interview with Simon Fluke.

“Not very promising,” observed John; “I suspect that Simon Fluke’s heart is very like what David thought it might be, hard as a rock, or he would have shown more interest in you when he heard that you were Susan Fluke’s grandson. However, we will do as he asks, and send for the book, and in the meantime you and I’ll go and see this big city of London. There’s the Tower, and Exeter Change, the British Museum, Saint Paul’s, and Westminster Abbey, and other places I have heard speak of. The Tower is not far from here—we passed it as we came along; we will go and see that first.”

On their way, however, they began to feel very hungry, and were thankful to find an eating-house where they could satisfy their appetites. The fare was not of the most refined character, nor were the people who came in. Two or three, seeing at a glance that John was fresh from the country, offered to show him and his son the way about London.

“Maybe you’d like to take a glass for good fellowship,” said one of the men who addressed him.

But John, suspecting the object of the offer, declined it, as he did others subsequently made him, and taking Owen by the hand, he gladly got out of the neighbourhood. They made but a short visit to the Tower, as John was anxious to get back to the “Green Dragon,” that he might write to David for the book.

“We will show it to the suspicious old gentleman, but we must take care he does not keep it,” said John. “I don’t think, Owen, you must raise your hopes too high. If he gives you the cold shoulder, you will not be worse off than you were before, and you shall come back with me. You will not be left without friends while father, David, and I are alive, so cheer up whatever happens.”

John, who, although country-born and bred, had his wits about him, managed to see as many of the sights of London as he intended. Owen was much interested by all he saw, and the days passed quickly by. The important volume, which was, he hoped, to convince Simon Fluke of his relationship, safely arrived one evening, and he and John the following morning set off with it to Wapping. John insisted on remaining outside while Owen had his interview with Simon Fluke, and ascertained whether any employment was to be given him.

“If I find you are comfortably settled, then I shall go home happy in my mind,” said John; “if not, as I said before, you shall come back with me; I won’t leave you alone in this big city.”

Owen entered the office with the book in his hand. Mr Fluke was engaged in his private room. Mr Tarwig, the head clerk, got off his stool to speak to him, and had Owen put a proper value on this piece of condescension, he would have considered it a good sign.

“Sit down, my boy, the master will be out soon, and he has something to say to you,” said Mr Tarwig, pointing to a bench, and nodding to Owen, he returned to his seat. In a few minutes the door opened, and a fine-looking seafaring man, evidently the master of a ship, came out. As he passed by he gave a glance at Owen, who heard him addressed by Mr Tarwig as Captain Aggett. “What a pleasant look he has,” thought Owen; “I should like to be under him. I wonder if he can give me anything to do?” Mr Fluke put his head out directly afterwards, and seeing Owen, beckoned him in.

“Well, lad, have you got the book?” he asked.

Owen undid the parcel, and handed him the volume. The old man examined it minutely, but Owen could detect no change in his countenance.

“That’s my handwriting, there’s no doubt about it, written when I gave the book to my cousin Susan, as she was about to marry Henry Walford,” muttered Mr Fluke to himself. He was then silent for some time, forgetting, apparently, that any one was in the room. “Have you any books with the name of Walford in them?” he asked, fixing his keen glance on Owen; “that would be more clear proof that you are the person whom you say you are.”

“Yes, sir, I remember several of my mother’s books which she had before her marriage, and others which had belonged to my grandmother, with their names in them; I do not know, however, whether they can be recovered. A bookseller purchased the whole of them at the sale which took place at the vicarage, but perhaps he has not yet disposed of them.”

“Boy, the books must be got at any price,” exclaimed the old man, in an authoritative tone, like that of a person not accustomed to be contradicted. “Write to your friends, and tell them to buy them all up; I will send them a cheque for the amount. We must not let them go to the grocer’s to wrap up butter and cheese.”

“I will do as you desire, sir,” said Owen.

“I am inclined to believe the account you give of yourself, boy, and you shall have a trial,” said Mr Fluke; his manner was far less abrupt than it had hitherto been, and comparatively gentle. “Go to the outer office, I am busy now; Mr Tarwig will look after you, and tell me what he thinks.”

He went to the door, and summoned his head clerk.

“Try him,” said Mr Fluke, pointing to Owen.

“Come along with me,” said Mr Tarwig, and he made a sign to Owen to get up on a high stool, handing him, at the same time, the draft of a letter. “There, copy that.”

Owen transcribed it in a clear, regular hand, correcting two or three errors in spelling.

“Good,” said Mr Tarwig, as he glanced over it, perhaps not discovering the improvement in the latter respect. “Now cast up these figures,” and he handed him a long account.

Owen performed the work rapidly, and when checked by Mr Tarwig, it was found to be perfectly correct.

“Good,” said the head clerk; “you’ll do.”

He handed him several accounts in succession, and which required considerable calculation.

“Ah me!” exclaimed Mr Tarwig, and taking the papers he actually went across the office to show them to his immediate surbordinate, who looked round with a surprised glance at the young stranger.

What “Ah me!” meant Owen could not tell, but he judged that Mr Tarwig was satisfied with his performance. Owen had not forgotten John.

“A friend is waiting for me outside, sir,” he said; “if I am not wanted, I must rejoin him.”

“Stay and hear what Mr Fluke has got to say to you,” answered Mr Tarwig; “or go out and call your friend in, perhaps the master may have a word to say to him.”

Owen gladly did as he desired.

“I think they are pleased with me,” he said to John; “and I understand that Mr Fluke wants to speak to you, I suppose it is about getting back my mother’s books,” and Owen related what had occurred.

“A good sign,” said John. “Things look brighter than I expected they would, but we must not raise our hopes too high.”

Owen ushered John into the office, feeling almost at home there already. In a short time Owen and John were summoned into Mr Fluke’s room. John was not prepossessed by that worthy’s manner.

“You are John Rowe, I understand,” he began. “Believing this boy’s account of himself I am going to give him a trial; if he behaves well, he will rise in this office, for there is no doubt that he possesses the talents he boasts of. He shall come and stop at my house. Go and get his things and bring them here, for I shall take him home with me. Now listen, Mr John Rowe, I want you to perform a commission for me. Here is a cheque, you can get it cashed in the country. Buy up all the books with the name of Walford in them which were sold at the Fenside Vicarage sale.”

As he spoke, he handed a cheque for 10 pounds to John, adding, “Do not tell the bookseller why you want them, or he will raise the price. Buy them in your own name. If this sum is not sufficient, let me know; should it be more than you require, take it to defray the expenses you have been at on the boy’s account.”

John thanked Mr Fluke, and promised to carry out his wishes, highly pleased at what he considered Owen’s good fortune.

Owen, however, felt somewhat disappointed at not being able to spend another evening with his friend.

From Mr Fluke’s manner, John saw that it was time to take his departure, and Owen followed him to the door. John had to return with Owen’s box of clothes, but there probably would not then be time for any conversation.

Owen sent many grateful messages to Fenside Farm. “I hope that Mr Fluke will let me go down and see you sometimes,” he added, “for I never can forget all the kindness you, your father, and David have shown me, and your mother and sisters.”

“Well, if you are not happy here, mind you must tell us so, and you shall ever be welcome at Fenside,” said John, as they parted.

Chapter Three.

John Rowe brought Owen’s little trunk all the way from the “Green Dragon” on his own broad shoulders, and deposited it at Paul Kelson, Fluke and Company’s office. Having done so he hurried off, not wishing to be thanked, and considering there was not much advantage to be gained by another parting with his young friend. Owen, however, was disappointed, when he found that his box had arrived, that he had missed seeing John.

The instant five o’clock struck, Simon Fluke came out of his office, and directing one of his porters to bring along the boy’s trunk, took Owen by the hand, and having tucked a thick cotton umbrella under his other arm, led him out. They trudged along through numerous dirty streets and alleys, teeming with a ragged and unkempt population, and redolent of unsavoury odours, until they emerged into a wide thoroughfare.

“Call a coach, boy!” said Mr Fluke, the first words he had spoken since he had left the office. “How am I to do that, sir?” asked Owen.

“Shout ‘Coach,’ and make a sign with your hand to the first you see.”

“Will the coach come up, sir, if I call it?” asked Owen.

“Of course, if the driver hears you,” answered Mr Fluke in a sharp tone. “The boy may be a good arithmetician, but he knows nothing of London life,” he muttered to himself. “To be sure, how should he? But he must learn—he will in time, I suppose; I once knew no more than he does.”

Owen saw several coaches passing, and he shouted to them at the top of his voice, but no one took the slightest notice of him. At length the driver of a tumble-down looking vehicle, with a superb coat of arms on the panel, made a signal in return and drew up near the pavement.

“You will know how to call a coach in future,” said Mr Fluke. “Step in.”

The porter, who had been watching proceedings, not having ventured to interfere by assisting Owen, put the box in, after Mr Fluke had taken his seat, and then told the coachman where to drive to. The latter, applying his whip to the flanks of his horses, made them trot off, for a few minutes, at a much faster rate than they were accustomed to move at. They soon, however, resumed their usual slow pace, and not until Mr Fluke put his head out of the window, and shouted, “Are you going to sleep, man?” did he again make use of his whip.

“You must learn to find your way on foot, boy,” said Mr Fluke. “I do not take a coach every day; it would be setting a bad example. I never yet drove up to the counting-house, nor drove away in one, since I became a partner of old Paul Kelson, and he, it is my belief, never got into one in his life, until he was taken home in a fit just before his death.”

Owen thought he should have great difficulty in finding his way through all those streets, but he made no remark on the subject, determining to note the turnings as carefully as he could, should he accompany Mr Fluke the next morning back to Wapping.

The coach drove on and on; Mr Fluke was evidently not given to loquacity, and Owen had plenty of time to indulge in his own reflections. He wondered what sort of place his newly found relative was taking him to. He had not been prepossessed with the appearance of the office, and he concluded that Mr Fluke’s dwelling-house would somewhat resemble it. The coach at last emerged from the crowded streets into a region of trees and hedge-rows, and in a short time stopped in front of an old-fashioned red brick house, with a high wall apparently surrounding a garden behind it. At that moment the door of the house opened, and a tall thin female in a mob cap appeared.

“Bless me!” she exclaimed, as she advanced across the narrow space between the gate and the doorway; “and so he has come!”

She eyed Owen narrowly as she spoke. Simon Fluke declining her help as he stepped out, pointed to Owen’s box, which the coachman, who had got down from his seat, handed to her. Mr Fluke having paid the fare, about which there was no demur, he knowing the distance to an inch, led the way into the house, followed by Owen, the old woman, carrying his box, bringing up the rear.

“I have brought him, Kezia, as I said I possibly might. Do you look after him; let us have supper in a quarter of an hour, for I am hungry, and the boy I am sure is.”

The house wore a greater air of comfort than Owen expected to find. In the oak panelled parlour into which Mr Fluke led him a cheerful fire burned brightly, although the spring was well advanced, while a white cloth was spread ready for supper.

“Now come into the garden,” said his host, who had entered the room, apparently merely to deposit his umbrella. A glass door opened out on some steps which led down into a large garden, laid out in beds in which bloomed a number of beautiful flowers, such as Owen had never before seen in his life, and on one side, extending along the wall, was a large greenhouse.

“Do you know what those are, boy?” asked Mr Fluke. “Every one of those flowers are worth a hundred times its weight in gold. They are all choice and rare tulips, I may say the choicest and rarest in the kingdom. I prize them above precious stones, for what ruby or sapphire can be compared to them for beauty and elegance? You will learn in time to appreciate them, whatever you do now.”

“I am sure I shall, and I think they are very beautiful!” said Owen.

Mr Fluke made up for his former silence by expatiating on the perfections of his favourites. While the old gentleman was going the round of his flower beds, stooping down with his hands behind him, to admire, as if to avoid the temptation of touching the rich blossoms, a person approached, who, from his green apron, his general costume, and the wheelbarrow he trundled full of tools before him, was easily recognised as the gardener. He could not have been much younger than his master, but was still strong and hearty.

“They are doing well, Joseph; we shall have some more in bloom in a day or two,” observed Mr Fluke.

“Yes, praise the Lord, the weather has been propitious and rewarded the care we have bestowed on His handiworks,” answered the old gardener. “I am in hopes that the last bulbs the Dutch skipper Captain Van Tronk brought over will soon be above ground, and they will not be long after that coming into bloom.”

Mr Fluke, having had some confidential conversation with his gardener on the subject of his bulbs, and given him various directions, it by that time growing dusk, summoned Owen to return to the house.

“A pretty long quarter of an hour you’ve been,” exclaimed Kezia to her master, as he re-entered; “it’s always so when you get talking to my man Joseph Crump about the tulips. If the rump steak is over-done it’s not my fault.”

Mr Fluke made no reply, except by humbly asking for his slippers, which Kezia having brought, she assisted him in taking off his shoes.

“There, go in both of you, and you shall have supper soon,” she exclaimed in an authoritative tone, and Mr Fluke shuffled into his parlour.

Owen remarked, that though Mr Fluke ruled supreme in his counting-house, there was another here to whom he seemed to yield implicit obedience. Not a word of remonstrance did he utter at whatever Kezia told him to do; it was, however, pretty evident that whatever she did order, was to his advantage. Probably, had she not assumed so determined a manner, she would have failed to possess the influence she exerted over her master. He made a sign to Owen to take a seat opposite him on one side of the fire. Mrs Kezia Crump, as she was generally designated outside the house, placed an ample supper on the board—in later days it would have been called a dinner—two basins of soup, some excellently cooked rump steak, and an apple tart of goodly proportions.

“I know boys like apple tart, and you may help him as often as he asks for it,” she remarked as she put the latter dish on the table.

A single glass of ale was placed by Mr Fluke’s side. Owen declined taking any, for he had never drank anything stronger than water.

“Very right and wise, boy,” observed his host in an approving tone. “You are the better without what you don’t require. I never drank a glass of ale till I was fifty, and might have refrained ten years longer with advantage, but Kezia insisted that I should take a glass at supper, and for the sake of quiet I did so. Kezia is not a person who will stand contradiction. She is sensible though. Could not have endured her if she were not. But she is not equal to her husband Joseph. The one rules supreme in the house, the other in the garden. You’ve seen what Joseph Crump has done there. What do you think of my tulips? I am indebted to Joseph for them. Beautiful! glorious! magnificent! Are they not?”

Owen nodded his head in assent.

“Their worth cannot be told. Once upon a time one of those splendid bulbs would have fetched thousands. That was nearly two centuries ago, that events repeat themselves, and, for what we can tell, that time may come round again, then, Owen, I shall be the richest man in England. No one possesses tulips equal to mine.”

“Indeed,” said Owen; and he thought to himself, when at Wapping this old man’s whole soul seems to be absorbed in business, while out here all his thoughts appear to be occupied in the cultivation of tulips. How could he have been first led to admire them? Before many minutes were over Mr Fluke answered the question himself.

“Twenty years ago I scarcely knew that such a flower as a tulip existed, when one day going on board a Dutch vessel I saw a flower growing in a pot in the cabin. I was struck by the beauty of its form—its brilliant colours. I learned its name. I was seized with the desire to possess it. I bought it of the skipper. The next voyage he brought me over a number of bulbs. I wanted something to engage my thoughts, and from that day forward I became fonder and fonder of tulips.”

The evening was passed more pleasantly than Owen had anticipated. Mr Fluke, indeed, appeared to be an altogether different person to what he had seemed at his first interview with his young relative.

“Boys want more sleep than old men,” said Mr Fluke, pulling out his turnip-like watch.

“Here, Kezia!” he shouted, “come and take him off to bed. She will look after you,” he added, nodding to Owen; “you must do as she bids you though.”

The old man did not even put out a finger as Owen advanced to take his hand to wish him good night, but said, pointing to Kezia, who just then entered the room, “There she is; go with her.”

“How impatient you are, Mr Fluke, this evening,” exclaimed the dame. “In half a minute more I should have been here, and saved you from bawling yourself hoarse. I know how the time goes, I should think, at my age.”

Her master made no reply, but merely attempted to whistle, while Kezia, turning to Owen, said, “Come along, my child.” She led him up an oaken staircase into a room of fair proportions, in which, although the furniture was of a sombre description, there stood a neat dimity-curtained bed.

“There, say your prayers and go to bed,” said Kezia. “I will come in presently to tuck you up, and to take away your candle.”

“Thank you,” said Owen; “you are indeed very kind.”

“No, I ain’t kind, I just do what I think right,” answered the dame, who, if she did not pride herself on being an original, evidently was one. “The old man told me that you had lost your parents, and you’ll feel the want of some one to look after you. I once had a little boy myself. He grew to be bigger than you are, but he was never strong or hearty. He used to go to the office every day of his life, hot or cold, rain or sunshine, wet through or dry; he died from over work. It was more my fault than the old man’s though, so I don’t blame him, for I ought to have kept the poor boy in bed instead of letting him go out and get wet through and through as he did time after time; but I’ll take care that it is not your fate,” and Mrs Kezia sighed. “I must not stand prating here though.”

She came in according to her promise. Having carefully tucked him up, she stooped down and kissed his brow.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Owen. The tears rose to his eyes, and he felt more happy than he could have supposed possible.

“Have you said your prayers?” asked Kezia.

“Yes, I never forget to do that,” answered Owen.

“Good night, my child,” she said; “the Lord watch over you and keep you.” Taking the light she left him.

His slumbers were peaceful. Kezia took care to call him betimes in the morning.

“The old man is off early, and he would not be pleased if you were not ready to start with him,” she said.

When Owen came down he saw Mr Fluke in the garden, holding a conference with Joseph. He presently came in to breakfast, which was as ample a meal as the supper had been.

Kezia put a small paper parcel into Owen’s pocket.

“That will be for your dinner,” she said; “you’ll want something before you come back, and you’ll get nothing there fit to eat. It’s as bad to let growing boys starve as to leave plants without water, as Joseph Crump says,” and she looked hard at her master.

“Kezia’s a wonderful woman,” remarked Mr Fluke, after she had left the room. “I have a great respect for her, as you see. She is worth her weight in gold; she keeps everything in order, her husband and me to boot. Years ago, before she came to me, I had a large black tom cat; he was somewhat of a pet, and as I kept him in order, he always behaved properly in my presence. He had, however, a great hatred of all strangers, especially of the woman kind, and no female beggar ever came to the door but he went out and arched his back, and spat and screeched and hissed at her until she took her departure. When I engaged Kezia and Joseph Crump, I thought Tom would understand that they were inmates of the house, and behave properly. But the very first time Kezia went upstairs, after she and her husband had installed themselves in their room below, there was Tom standing on the landing with his back up lashing his tail, and making a most hideous noise. Most women would have turned round and run down again, or perhaps tumbled over and broken their necks; but Kezia advanced, keeping her eye on Tom, and as he sprang at her, she guessing that he would do so, seized him by the neck and held him at arm’s length until every particle of breath was squeezed out of his body. ‘There,’ she exclaimed, as she threw him over the banisters, ‘two cannot rule in one house,’ and she went upstairs and commenced her work. When I arrived at home, and saw Tom lying dead on the floor, I asked who had killed the cat. ‘I killed him,’ answered Kezia, and she then told me how it had happened. ‘If you think I was wrong, and don’t like it, give me a month’s warning; I am ready to go,’ she said. I didn’t say a word in reply, and I tell you I have a greater respect for that woman than for any of her sex, and maybe I have more fear of her than I ever had of old Tom, who, once or twice, until I taught him better manners, had shown his evil disposition even to me.”

“Mrs Kezia is a very kind, good woman,” observed Owen; “I am sure of that.”

“She’s a wise woman,” answered Mr Fluke; “if she were not, she could not manage my house. Now, boy, finish your breakfast, and be prepared to start with me in ten minutes.”

Owen lost no time in getting ready.

“Come along,” he heard Mr Fluke shout; and hurrying out of the room where he was waiting, he found that gentleman descending the steps.

“Stay, you have forgotten your umbrella. What are you thinking about, Mr Fluke, this morning?” exclaimed Kezia, handing it to him as she spoke.

Mr Fluke tucked it under his arm, and taking Owen by the hand they set off.

“Do not dawdle on the way back, and take the coach if it rains hard,” cried Kezia, shouting after them.

They walked the whole distance at a fair pace, which Owen could easily maintain. He was glad of the exercise, although he did not like passing through the narrow and dirty streets at the further end of his walk, where squalor and wretchedness appeared on every side. Mr Fluke being so used to it, was not moved by what they beheld.

“Surely something ought to be done for these poor people,” thought Owen. “If my father had been here, he would have spent every hour of the day in visiting among them, and trying to relieve their distress.” Owen was not aware that much of the misery he witnessed arose from the drunken and dissipated habits of the husbands, and but too often of the wives also.

On their arrival at the office, which had just before been opened, Mr Fluke handed Owen over to Mr Tarwig, who at once set him to work. There was plenty to do. Two clerks had recently left; their places had not been supplied. Owen was therefore kept hard at work the greater part of the day, and a short time only allowed him for eating the dinner which Kezia Crump had provided. He was better off, however, than most of the clerks, who had only a piece of bread to eat if they remained in the office, or if they went out, had to take a very hurried, ill-dressed meal at a cookshop. Some, indeed, were tempted to imbibe instead a glass of rum or gin, thus commencing a bad habit, which increased on those who indulged in it.

The weather was fine, and Owen walked backwards and forwards every day with Mr Fluke. One day a box arrived marked private, and addressed to S. Fluke, Esquire. On glancing at the contents, Mr Fluke had it again closed, and that evening he went away earlier than usual, a porter carrying the box to the nearest coach-stand. Owen was saved his long walk, which, as the weather grew warmer, was sometimes fatiguing. The box, which had been carried into the parlour was again opened by Kezia and Owen, who begged leave to help her. After supper Mr Fluke, who appeared for the time to have forgotten his tulips, employed himself in examining the contents, which proved to be the books he had directed John Rowe to purchase for him.

“Your friend has performed his commission well,” he said, as he looked over book after book. “I recognise Susan’s handwriting—your grandmother, I mean; it must seem a long time ago to you, but to me it is as yesterday. I had not from the first moment any doubt as to your being Susan Fluke’s grandchild, but I am now convinced of it. You will find more interesting reading in these books than in any I possess, and you are welcome to make use of them.”

Owen accepted the offer, and for many an evening afterwards pored over in succession most of the well-remembered volumes.

Mr Fluke, the next morning, on his way to the office, called at an upholsterer’s, and purchased a dark oak bookcase, which he ordered to be sent home immediately. On his return home, with evident satisfaction he arranged the books within it.

Owen had every reason to be thankful for the kind treatment he received, but the life he spent was a dull one. In reply to letters he wrote to his friends at Fenside they warmly congratulated him on his good fortune.

Day after day he went to the office, where he was kept hard at work from the moment of his arrival until the closing hour, for, as it was found that he was more exact in his calculations than any one else, and as he wrote a hand equal to the best, he had always plenty to do, a few minutes only were allowed him to take his frugal dinner. Frequently also he was unable to enjoy even a few mouthfuls of such fresh air as Wapping could afford.

Generally he walked in and out with Mr Fluke, but he sometimes had to go alone. He was soon able to find his way without difficulty, but he never had an opportunity of going in other directions, so that all he knew of London was the little he saw of it while visiting the sights with John Rowe. Whatever the weather, he had to trudge to and fro. Several times he got wet through, and had to sit all day in his damp clothes.

Kezia suggested to Mr Fluke that the boy required a fresh suit—“His own is threadbare, and would be in holes if I did not darn it up at nights,” she observed.

“It’s good enough for the office, and what more does he want?” answered Mr Fluke. “Why, I have worn my suit well-nigh ten years, and it is as good as ever. Who finds fault with my coat, I should like to know?”

“The boy wants a thick overcoat, at all events,” continued Kezia, who had no intention of letting the matter drop. “If you don’t get him one, I will. He will catch his death of cold one of these days. He is not looking half as well as he did when he came, although he has grown wonderfully; he will, indeed, soon be too big for his jacket and trousers, if they do not come to pieces first.”

“Do as you choose, Kezia,” said Mr Fluke. “You always will have your own way, so there’s no use contradicting you.”

“Then I’ll get him a fresh suit and a topcoat before many hours are over, and not a day too soon either,” answered Kezia, rubbing her hands in the way she always did when well satisfied with herself or with things in general.

“No! no!” almost shrieked Mr Fluke. “If he gets a topcoat that will hide the threadbare jacket you talk of, and that will serve well enough in the office for a year to come, or more.”

“You said, Mr Fluke, that I was to do as I chose,” exclaimed Kezia, looking her master in the face. “You are a man of your word, and always have been from your youth upwards, and I, for one, will not let you break it in your old age. I choose to get Owen a new suit and a topcoat, so say no more about the matter.”

The next morning Kezia appeared in her bonnet and shawl as Owen was about to start.

“Let the old man go on first, I am going with you,” she said.

Mr Fluke was never a moment behind time in starting from home, and he knew that Owen could easily overtake him.

Kezia accompanied Owen to Mr Snipton’s, a respectable tailor in the City, where she ordered an entire suit and a thoroughly comfortable topcoat.

“Take his measure,” she said, “and allow for his growing; remember Simon Fluke will pay for the things.”

Mr Snipton did as he was directed, and while Owen hurried on to overtake Mr Fluke before he reached the office, Kezia returned home. Owen had, however, to wear his threadbare jacket for some days longer. During this period he was returning one evening, and was crossing Bishopsgate Street, when a hooded gig, or cab, as it was called, containing two young gentlemen—one of whom, dressed in a naval uniform, was driving—came dashing along at a rapid rate. It was in a narrow part of the street, of which a waggon and some other vehicles occupied a considerable portion. In attempting to pass between the waggon and pavement the cab was driven against the hinder wheel of the ponderous waggon, which was going in the same direction that it was—towards the Bank. The natural consequence ensued—the horse came down, and both the young gentlemen were thrown out, one narrowly escaping falling under the wheel of the waggon, while the tiger behind, whose head struck against the hood, fell off stunned. Owen ran forward to render what assistance he could.

“Go to the horse’s head, boy!” exclaimed the elder of the gentlemen, addressing Owen in an imperious tone, while he was picking himself up. “Reginald, are you hurt?”

“Not much,” was the answer of the younger, who began swearing in no measured terms at the waggoner for not keeping out of the way, and ordering him to stop. The latter, however, taking no notice of this, went on. “They got the worst of it this time,” he muttered. “Better that than to have run over an old woman, as I see’d just such a pair as they do not long ago.”

A fresh volley of abuse uttered by the young naval officer followed the retreating waggoner.

“Come, Reginald, don’t waste your breath on the rascal,” cried the elder gentleman. “I’ll help the boy to hold down the horse, while you undo the traces. What’s become of Cato?”

“Here I, my Lord,” said the black tiger, who, having partially recovered, now came hobbling up.

Owen, in the meantime, had been using every exertion to keep down the spirited horse, until the harness, detached from the cab, would allow the animal to rise without injuring itself. Several persons, mostly idle men and women, instead of coming forward to assist, stood by, amused at the disaster which had occurred to the gentlemen.

“Had but the young cove kept a decent tongue in his head plenty would have been ready to help him,” remarked one of the bystanders.

The black boy seemed somewhat afraid of the horse, and having scarcely recovered was of no use. The gentlemen, therefore, had to depend on their own exertions, aided by Owen.

The one called Reginald, when once he set to work, quickly got the harness unstrapped.

“Here, Arlingford, you take the horse’s head, and let him get up. Out of the way, boy, or he’ll be over you,” he shouted to Owen.

The horse, hitherto held down by Owen, rose to its feet. It took some time before the eldest of the young men, by patting its neck and speaking soothingly, could quiet the animal sufficiently to be again put into the cab. Owen assisted in buckling up the harness, while the black tiger, now recovered, came and held the horse.

“Have you got a coin about you of some kind, Arlingford?” asked the naval officer. “If you have, chuck it to the young fellow.”

Owen did not hear this remark.

“Here, boy,” cried the elder, putting half-a-crown into Owen’s hand; “just take this.”

“No, thank you, sir,” answered Owen, returning the money. “I am happy to have been of any service. I did not think of a reward.”

“Take it, stupid boy,” said Reginald.

Owen persisted in declining, and turned away.

“A proud young jackanapes! What is he thinking about?” exclaimed Reginald, who spoke loud enough for Owen to hear him.

“Here, I say, boy, don’t be a fool, take this,” and Reginald pitched the coin at Owen, who, however, not stopping to pick it up, walked on. As may be supposed, a scramble immediately ensued among the mob to obtain possession of the coin, until, shoving at each other, three or four rolled over against the horse. The effect of this was to make the animal set off at a rate which it required the utmost exertions of the driver to control. Indeed the cab nearly met with another accident before it had proceeded many yards.

Owen had remarked a coronet on the cab. “Can those possibly be young noblemen who made use of such coarse language, and who appear to be so utterly devoid of right feeling?” he thought to himself. “I hope that I shall not meet them again; but I think I should remember them, especially the youngest, who had on a naval uniform. His being a sailor will account for the activity he showed in unbuckling the harness.”

Owen gave an account of the incident to Mrs Kezia.

“That is like you, Owen,” she said. “Do what is right without hope of fee or reward. I am afraid that the old man does not give you much of either. What salary are you getting?”

“I have received nothing as yet; nor has Mr Fluke promised me a salary,” answered Owen. “I conclude that he considers it sufficient to afford me board and lodging, and to teach me the business. I should not think of asking for more.”

“And you’ll not get it until you do,” observed Mrs Kezia. “I’ll see about that one of these days.”

“Pray do not speak to Mr Fluke,” exclaimed Owen, earnestly; “I am perfectly content, and I am sure that I ought not to think of asking for a salary. If he is good enough to pay for the clothes you have ordered, I shall be more than satisfied, even were I to work even harder than I do.”

Mr Fluke, however, grumbled, and looked quite angry at Owen, when he appeared in his new suit. Mrs Kezia had been insisting, in her usual style, that the boy required new shoes, a hat, and underclothing.

“You’ll be the ruin of me with your extravagant notions, Kezia,” exclaimed Mr Fluke; “you’ll spoil the boy. How can you ever expect him to learn economy?”

He, notwithstanding, gave Mrs Kezia the sum she demanded.

Had it not been for her, Owen would probably have had to wear his clothes into rags. Mr Fluke would certainly not have remarked their tattered condition.

Notwithstanding all Kezia’s care, however, Owen’s health did not mend. Months went by, he was kept as hard at work as ever.

Kezia expostulated. At last Mr Fluke agreed to give him some work in the open air.

“I’ll send him on board the ships in the river; that will do him good perhaps.”

The very next day Owen was despatched with a letter on business to Captain Aggett of the ship “Druid,” then discharging cargo in the Thames.

Owen had seen Captain Aggett at the office; he was a tall, fine-looking man, with a pleasant expression of countenance. He recognised Owen as he came on board.

“Stop and have some dinner, my boy,” he said; “the steward is just going to bring it in.”

Owen, being very hungry, was glad to accept the invitation, and Captain Aggett himself declared that he could not write an answer until he had had something to eat. Possibly he said this that Owen might have a legitimate excuse for his delay. The captain had a good deal of conversation with Owen, with whom he seemed highly pleased. He took him over the ship, and showed him his nautical instruments, which Owen said he had never seen, although he had read about them, and knew their use.

“What! have you learned navigation?” asked Captain Aggett.

“I am acquainted with the principles, and could very soon learn it, I believe, if I had a book especially explaining the subject,” answered Owen.

Captain Aggett handed one to him, telling him to take it home and study it.

“Is this the first time you have been on board a ship?” asked the captain.

“Yes, sir; for since I came to London I never have had time, having always had work to do in the office,” answered Owen.

“How long have you been there?” asked the captain, who remarked that Owen had a cough, and looked very pale.

“Rather more than a year, sir.”

“Not a very healthy life for a lad accustomed to the country. A sea trip would do you good. Would you like to make one?”

“Very much, if Mr Fluke would allow me,” answered Owen. “I should not wish to do anything of which he might not approve.”

“I’ll see about it, youngster,” said Captain Aggett.

Although Owen was sent on several trips of the same description to other vessels, he was still kept too constantly at work in the office to benefit much by them.

He naturally told Kezia of his visit to Captain Aggett, and of the invitation he had received.

“Although I should be very sorry to have you go away from here, Owen, I am sure that the captain is right. It is just what you want; a sea voyage would set you up, and make a man of you, and if you remain in the office you’ll grow into just such another withered thing as the old man. I’ll speak to him, and tell him, if he wants to keep you alive and well, he must let you take a voyage with the good captain. I have heard of him, and Mr Fluke has a great respect for him, I know.”

Mrs Kezia did not fail to introduce the subject in her usual manner. Mr Fluke would not hear of it.

“Nonsense,” he answered, “the boy does very well; he can walk to and from the office, and eats his meals.”

“He does not eat one-half what he used to do,” answered Kezia; “he is growing paler and paler every day. He has a nasty cough, and you will have him in his grave before long if you don’t take care.”

“Pooh! pooh!” answered Mr Fluke. “Boys don’t die so easily as that.” He turned away his head to avoid Kezia’s glance.

She did not let the matter drop, however. A fortnight or more had passed by. Mr Fluke had missed one of his favourite tulips, which grew in a flower-pot.

On inquiring for it of Joseph: “It’s all safe,” was the answer, “I’m trying an experiment with it.”

Whenever Mr Fluke asked about the tulip, he always received the same reply: “We shall see how it gets on in a few days.” At length one afternoon when he came home, somewhat to his surprise, Kezia appeared in the garden.

“What about that tulip, Joseph, which master was asking for?” she said.

“Should you like to see it, sir?” asked Joseph.

“Of course I should,” answered Mr Fluke, expecting to see the flower greatly improved in size and beauty.

“I told Joseph to put it in the tool-house, just to see how it looks after being shut up in the dark without air,” said Kezia in her most determined manner.

“In the tool-house!” exclaimed Mr Fluke. “What in the world made you put it there, Joseph?”

“Kezia bade me, sir, and you know I dare not disobey her,” answered Joseph, demurely.

“And I bade him just for the reason I said,” exclaimed Kezia.

“Let us see it by all means,” cried Mr Fluke, hastening in the direction of the tool-house, which was in a corner of the garden on the north side, out of sight.

Kezia stalked on before her master and her husband. She entered first, and came out with a flower-pot in her hand. The tulip, instead of having gained in size and beauty, looked withered, and its once proud head hung down, its colours sadly faded.

“There,” she exclaimed; “that’s just like our Owen. You shut him up in your dark office, and expect him to grow up strong and healthy, with the same bright complexion he had when he came to us. Some natures will stand it, but his, it is very certain, cannot. Maybe, if we put this tulip in the sun and give it air and water, it will recover; and so may he, if you allow him to enjoy the fresh breezes, and the pure air of the sea. Otherwise, as I have told you, all your kindness and the good intentions you talk of to advance him in life will come to nothing. I repeat it, Mr Fluke, Owen Hartley will be in his grave before another year is out if he has to breathe for eight hours or more every day the close atmosphere of Kelson, Fluke and Company’s office.”

Mr Fluke walked away without answering Kezia, and kept pacing up and down the garden in a state of perturbation very unusual for him.

Owen had been kept at the office, and did not get home until late. He observed that Mr Fluke was watching him narrowly.

“Yes, you do look somewhat pale,” said the old gentleman; “I see it now. How do you feel, boy?”

“Very well, sir,” answered Owen, naturally enough; “only a little tired now and then. It is my own fault, I suppose, that I do not sleep so soundly as I used to do, and do not care much about my food.”

The next day, although without any preconcerted arrangement, Captain Aggett called at Mr Fluke’s office, and desired to see him on private business.

The captain had been a regular customer for many years, and Mr Fluke held him in great respect.

“I have taken a fancy to that boy of yours, a relative I understand. I have observed how ill he looks, very different from what he was when I saw him first on my last voyage. If you will let me take him a trip I will bring him back safe and sound, the dangers of the sea excepted, and better able by far than he is now to attend to your interests.”

Mr Fluke declined to give a positive answer. He would see if the boy could be spared; he was very useful in the office, and it would be difficult to get any one to supply his place.

“I will come for a reply to-morrow,” said Captain Aggett, as he took his departure.

“Well, are you going to let our Owen make a voyage?” asked Kezia when Mr Fluke came home. “There are plenty of captains who would be ready to take the boy. He would be able to make himself as useful to them as he is to you, and you would be at no cost.”

Mr Fluke, however, only gave Kezia the same reply he had to Captain Aggett.

“I tell you, before long he’ll leave the place vacant whether you like it or not,” observed Kezia in a firm voice, looking sternly at her master.

“You must have your own way, Kezia,” answered Mr Fluke, turning his head aside to avoid her gaze, as a dog does when scolded. “If the boy wishes to go, he may go, but I’ll not send him off against his will.”

Owen was called in and told of Captain Aggett’s offer. He acknowledged that he wished to accept it.

“You have been very kind to me, sir,” he said, “and I do not wish to leave you, but I should like to make a voyage and see something of the world, and I feel as if it would set me up. When I come back I hope to be of more use to you than ever.”

So it was settled. Mr Fluke never drew back when he had once made a promise, and next day, when Captain Aggett called, Mr Fluke told him that he might take Owen, and that he himself would defray any expenses to which he might be put on the boy’s account.

Owen wrote immediately to his friends at Fenside.

John, who replied, expressed their anxiety for the dangers to which he would be exposed on a long voyage, but if it was considered to be for his good, they would not urge him to remain on shore, and would pray earnestly that he might be preserved from all the perils of the deep.

Kezia desired him to ascertain from Captain Aggett what articles were required for his outfit; and immediately on obtaining a list, set to work to prepare all that lay within her province.

Chapter Four.

The day arrived for Owen to go on board the “Druid.” She was bound for the East Indian seas. How far off that was Kezia had no exact notion, but she knew it must be a long way, and many months, at all events, must pass by before Owen could come back. She embraced him with an affection which made him think of his old nurse, Jane Hayes. “May God, who rules both sea and land, protect you from the many dangers you have to encounter. I don’t hide them from myself, and I don’t want you to shut your eyes to them, but trust in Him, and be prepared for whatever may happen. I’ll pray for you, Owen, and He will hear the prayers even of such an obstinate, self-opiniated old woman as I am.”

She had insisted that Joseph should go on board with Owen, in order to bring her back a last account of the boy. She would have gone herself, but she had to take care of the house.

Owen and Joseph drove off. They were to call at the office at Wapping before they took boat to proceed down the river.

Owen hurried in. Mr Fluke received him in his private room, and, putting a purse into his hand, said, “Take care of that. Spend its contents as you may find necessary, but do not be swindled out of it. I am not given to words, Owen, but understand that I am pleased with you, and proud of acknowledging you as a relative; and when you come back, strong and well, as I hope, I shall be glad to see you and stand your friend.”

The old man got up and placed his hand on Owen’s shoulder, and then turned away to conceal some very unusual feelings which agitated him.

Mr Tarwig, who had been his chief task-master, shook him warmly by the hand, and said more kind words than he had ever before been known to utter. The rest of the clerks imitated his example; and Owen, with a heart grateful for all the kindness he had received, rejoined Joseph in the coach. They were soon at that well-known locality “Wapping old stairs,” from whence they embarked and pulled down the river to where the “Druid” was lying.

Joseph was able to report that Owen had a small berth to himself opening from the main cabin; that Captain Aggett had received him with great kindness, and expressed his pleasure that he had been allowed to come.

The river pilot was soon on board, the sails were loosened, the anchor hove up, and the “Druid,” with a fair wind, glided down the stream.

“Although you may not take to the sea, you’ll like to learn as much seamanship and navigation as you can while you are on board,” observed Captain Aggett.

“Indeed I should, sir,” answered Owen; “but I want to make myself useful to you also, if you can show me how.”

“Certainly you can,” said the captain; “you shall act as my clerk, and you will be of great assistance to me.”

Fine weather continued, and the “Druid” had a quick passage down channel. Owen, from the first set to work to learn the names of all the sails and ropes, indeed of everything onboard.

There were several other boys—apprentices—of whom two were called midshipmen, although they had to do the same duty as the rest. Captain Aggett had entered Owen as an apprentice, but he was looked upon as the captain’s guest, and only mixed with the others when on duty. He was busy from morning until night, always learning something, when not engaged in writing for the captain in the cabin. He quickly mastered all the simpler details of seamanship, while the captain in the meantime, according to his promise, gave him instruction in navigation; so that he was shortly able not only to take meridional observations correctly (or to shoot the sun, as midshipmen call it), and to work a day’s work as well as anyone, but to use the chronometer and to take a lunar.

Owen was not a prodigy; any lad of intelligence; who possesses a sufficient knowledge of mathematics, may do the same. He learned to steer, beginning first in fine weather, and he soon could go aloft and and and reef with any of the lads in the ship, some of whom had already made two or three voyages. The rapid proficiency he acquired, and the favour bestowed upon him by the captain, created some jealousy in the breasts of several of his younger shipmates. Strange to say, the first mate, Jonas Scoones, imbibed an ill-feeling for Owen, without any other reason, as far as could be known, except that he was the captain’s favourite.

Mr Scoones was a first-rate seaman, but a poor navigator, for he was almost destitute of education; indeed he was as rough-looking in appearance and manners as any of the men before the mast. How Captain Aggett had consented to his becoming first mate it was difficult to say; perhaps he thought that his excellence as a seaman would make up for his imperfect knowledge of navigation. He was also a good disciplinarian, and, by mixing freely with the men, while still maintaining his own position, he was well able to manage them. The second mate, Ralph Grey, was a great contrast to Jonas Scoones. He was a young man of good manners and disposition, well-educated, and was an especially expert navigator, so that he was well able to assist the captain.

Scoones overawed him, however, by his blustering, dictatorial manners, so that Grey never ventured to dispute a point with the first mate, however obviously wrong the latter might be.

Ralph Grey liked Owen, and was always ready to assist him with any information he required, and was never tired of explaining the why and the wherefore of everything. The third mate was a young man, a fair seaman, but without anything particular about him worthy of notice.

The captain was certainly not aware of his first mate’s propensity to drink hard when the opportunity occurred. Scoones generally avoided doing so when there was any duty to be performed, but he spent most of his time on shore in a state of intoxication, which had certainly contributed to weaken his mental faculties.

The “Druid” was a large ship of nearly nine hundred tons, and was chartered by the British Government to carry out stores to the squadron then engaged in operations against the Dutch East Indian islands, which had been taken possession of by the French. She carried sixteen guns and a numerous crew, in order that she might protect herself, not only against any French cruisers, but might be able to beat off the piratical Malay proas which swarmed in those seas. Her duty, however, was not to fight, but simply to defend herself if attacked. That she might be able to do so, Captain Aggett, as soon as the ship was fairly at sea, exercised the men daily at the guns, by which means he gave them plenty of employment, the best plan for keeping a ship’s company in good order.

Owen took a pleasure in learning the gun exercise, as he did in acquiring a knowledge of all the other duties of a sailor. Every day he rapidly gained health and strength, while the colour returned to his cheeks, which were getting well-browned by the hot sun and sea air.

“Your friends at Wapping would not know you again,” observed Captain Aggett, after they had been at sea a few weeks. “When we get back they will declare I have exchanged you for some one else. I don’t know how you will like returning to your high desk in Mr Fluke’s dingy office.”

“If it is my duty to go back, I shall be ready to do so, sir,” answered Owen; “but I confess that I should prefer a life at sea, as far as my experience goes.”

“You are right, Owen; as to doing what duty demands, stick to that principle, and you will never go wrong!” observed the captain. “But you must remember we do not always enjoy the fine weather we have hitherto had. You must take the rough with the smooth; we may chance to meet with a typhoon in the eastern seas, or heavy gales off the Cape, and things won’t be as pleasant as they are now.”

“I am aware of that, sir,” said Owen. “When I came to sea I was fully prepared to meet with bad as well as fair weather. I should be most sorry not to meet with a gale of wind during the voyage.”

“You are not likely to be disappointed in that respect, although I have been out and home without having had to lift tack or sheet for weeks together,” observed the captain.

“I was going to ask you, sir, if I might be placed in a watch, should you think me sufficiently competent to do the duty.”

“O yes, I will trust you for that; and as you wish it, you shall be in the first mate’s watch.”

“And so, youngster, you want to turn sailor?” said Mr Scoones, the first night on which Owen was in his watch.

“As I am at sea I wish to learn all I can,” answered Owen.

“You’ll have a chance of picking up a smattering before we get home again; but I never knew any ‘cabin young gentlemen’ turn out sailors,” answered the mate, with a sneer. “A man is not worth anything unless he comes in at the ‘hawse holes,’ to my mind.”

“I will do my best while I am on board, and get all the knowledge I can,” said Owen.

“Well, you’ll have to obey me pretty smartly, or look out for squalls,” growled the mate, turning away.

Owen did not like these remarks, but of course he made no reply. He soon found that the first mate acted up to his threats. Among the boys was a young lad, Nat Midge by name, who was constantly the victim of the mate’s tyranny. Nat had come to sea for the first time, and, although intelligent and fairly educated, did not always understand what he was to do. He also was in the first mate’s watch. When he did not appear to comprehend the orders he received Owen explained them, taking every opportunity of instructing him. Nat was grateful, and conceived a warm friendship for his instructor.

Owen told him how he himself had learned so rapidly, and advised him to follow the same plan.

“Among so many men you will find several good natured enough to explain matters to you, and never fail to ask the why and the wherefore of anything you see done,” he said. “Do not be disheartened should you receive a rebuff. If you ask me, and I don’t know, I’ll try and get information from some one.”

Nat followed this advice, and improved rapidly. The first mate had now no legitimate excuse for ill-treating him, but it seemed, notwithstanding that his ill-feeling towards the lad had increased, so that even on the most trivial pretexts he would give him a taste of the rope’s end. Midge, although he keenly felt the ill-treatment he received, did not resent it. Of course the example set by the mate was followed by the badly disposed among the crew, who unmercifully bullied poor Nat.

Owen, observing this, was highly indignant.

“You should complain to the captain. I am sure that he would not allow it,” observed Owen.

“If I do I shall only be worse off than ever, for the mate will bring proof that I deserve all I get,” answered Nat.

“But I can bear evidence in your favour,” said Owen.

“The mate will prove that you know nothing about the matter, that you do not see how I behave, and I shall be treated ten times as badly as before,” said poor Nat. “Tom Dicker, who has made two voyages, says that he had to go through as much as I have, and advised me to grin and bear it. Sometimes it is more than I feel I can do, and I am like to jump overboard.”

“Don’t allow so dreadful a thought to enter your mind,” exclaimed Owen.

“O no, no! I don’t really think of doing it,” answered Nat. “I should miss the object for which I came to sea. I have a number of brothers and sisters, and no father or mother. I want to become a sailor, and make money and help to support them, for there is only our old grandmother left, and it is a hard matter for her to feed and clothe them.”

Owen, on hearing this, became more resolved than ever to protect Nat. He thought over various plans, and at last decided that the next time he saw the boy punished unjustly he would speak privately but boldly to the mate, and try to talk him out of such conduct, but that if he did not succeed, he would tell the captain and clearly explain how matters stood. Nat might be somewhat saved by being removed into the second mate’s watch, although he would still of course be subjected to ill-treatment in the day-time when all hands were on deck. He had not long to wait. A paint pot had been upset. The mate came forward, and Nat was, by some of his enemies, pointed out as the culprit, whereupon Mr Scoones, calling him up, gave him a severe rope’s ending. Nat knew that it was owing to the carelessness of one of the men, but dared not accuse him. Owen at that moment came forward, but he of course could not interfere. When the mate returned aft he went up to him and explained that Nat was innocent, and went on to say that he had very often seen him punished without any just cause.

“It is sufficient, sir, to make the boy grow weary of life, and what a heavy responsibility would rest on those who drove him to commit an act of desperation.”

“What’s all that you are talking about, boy?” exclaimed Mr Scoones, in an angry tone. “Mind your own business; you’ll soon be fancying yourself captain of this ship, I suppose.”

“I know my position,” answered Owen, “but I cannot stand by and see any one so cruelly ill-treated as Nat Midge is. I do not wish to appear as his champion in public, but I felt it my duty to speak to you.”

“You’ll find it your duty to hold your tongue, youngster,” answered the mate, with an oath. “Look out, or I’ll treat you as I treat the other boys; I would advise you in future to attend to your own business.”

Owen feared that he had done no good by speaking to Mr Scoones. He determined therefore to mention the matter to the captain, although well aware that he should thus bring upon himself the vengeance of the mate.

He carried out his intention the first time that he found himself alone with the captain in the cabin.

“Such things will occur on board ship,” answered Captain Aggett, “but I did not suppose that the first mate would have been guilty of such tyranny as you describe; I always fancied that he was a favourite with the men.”

“He may be with some of them, sir,” observed Owen, “but he certainly is not with others, and I could not bear longer to see a helpless boy ill-treated, as young Midge has been for many weeks past.”

“I’ll see to the matter,” said Captain Aggett. “Take care not to let the mate discover that you have spoken to me; it will place you in a disagreeable position with him, and, if he is capable of acting as you have described, he may do you some injury.”

“I’ll run the risk of that rather than let the boy be bullied,” said Owen.

Several days passed by, and, as far as Owen could judge, Nat was better treated than formerly; he hoped, therefore, that his remarks to the mate had produced some effect. The mate’s manner, however, was distant and surly, showing that he had no good feeling towards him. When crossing the line the usual ceremonies were gone through, the captain not considering it necessary to forbid them. Neptune, with his wife and Tritons, came on board, accompanied by the barber and doctor—the characters who invariably take part in the drama. The arrangements had been made under the superintendence of the first mate, who had selected the seamen he chiefly favoured.

A sail triced up was filled with water to serve as a bath. The barber carried a piece of rusty hoop instead of a razor, and a pot of grease for lather, while the doctor, with a huge pill box and a knife, which he called his lancet, stood by to prescribe the treatment each patient was to receive. When Neptune and Amphitrite had taken their places, those who had not crossed the line were summoned to appear before them, and were interrogated as to their birth-place and parentage, how long they had been at sea, and the voyages they had made. Those who could not give proof that they were freemen of the ocean were instantly seized, and after being shaved in order to get the hay seeds from their hair, were doused in the bath to wash the dust off their feet. No one had a chance of escape, for, if he attempted to fly and hide himself, he was chased and brought back by the Tritons. Owen and Nat Midge were among the chief sufferers. The barber covered their faces and heads with lather, and when they attempted to cry out dabbed the brush into their mouths; then he applied the iron hoop, and scraped away, pretending to shave off their hair, while the doctor felt their pulses, declaring that they must be bled and blistered, and take a dozen of his pills. Fortunately, before he could administer his remedies the Tritons carried them off to plunge them in the bath. After undergoing this disagreeable process for some time till they were almost drowned, they with difficulty scrambled out, and made their way below. The first mate stood by grinning as he saw the youngsters undergoing this ordeal. Owen made no resistance, nor did he cry out; but as soon as possible he got away to his berth, to cleanse himself from the filth with which he had been covered. Some of the other lads and young men resisted lustily, and suffered in consequence far more even than had either Owen or Nat. The crew having amused themselves for some time, the captain ordered the mate to pipe to quarters. The bath was emptied, Neptune and his gang speedily doffed their theatrical costume and appeared in their proper dresses, each man hurrying to his station at the guns ready to meet an enemy should one have been in sight.

“You behaved wisely, Owen,” observed Captain Aggett the next day. “I saw that you were pretty severely treated, but it would not have done for me to have interfered; depend upon it, the men will respect you the more for not having complained.”

Owen found that the captain was right. A day or two afterwards one of the men, as usual, was ill-treating Nat. Owen, who was on deck, went forward.

“If you had a younger brother, or a nephew, how would you like to see him rope’s ended and treated as you do that orphan boy, who has no friends to protect him?” he exclaimed.

“Are you an officer of this ship?” asked the man. “If not, what right have you to command me?”

“I do not command you,” said Owen, “I am merely asking you a simple question.”

“The young gentleman’s right,” observed several of the men. “Let him alone, Dan; the little chap has had hard lines since he came aboard here, from you and others, and we won’t stand by and see him ill-used any longer.”

Dan dropped the rope he held in his hand, and turned away, while Owen, hoping that he had gained friends for poor Nat, walked aft.

“He’ll make a smart officer one of these days,” observed one of the men.

“Ah, that he will, Ned,” said another. “He is as handy already as many who have been at sea ten times as long.”

The ship had now got well to the southward, and the influence of the trade-winds began to be felt. With yards squared she stood for the Cape.

Owen had just come on deck, when, looking forward, he saw a figure falling into the water. Instantly there was a cry of “man overboard.” He ran on to the poop. The first mate, who was the officer of the watch, instantly gave the necessary orders to clew up the courses, put the helm down, to brace the yards to starboard, and bring the ship on a wind. At the same time preparations were made to lower a boat.

Owen, who saw that the person, whoever he was, unless a good swimmer, would be drowned before a boat could be lowered, seized a grating, and hove it overboard, then throwing off his jacket, plunged after it. He, though little accustomed to salt water had been from his earliest days in the habit of swimming in a large pond not far from Fenside, and his pride had been to swim round it several times without resting. He now brought his experience into practice; pushing the grating before him, he made towards the drowning person, who, from the wild way in which he threw his arms about in attempting to keep afloat, was evidently no swimmer. The sea was tolerably smooth, so that Owen made good way, and in a short time he saw that the person was no other than his friend Nat Midge.

“Cheer up, Nat,” he shouted. “Do not exhaust yourself; keep your hands quiet and tread water.”

Nat heard him, and did his best to obey his injunctions. The ship appeared to be getting further and further from them, but the grating would be sufficient to support both if Owen once got it up to Nat. It was very clear, however, that Nat could not swim to it.

Owen struck out with all his might. He would have got on faster without the grating, but, in case Nat should get frightened, it might be dangerous to approach him. “It must be done, though,” thought Owen; “he will sink if I do not get up to him quickly.” Leaving the grating, therefore, he struck out rapidly for the boy, and had just time to seize him before, exhausted by his fruitless exertions, he was disappearing beneath the surface. Owen held him up. Happily the drowning lad retained his senses.

“Put your hand on my shoulders,” said Owen, “and I will tow you up to the grating; just float, and do not attempt to help yourself.”

Nat did as he was bid, and at length Owen had the satisfaction of reaching the grating, which Nat at once grasped.

“Hold on tight, and do not struggle so as to exhaust yourself. The boat will soon come to pick us up. If you can keep your head above water that is all that is necessary,” said Owen.

But Nat had scarcely sufficient strength even to hold on. Owen, therefore, taking one of his hands assisted him to retain his hold beside him. The grating enabled them to keep their heads well out of the water, and Owen found that he could raise himself high enough up to look about him. Where was the ship? She appeared far away to leeward, but, as she had hove to, he felt sure that a boat was being lowered. Still it seemed a long time to wait; the wind was increasing and the sea was getting up. It would be a hard matter to hold on to the grating, over which the sea frequently washed.

“They won’t leave us, Mr Hartley?” said Nat; “it would be hard for you to have to die with me.”

“No fear of that,” answered Owen. “Do not give way; and see, there’s the boat coming.”

He was right. The boat which had been lowered on the lee side at that moment appeared from under the stern of the vessel, and pulled rapidly towards them.

Owen undid his handkerchief and waved it above his head. He had thrown off his cap before he had jumped overboard.

The boat, which was commanded by the second mate, was soon up to them.

“You did that well and bravely, Hartley,” said Mr Grey, as Owen was seated by his side supporting poor Nat, who was in a very exhausted state. “I did not know even that you could swim, and you are the only one who thought of jumping overboard to the poor lad.”

Loud cheers greeted them as they came alongside, and Owen received the compliments of the captain and the officers; even Mr Scoones condescended to acknowledge that he had done a brave thing.

Nat, under the care of the doctor, soon recovered.

“You have saved my life, Mr Hartley, and you have stood my friend ever since I came on board this ship,” exclaimed Nat, the tears bursting from his eyes. “I wish I could show what I feel, but I cannot, and I never can thank you as much as I ought to do, that I know!”

“I don’t see that I did anything out of the way,” said Owen. “I saw somebody drowning, and I just acted as I judged best to save him; any tolerable swimmer could have done the same.”

“That may be, sir,” answered Nat, “but no one thought of doing it, and if you had not I should have been drowned, so I have good reason to thank you.”

Captain Aggett had been for some time unwell, although he had come on deck as usual. He now grew worse, and for days together was confined to his cabin. Owen endeavoured to repay the kindness he had received by being unremitting in his attentions. He sat by his bedside smoothing the pillow which supported his fevered head. He read to him whenever he was able to listen, and was always at hand to give him a cooling mixture with which to moisten his parched lips. Although he talked of going ashore at the Cape, he had so much recovered by the time the ship reached Table Bay that he resolved to continue the voyage.

The ship therefore only remained sufficient time to take in water and fresh provisions, and to have some slight repairs made which could not be done at sea, when she again sailed.

Owen had been very regular in taking observations, which Mr Grey always found to be correct, although they differed frequently from those of the first mate.

“The truth is that he is wrong, and you are right,” observed Mr Grey. “If the captain falls ill again I do not know which of us two is to navigate the ship. If we go by his calculations, the chances are that we shall run her bows on some rock or other.”

“I sincerely hope that the captain will not fall ill,” said Owen. “If he does, I am afraid that Mr Scoones will not acknowledge that he himself is ever out in his calculations.”

Unhappily the captain’s fever returned, and he became utterly unable to leave his berth. The doctor shook his head when speaking about him, and expressed a fear that his illness would prove fatal.

Chapter Five.

The “Druid” had run more than half across the Indian Ocean. She had encountered a heavy gale, and had been driven somewhat out of her course, but the weather moderated, and she was now steering for the Straits of Sunda. Unfortunately she received considerable damage. One of her boats had been lost, her bulwarks stove in, and her fore-yard sprung.

The captain, who had been on deck during the continuance of the gale, had over-exerted himself, and was now again confined to his cot. For several days, owing to a cloudy sky, no observation had been taken. Owen had one evening entered the cabin shortly before the time for taking a lunar observation, in order to ascertain the longitude. Mr Grey had just before gone on deck with his sextant.

“Is the weather clear?” asked Captain Aggett.

“Yes, sir. There are but few clouds, and I think we shall get a good observation.”

“I must go on deck and take one,” said the captain, attempting to rise. He sank back, however, before he could get out of his cot. Owen endeavoured to assist him, but his strength was insufficient. Again the captain endeavoured to rise. “I am weaker than I fancied,” he murmured. He lay quiet for a few minutes.

“Owen,” he said at length, “I am afraid that my days are numbered. I should have been thankful had I lived to carry the ship into port, but God may will it otherwise. If I die, when you get home, see my poor widow, and deliver to her such property as I possess. She will not be left as well off as I should wish. I have not been as prudent as I ought to have been.”

“You may trust that to me, sir, and I will do the best I can,” answered Owen; “but perhaps you are not so ill as you suppose. Let me call the doctor, and he may give you something to restore your strength.”

“Yes, call him; but I doubt if anything he can give me will do that,” answered the captain.

The doctor had turned in, but immediately rose on being summoned by Owen. He brought some medicine with him, which he at once gave to the captain on feeling his pulse.

“You are a brave man, Captain Aggett,” he said, “I will not disguise the truth from you. You are sinking. Any worldly matters you have to arrange should be settled without delay.”

“I have done that already, doctor,” answered the captain, in a weak voice. “Who has the watch, Owen?”

“The third mate, sir,” he answered.

“I will see the first and second mates then, as soon as they have finished their observations. Go and call them, Owen,” said the captain.

Owen hurried on deck. The second mate, with the assistance of the third, had just taken a satisfactory observation.

Owen told Mr Grey that the captain wished to see him, but Mr Scoones had not made his appearance on deck. Owen found him in his berth, and gave him the captain’s message.

“Dying, is he? That’s the lot of all men,” observed the mate in an indifferent tone.

Owen saw that, although not tipsy, he had been drinking, but hoped that the captain’s last words would have a good effect. He therefore said—

“Come, sir, quickly, or I fear that Captain Aggett may be dead before you get to him.”

Unwilling to be absent longer than possible, he then hastened back to the cabin. The second mate was with the captain, who was weaker than before, although perfectly composed. He had been bidding Mr Grey farewell, and had been sending a few parting words to the officers and crew. The first mate soon appeared.

“I wish to say good-bye, Mr Scoones,” said the captain. “I am anxious about one point, and you will pardon me if I tell you what it is. I know you to be a first-rate seaman; you are one of those who never order a man to do what you are not ready to do yourself; but you are not a good navigator, for I have several times found that you have made mistakes in your calculations. I wish, therefore, when you take command of this ship that you should trust to Mr Grey’s and Owen Hartley’s calculations. Owen has had the advantage of a careful training, so that you have no cause to be jealous of him.”

“They may be the best calculators in the world for what I care,” answered the first mate, roughly; “but I will back Jonas Scoones to take a ship round the world with any man alive, so do not trouble yourself on that point, Captain Aggett. You and I have never had a tiff while we have sailed together, and I do not want to have one now, so I’ll say no more about the matter.”

This unsatisfactory answer evidently pained the captain, but he was too weak to reply. He put out his hand.

“I wish you would listen to reason,” he said. “The consequences may be serious if you do not.”

The first mate turned away, for he was not a man who liked to be at a death-bed; it made him think of what might happen to himself.

The captain being anxious to know the exact position of the ship, the second mate went into the main cabin to make his calculations.

Owen and the doctor remained with the captain. He did not rally, and just before daybreak, as he himself believed would be the case, he breathed his last.

The doctor, as was his duty, reported the event to the first mate.

“We shall see who is going to be captain now,” exclaimed the latter—“Mr Grey, that youngster, or I. From the way Captain Aggett talked, one would have supposed that he fancied young Hartley was as well able to take charge of the ship as a man who has been to sea all his life. The youngster will soon find out his mistake.”

Owen knew that Mr Scoones had now the power to treat him in any way he might please—to confine him to his cabin, or even to put him in irons; at all events, that his own position in the ship would be greatly altered. Scarcely, indeed, had the captain’s body been committed to its ocean grave than Mr Scoones turned him out of the cabin and made him take up his berth with the apprentices amidships. Owen bore his change of circumstances without complaining. He considered that there would be no use in expostulating with Mr Scoones; indeed, that by so doing he might make matters worse.

The first mate, or rather the captain, for so he insisted on being called, ordered him about as he did the other apprentices, and made him perform the roughest style of work.

“You want to be a sailor, my lad, and I never knew one who did not dip his hand in the tar bucket, and you will now have to put yours in very often,” he exclaimed. He then ordered Owen to black down some of the rigging.

It was a seaman’s duty, and Owen was ready to perform it. Mr Scoones, seeing that he obeyed willingly, was resolved to try him yet further, and ordered him aft to sweep out the cabin and to wait upon him at table. The doctor, who was a kind man, on discovering this, advised Owen to decline obeying the order.

“He now commands the ship, and as long as he does not direct me to do anything which will injure any one, I am bound, I consider, to obey,” answered Owen. “It is not pleasant, but I do not thus really disgrace myself.”

Owen had been accustomed to take an observation with the captain and mates. As soon as he appeared, Mr Scoones ordered him off the poop, exclaiming, in an angry tone—

“We don’t want any boys fresh from school here with their new-fangled notions. If I see that sextant again I will break it to pieces. The mates and I can look after the navigation of the ship, I expect, without your assistance.”

Owen went below and stowed away his sextant, which was one given him by Captain Aggett, and which he highly prized. The other officers were indignant at the way in which Owen was treated, and no one was more so than Nat Midge. He almost cried with rage when Owen came below and told him what had occurred.

“I don’t care for what he says,” observed Owen, “but I am vexed at not being allowed to improve myself in navigation. I hope that we may get a new captain when we reach Batavia.”

“I am sure so do I,” said Nat. “If it were not for you, I’d run from the ship. I should not like to leave you, and I wish you would come with me.”

Owen laughed. “I do not think we should improve matters by that,” he said. “It would only be like falling out of the frying pan into the fire.”

“I could not be worse off than I am on board this ship, for I have led a dog’s life ever since our kind captain died,” answered Nat. “It was bad enough before, but I have been far worse treated since by the first mate and some of the men.”

Owen endeavoured to comfort Nat. “When things get to the worst they are sure to change for the better,” he remarked. He ultimately persuaded Nat to bear patiently any ill-treatment he might receive.

Several days passed by without any event of importance occurring, Owen all the time performing sailor boy’s duty. The second and third mates’ observations did not agree with those of the new commander, who, insisting that he was right, would not attend to theirs, but kept the ship on the course he had marked out. The weather had been tolerably fine since the first gale, but signs of a change now appeared. Mr Scoones, however, declared that the wind would not be down upon them for some hours to come, and kept all the canvas standing as before. Suddenly the wind dropped, and the sails flapped loudly against the masts. It was Mr Grey’s watch; he had just relieved the third mate. Casting his eye to the northward, he shouted—

“All hands on deck; shorten sail! Be smart, my lads, or we shall have the masts whipped over the sides.”

The crew who were on deck flew aloft; the watch below came tumbling up and hastened to join the rest, some laying out on the fore and main-topsail yards, while others handed the royals and topgallant sails. Owen, with the other boys, lay out on the mizen-topsail yard.

“What’s all this about?” exclaimed Mr Scoones, who had been in his cabin. His face was flushed and manner excited. “Why don’t you wait until I order you to shorten sail?” he added, turning to the second mate.

“Because there would not have been time to save the ship’s masts and spars,” answered Mr Grey, in a firmer tone than he had hitherto assumed.

“Shake out the reefs and make sail again,” shouted the captain.

“Go on, and carry out the orders I gave you!” cried Mr Grey. “While I remain second officer of this ship, I will not stand by and let her come to harm if I can help it.”

“Mutiny! mutiny!” shouted Mr Scoones; but the men, who saw as clearly as the second mate the importance of shortening sail, continued their work. Even the boys, although holding him in dread, instigated by Owen and Nat, remained aloft, until they had handed the mizen-royal and topgallant sail, and close reefed the topsail. Scoones, completely beside himself, was hurrying off the deck, apparently for the purpose, from the words he let drop, of getting his pistols, when a long thin line of hissing foam was seen rushing across the ocean.

“Down, my lads, down, quick,” cried the mate.

The boys rapidly descended from the mizen-yard. Then the voice of the hurricane was heard, and a fierce wind struck the ship. In an instant she heeled over, and the close reefed mizen-topsail was blown from the bolt ropes. The helm being put up, she, however, righted, and away she flew before the hissing and foaming sea, which now rose up on either side as if eager to overwhelm her.

“We must furl the main-topsail,” exclaimed Mr Grey, as soon as the yards were squared.

Scarcely were the words uttered, than with a clap like thunder the sail was blown away, and flying out in tatters was quickly whisked round and round the yard. Whatever had been the intentions of the first mate, he now returned perfectly sobered, and taking the command, issued every subsequent order with coolness. He did not however, condescend to praise Mr Grey, by whose promptness the ship had been saved.

For two days the ship ran on under a close reefed fore topsail. The fore-yard had been so well fished that it stood the immense strain put upon it, although most of the crew expected every instant to see it go. Once more the wind moderating, the sorely battered “Druid” hauled up again on her course. The sky, however, was obscured, and the weather thick, and no observation could be taken. Mr Grey had carefully kept the reckoning, and knew, as he believed, more or less, her position; but he found, on comparing notes, that the calculations made by Mr Scoones placed her at a considerable distance from where he supposed she was; he was therefore eagerly looking out for a glimpse of the sun by day or a star by night to ascertain which was correct. The wind was again favourable, and for some days they had been making good progress.

It was night, and the ship was running along with a pretty stiff breeze and a moderate sea under whole topsails and topgallant sails. Mr Scoones, although acting as captain, found it necessary to keep his watch, in which Owen and Nat remained as before. The sky was cloudy, and as there was no moon it was very dark. A good look-out was kept forward, although the keenest pair of eyes could not have pierced the gloom many fathoms ahead. Mr Scoones paced the deck, every now and then, shouting to the men forward. Some care seemed to oppress him. He might not have had the full confidence in his own reckoning which he professed to have. Still, as the proud ship went scudding on across the broad ocean, no one would have supposed that danger was near.

Owen was on the quarter-deck, when a startling cry came from forward.

“Breakers ahead! breakers on the starboard bow!”

“Down with the helm,” shouted the first mate, rushing to assist the man at the wheel; but ere he reached him an ominous grating noise was heard, the ship trembled through her whole frame, but she surged on.

“We may yet scrape free,” cried some of the men, as they sprang to the braces.

The next instant, however, there came a fearful crash; the tall masts tottered, the fore and main topmasts fell over the side, still leaving, however, the lower yards standing; the mizen mast at the same instant went by the board. The wheel spun round, casting the helmsman to the deck. A huge sea striking the devoted ship swept him and several others overboard.

Owen found Nat Midge close to him.

“Let us hold on to the stanchions until daylight, and we shall then see where we are,” said Owen. “There is no use in attempting to do anything now, and it is dangerous to move about, as we may be washed overboard.”

In the meantime the rest of the officers and the watch had rushed on deck, and a cry arose of “Clear away the boats!” Several of the crew attempted to perform this difficult operation, but the fore-part of the first boat as she was being lowered hung in the falls, and the men who jumped into her were swept out, while she, driven against the side of the ship, was immediately knocked to pieces. An attempt was made to launch another boat on the same side, and although she reached the water, so many sprang into her that she filled before she could be shoved off. A few got on board by the falls, but the rest were drowned.

“We will hoist out the long-boat,” cried Mr Scoones. “We shall have to cut away the masts, and we must get her into the water before that.”

He issued the orders to rig the necessary tackles. As this boat was to be got into the water on the lee side, there was a greater probability of her swimming, provided she did not encounter any rocks.

“Hadn’t we better try to get in her?” said Nat to Owen.

“She is not in the water yet,” answered Owen, “and if she were, I doubt if Mr Scoones would let us; besides, she will run a great risk of being thrown on the rocks, or swamped during the darkness. The ship does not give signs of going to pieces yet; perhaps the wind may abate before morning, we shall then be able to get ashore on a raft, if any shore is near, and there is one boat left which nobody seems to have thought of launching.”

“I’ll do as you advise, but perhaps we may get off in the boat by-and-by,” said Nat.

They eagerly watched the operation of launching the long-boat. The seas, which had battered in a portion of the bulwarks, swept across the fore-part of the deck, and rendered it very difficult. Two or three of the men who neglected to secure themselves were carried overboard. One saved himself by a rope, but the shrieks of the others were heard as they struggled vainly in the seething ocean.

What had become of the doctor, and the other officers and apprentices, Owen could not tell. Mr Scoones he could hear issuing his orders, but he had reason to fear that some of the others had been washed overboard, or perhaps killed by the falling blocks and spars. Still a good many men remained, the greater number of whom were engaged in lowering the boat on which they believed their safety depended. At length she was launched over the side, and five or six men got into her, and shouted out far oars.

A search was made for them, but only three could be found; without more she would be almost helpless in the raging sea. She was now held by a warp, floating clear of the ship, which was working fearfully on the rocks.

“She will go to pieces if we do not cut away the masts,” shouted Mr Scoones. “Axes! axes!”

They were brought, and the boat being veered off to a safe distance, the two remaining masts were, with a few strokes, cut away, and falling over on the lee side, were allowed to float clear of the wreck.

Nothing more could now be done until morning, for which all hands eagerly waited.

“The boat won’t hold half of us. Let us form a raft, lads,” shouted Mr Fidd, the boatswain.

This was no easy matter in the dark. The brave boatswain setting the example, a portion of the crew began to collect such spars as they could find on board, and to drag them to the after part of the deck, which was more protected than the other parts of the ship, over which the sea continually broke, carrying away everything before it.

“We ought to be assisting,” cried Owen, who with Nat had hitherto retained their tolerably secure places. “We are better off here,” answered Nat. “It’s our duty to help our shipmates,” answered Owen, and he, followed by Nat, joined the working party.

They found great difficulty in keeping on their feet. The deck was wet and slippery, and inclined over towards the lee side. The bulwarks on that side had been gradually torn away, so that every instant the risk increased of their being carried overboard. Still, Owen and his companions persevered One only of the apprentices had joined them. “Where are the others?” asked Owen.

“They are gone, I am afraid. I saw them standing together trying to lower a boat, when a sea took the whole of them off their legs. I was nearly gone too, but got hold of a rope just in time to save myself,” was the answer.

It would have been better if Mr Scoones had endeavoured to keep all the men employed. As soon as he had declared that nothing more could be done until daylight, several of them stole away instead of joining those working at the raft. Some time had passed, when Owen heard voices coming out of the captain’s cabin, some singing sea ditties, others shouting loudly in discordant tones.

“The rascals have gone in and got drunk,” cried the boatswain, who heard them also. He made his way into the cabin, intending to turn them out. His efforts were in vain, they jeered and laughed at him.

“If the ship goes down, we intend to go down with her,” cried one of his own mates. “A short life and a merry one. Oh! come and join us, old Fidd.”

The boatswain finding remonstrance useless, and unwilling to waste time returned to his labours. Just at that moment there came a fearful crash, the stout timbers and beams were rent, as if composed of mere touchwood. The ship broke in two. The sea, rushing through the stern ports, swept every one out of the cabin, and the ribald songs and jests of those within were in a moment changed for cries of help and mercy.

Owen and Nat regained their former position, where they were partially protected by the only portion of the bulwarks remaining above water. The survivors of the crew on the after part of the ship here joined them. The raft, still incomplete, remained on deck. What had become of the boat they could not tell, but shouts were heard amid the roaring of the sea, which came either from her, or from some of the men who had gained the other part of the wreck. No one having seen Mr Scoones, it was supposed that he had shared the fate of the other officers.

Never had a night appeared so long to Owen. Eagerly he and his companions in misfortune looked out for the first streaks of dawn in the eastern horizon. They appeared at last, and a faint cheer burst from the seamen.

“A sail! a sail!” cried Mike Coffey, an Irish seaman. All eyes were at once turned in the direction he pointed, but, as the light increased, disappointment took the place of the hopes which had been raised, and the jagged point of a rock, whitened by the sea-birds perched upon it, was seen rising above the troubled waters. The remnant of the shipwrecked crew now looked out in the opposite direction, in the hope of discovering land.

A line of rocks rising a few feet out of the water were alone visible at the distance of eighty or a hundred fathoms from the ship.

The long-boat, on which their hopes of safety depended, had been carried away when the ship parted, and was nowhere to be seen. By the increasing light, however, some people were observed on the rock. Those on the wreck waved to them. The signal was returned. Some of their shipmates had thus reached a place of comparative safety. As daylight increased the wind considerably lessened, but still the heavy surges continued beating against the wreck.

“Come, lads,” cried the boatswain, “we will finish the raft, and get away from this before the old ship goes to pieces completely.”

A second invitation was not required, and all hands set to work with a will. It was soon finished and launched, but how to guide it to the rocks was a difficult question.

“Before we shove off we must try and get some provisions and water,” said Owen, more thoughtful than his companions.

“You are right, youngster,” answered Mr Fidd. A cask of water which had washed up was fortunately secured, as was a tub of butter, a barrel of salt beef, and another of flour, and some cases containing cheese, dried fruit, and biscuits.

Here was sufficient food to support the crew for a few days, should they reach the rocks in safety. There seethed, however, a greet likelihood of their not doing that, as the raft must inevitably be turned over by the surf as it reached the rocks, and dashed against them.

“We must find a warp, lads, and then we will do it,” cried the boatswain.

A search was made, and a rope of sufficient length and strength was discovered. One end was secured to the firmest part of the wreck, the rest of the coil being thrown on the raft.

“Now, lads, steady,” cried the boatswain; “let each man take his place—four to the paddles, and the rest to stand by the warp to pay it out as I direct.”

The raft was all this time surging up and down, go that the men had no little difficulty in seating themselves on it. Had there been any scrambling, many probably would have been washed off. The boatswain culling them by name, they sprang on to the raft two at a time, and secured themselves as he directed. Owen and Nat had not been summoned.

“Are we to be left behind?” cried Nat.

“Not if we can help it,” said Owen.

Some of the men on the raft were shouting out, “Shove off! shove off!” Those nearest the wreck got out their knives and cut the ropes which held it. Owen and Nat rushed across the deck, and were about to spring on board, when the men who had charge of the warp paid it out, and a heavy sea sweeping round, carried the raft to a considerable distance.

“Haul in again, lads, we must not leave those boys behind,” shouted the boatswain.

But the men did not appear to heed him. They scarcely, indeed, had the power to do as he ordered. The raft went tossing up and down, and was carried farther and farther from the wreck.

“Oh! they have deserted us,” cried Nat.

“Never mind, we must make a raft for ourselves,” answered Owen; “the lighter the better, and the more the sea goes down, the more easily we shall get a landing on the rocks.” They found a couple of gratings, and two small spars. These they lashed together.

“We must secure some lanyards to hold on by,” said Owen.

There was still plenty of small rope which had become entangled in the shattered bulwarks, and their raft was soon completed. They had hitherto not had time to watch the progress of the large raft. Just as they were about to launch their own they looked out for it. At that moment they saw a sea strike it; the warp parted, or was carried out of the men’s hands, and the raft was turned completely over, the next instant to be dashed violently against the rocks, every soul being washed off. Owen saw that many of the men were striking out, and were helped up by their companions on the rocks.

“The same thing may happen to our small raft,” said Nat.

“I hope not,” said Owen; “we will make a couple of paddles, and we shall then be able to guide it.”

They returned for this purpose. The tools, fortunately for them, had been left behind. The paddles were soon made.

“In case we get on shore safely, these tools may be useful. You go first, Nat, and I will hand them to you,” said Owen.

Nat sprang on to the raft. Owen then handed down a bag of nails, a hammer and saw, some gimlets and chisels, which Nat secured, as he was directed by Owen, who leapt down after him. As it was dangerous to remain alongside the wreck among the masses of timbers, they immediately cast off the ropes and began paddling away.

Their slight raft was several times nearly struck by pieces of floating wreck. Shoving away from them with their paddles, they, however, floated clear. Owen observed an opening between two of the higher rocks.

“If we can pass through there we may get round the lee side, and land without difficulty,” he said.

They exerted all their strength to reach the opening. Again they were in great danger from a piece of wreck which came surging up and down close to them. They, however, scraped clear of it. “We shall get through now,” cried Owen; “paddle away, Nat.”

In a few minutes more they reached the opening, which was just wide enough to allow their small raft to pass through.

“Hurrah! we have done it,” cried Nat, as they saw the white surf breaking astern of them. The current, however, threatened to carry them out to sea, but by great exertion they kept close to the rocks, and paddled on. At length they reached the rock where their shipmates were collected. As they scrambled up on the rock the first person they saw was Mr Scoones.

“Well, youngsters, you little expected to find me here, I’ve an opinion,” he said; “you’ll have to look out, and do as I order you.”

Owen had expected a more friendly greeting from those who had escaped. Neither he nor Nat made any reply. They at once carried up the tools which they had brought for safety to the top of the rock. Several of the men who had reached the rock congratulated them on their escape. Owen inquired for Mr Grey and the other officers. No one had seen them, and it was feared that they had been washed away by the seas which broke over the ship when she first struck. The long-boat had been driven against the rocks and dashed to pieces, although those in her had managed to reach the rock. Owen was grieved also to hear that the boatswain had been lost, with several of the men, when the raft turned over. The only officer, indeed, who had escaped was Mr Scoones.

The position of the sufferers, numbering altogether twenty persons, was still dangerous in the extreme, as at any moment the sea might rise and sweep them all away. As the morning mists cleared off and the sun burst forth, they saw, a couple of miles to the eastward and southward, a sand-bank, which rose apparently some feet above the water. The intervening space appeared to be filled up with rocks and sand, so that it might be passed by wading, and perhaps occasionally swimming to get over it. Mr Scoones pointed out to the men that their only chance of safety was at once to get to the sand-bank, which was of considerable extent.

“The youngsters raft will assist us to carry across the things which have been saved,” he observed.

Fortunately most of the casks which had been brought by the large raft had been picked up, as well as a good many others. Those which would not float of themselves were now placed on the small raft, and the mate, taking a long spar in his hand, set out to lead the way. Four of the men took charge of the raft, while others dragged after them casks of beef and water and two of beer. Owen was thankful that no spirits had been picked up. He knew too well what would have been the consequence.

“I am afraid, Owen, that I shall not be able to get across if there are any deep places,” said Nat, “as you know I cannot swim.”

“Then you keep close to the raft, and I will get the men to let you hold on to it.”

The two lads had taken two of the casks of water, which was as much as they could drag. The men who had charge of the raft, fortunately, were amongst the best of the crew, and at once acceded to Owen’s request; indeed they looked upon him as an officer, and were willing to obey him as such. Mr Scoones, who was a powerful man, aided by his long pole, made great progress. Every now and then, when he got to a distance from the men, he turned round and shouted to them to come faster.

“It’s all very well for him to cry out come faster when he has got nothing to carry,” grumbled some of the men.

Presently, as he was shouting out, he was seen suddenly to sink down; he had stepped without feeling his way into deep water. He, however, at once struck out; in a short time he again rose, and pressed on as before. When the raft reached the deep water Owen made Nat hold on to it, and he swimming they soon got across. Several of the men, however, who could not swim had to be assisted by their shipmates and dragged over by ropes, which the best swimmers carried across. As they went along they found several articles floating about, and these were added to those they were dragging with them.

They were crossing a narrow channel, in which the water reached up to their middles, when one of the men cried out, “A big fish; he will serve us for dinner.” The fish swam up the channel where the water was shallower. Chase was made, and before it could escape it was overtaken by two of the men, who had provided themselves with broken spars as walking sticks. Having stunned it by the heavy blows they inflicted, they towed it back in triumph.

“Why, you have got a young shark!” exclaimed Mike Coffey; “surely he’ll be eating us up, for he’s only half kilt.” Whereupon the Irishman, taking out his knife, nearly severed its head from its body. “He’ll not be afther doing us any harm now,” he said, laughing, as he secured the prize.

At length the sand-bank was reached. It was found to be much higher out of the water than at first supposed, and of considerable extent; but not a tree grew upon it, nor was it probable that a spring of water would be found there. They might exist for a short time, exposed to the burning rays of the sun by day and the dews by night. When Owen looked at the two small casks of water, he reflected that it could not last more than five or six days, even with the greatest economy. The raft being hauled up on the beach, the various articles they had brought were placed together.

“Men,” said Mr Scoones, “we have got provisions enough here to keep body and soul together for ten days or more; in the meantime we must see what can be done to make our escape. Perhaps one of the boats may be driven on shore, or, if not, we must build a raft and make our way to Java, or maybe some ship may appear and take us off. It won’t do for at to be down-hearted.”

“Can you tell about where we are?” asked Owen.

“What’s that to you, youngster?” answered the mate, who in reality had been utterly ignorant of the position of the ship when she struck.

Owen walked away: he saw that the less communication he had with Mr Scoones the better.

He proposed to Mike Coffey and two other men that they should make an excursion along the beach, in the hopes of picking up any articles which might be washed ashore from the wreck.

“Shure, we will have our dinner first off the shark,” observed Mike, “or there will be but poor picking for us when we come back.”

Among the things saved was a tinder box and matches; the latter were perfectly wet, and it was supposed that they were spoiled. Owen, however, undertook to dry them.

“If you will pick up the fuel, we will soon have a fire burning,” he observed.

By exposing the matches to the hot sun they quickly dried. From portions of the wreck driven on shore during the night and old drift wood, a sufficient amount of fuel was collected to form a good fire. After some trouble one of the matches was lighted. The men cheered as they saw it blaze up, and bits of paper were produced to catch the welcome flame. In a short time a good fire was burning, at which the shark, cut up in pieces, was placed to cook.

Owen saw the beer barrel broached with considerable uneasiness. However, he could not interfere. All hands obtained a good meal from the roasted shark and some sopped biscuit, which Mr Scoones served out to them. Owen and his companions then set out, and were fortunate enough in finding several casks, cases, and bales of goods; and what was of still greater value, the main topmast, with its spars, rigging and canvas, although apparently in inextricable entanglement. They immediately set to work, however, and, by using their knives, succeeded in dragging up a topsail and topgallant sail.

“This will assist us in forming a tent,” said Owen; “and if we can find another sail or two we may have shelter enough for all hands.”

Two of the men volunteered to tow the heavier articles they had found along the beach, while Owen, with Nat and Mike, dragged the sails to where they had left their companions.

“Shure,” said Mike, “it would be wiser to camp where we are, or maybe, when we get the tent up, Mr Scoones will be afther turnin’ us out.”

“I hope he won’t act so unjustly,” said Owen; “and we must not set the example of selfishness for fear of his doing so.”

The spars they had brought served as a tent pole, and as there were plenty of lengths of small rope, in a short time a tent was put up of sufficient size to accommodate the whole party. As they were all very weary, they gladly lay down to rest, and thus commenced their first night on this truly desert island.

Chapter Six.

Owen was awakened by a kick in the side.

“Rouse out, there, you lazy young rascal. Light the fire, and get the breakfast ready,” said the person who had thus rudely disturbed his slumbers.

Glancing up, he saw the first mate standing over him. He sprang to his feet, looking, as he felt, much astonished at the treatment he had received.

“Call the other boy to help you,” continued Mr Scoones. “Be sharp about it.”

Owen made no reply. He knew that to do so would be useless, and would probably increase the mate’s ill-temper. He shook Nat, who was sleeping near him, by the shoulder, and told him what the mate had ordered them to do. The rest of the men were still sleeping. As Owen and Nat went out of the tent they saw the mate take a bottle from a case which he had kept close to where he had slept, and fill up a tin cup. It was probably not the first draught he had taken that morning. Owen and Nat collected all the wood they could find, and piled it up a short distance from the tent. A light was struck, but it was some time before they could produce a flame.

“Be quick there, boys, or you shall have a taste of the rope’s end,” shouted the mate from within the tent.

“He seems in a terribly bad humour this morning,” said Nat.

“I am afraid his temper will not improve if he continues to drink as he has begun to do,” answered Owen. “What I fear is, that the men will follow his example, and that nothing will be done to preserve our lives. However, it becomes the more necessary that we should exert ourselves, and use the sense God has given us.”

“It seems strange that Mr Grey and the other officers should have been lost, and this one have been saved,” observed Nat.

“We do not understand God’s ways; all we know is that He orders everything for the best,” answered Owen. “He may have allowed them to be drowned to save them from greater suffering.”

They spoke in low whispers so that the mate could not hear them. By this time the sun had risen above the horizon. As the sky was unclouded its rays struck with great force on their bare heads, for they had lost their hats.

“We must make some covering for our heads, or we shall be suffering from sun-stroke,” observed Owen. “What I dread most, however, is the want of water; we must search for it. I have heard that even on such sandy islands as this springs have been found. If we can discover one, it may be the means of saving our lives. Blow away, Nat, we shall soon have a blaze.”

In a short time a brisk fire was burning. The other men now began to rouse up. The mate ordered Mike Coffey to act as cook. Among the articles saved was a large iron fish-kettle. The provisions were now turned over to discover what was most suitable for breakfast.

“Shure the best way to cook the food will be to boil all together,” observed Mike. Having filled the kettle half full of water, he cut up whatever was brought to him; some beef, biscuits, a tin of preserved vegetables, a drowned fowl, and some handfuls of split peas. He had fixed over the fire a tripod of three poles, to which he hung his kettle, which Owen and Nat were told to watch in order to prevent the poles burning through.

The mate sat in the tent, apparently with no intention of exerting himself, while the rest of the men wandered about in twos and threes along the shore, in search of anything that might have been cast up. It was possible, also, that they may have been discussing together the mate’s conduct, as every now and then one of them looked back at the tent to see if he was coming out. He sat still, evidently considering that the others were bound to obey him. By the time the seamen came back Mike’s porridge, as he called it, was ready. The lid of the kettle served as a dish, into which he baled it with a tin cup. How it was afterwards to be divided was the difficulty, as there were only three cup among the whole party.

“I saw some big shells on the beach,” said Nat; “they will serve us for plates.”

He and Owen went down and soon collected enough for all hands. The mate claimed his share first, and ordered a shell as well as his cup to be filled. The men looked at each other, but said nothing.

Mike’s porridge was pronounced excellent.

“Shure, mates, you shall have the same for dinner,” he said; “but there is one thing I’ve got to ask—how long is it to last? We have made a good hole in the beef cask already; we shall make a bigger one at dinner-time.”

The men, however, did not listen to the Irishman’s remark, but as soon as the meal was over lay down, some in the shade of the tent, whilst others, indifferent to the heat of the sun, stretched themselves on the sand, exposed to its full force. Some had saved their pipes, others their tobacco, and the pipes being filled, were passed round. Precious time was thus lost which should have been employed in searching for provisions which might have been cast on shore.

“Although others are idle it is no reason why we should be so,” observed Owen to Nat and Mike. “Come along, let us see what we can find.”

Mike, though an Irishman, was a very steady fellow, and at once agreed to what Owen proposed. Nat was always ready, and they set out. They had not gone far when they found several casks and bales which had been washed out of the wreck.

They dragged them up on the beach to wait an examination at a future time. They opened only one bale, which contained muslin.

“Very little use this to us,” observed Nat. “On the contrary, it will be of the greatest service,” answered Owen. “We can make coverings with it for our heads, which will afford greater protection against the heat than any hats we could manufacture. My head has begun to ache already.”

“Mr Hartley is right,” said Mike. “The Indian fellows out here always wear things of this sort on their heads.”

Owen had no great notion how to form a turban, but he had seen pictures of Orientals, and was aware that their headdress consisted of long twists of muslin turned round and round. He immediately set to work, and fitted one to Nat’s head.

“Shure you look like an illegint hathin,” said Mike. “Now, Mr Hartley, just plase to fit me with one like it.”

Owen succeeded better even than he had in Nat’s case. He then made one for himself, and they all laughed heartily as they looked at each other.

“If any Indians come this way they’ll be afther taking us for countrymen, and be friendly at once,” said Mike.

“I don’t think there is much chance of that, but we shall save ourselves from sun-stroke, and I hope the rest of the men will follow our example,” answered Owen.

“Shure there is some big black thing out there on the beach,” exclaimed Mike, pointing ahead. “What can it be?”

“Can it be a big fish?” asked Nat.

“It looks to me more like a piece of wreck,” said Owen.

They hurried on, eager to ascertain what object it was.

“Hurrah! it’s a boat,” cried Owen, who had kept ahead. On examination the boat was discovered to be the second cutter. The falls had been let go when no one was in her, and she had washed clear of the rocks right up to the sand-bank; she was, therefore, but little damaged.

The carpenter had been drowned, but the carpenter’s mate had escaped, and was a good workman, and he might easily repair her and fit her for sea. She would not carry the whole of the party, but some might make their way to Batavia and get a vessel to return and take off the rest. Who, however, would have the command?

The only person who was capable of navigating the boat, besides the first mate, was Owen himself. He had had but little experience of navigation, and still less of the management of a boat in a heavy sea. The first mate therefore was undoubtedly the proper person to go; but would he undertake the adventure?

These thoughts passed through Owen’s mind as he and his companions were endeavouring to haul up the boat. Their strength was only sufficient to get her a short way up the beach, so that there would be no risk of her being washed off again. They continued their search, tempted onwards by seeing objects floating in the surf. The most valuable, undoubtedly, were three casks of water. They also found some kegs of spirits, the heads of which they knocked in, for Owen felt convinced that should the men get hold of them, they would attack the contents until they had lost their senses. Although a considerable quantity of provisions of various sorts had come ashore, some had been damaged by the sea water. Still, when all had been secured there was enough, with due economy, to last for several months, and, providing water could be found, they might live. But the precious fluid which had been saved would, even with a very short allowance to each man, soon be exhausted. Owen now proposed that they should go back and get some of the men to secure their prizes.

On approaching the camp, however, they heard shouts and wild shrieks of laughter. It was evident that they had been following the example set them by the mate. They had got hold of a cask of spirits, which they had broached, as well as one of the beer casks. When Owen and his companions got up to the camp, their appearance elicited loud shouts of laughter, and cries of “Who are these young Turks? Where do you come from?” The men having amused themselves for some time, invited Owen, Nat, and Mike to sit down and drink with them.

“We have no time to do that,” answered Owen; “but we want you to come and help us secure a number of articles we have found.”

“Have you got any spirits or beer?” asked the men.

“No,” said Owen; “but we have found some casks of water, which are of far more value.”

This remark created a further laugh, and all united in inviting Mike to join them.

“Do not you be persuaded,” said Owen. “In a short time, when the liquor is gone, they will be sorry that they exhausted it so soon.”

The mate had not spoken, indeed he lay on the ground inside the tent in a worse condition than the men.

“It will be impossible to remain with these people,” said Owen. “I propose, therefore, that we go to some distance, out of their sight, and make a tent for ourselves. We shall find sufficient materials from the bales of cotton cloth which have been washed up.”

Mike and Nat agreed. “But, shure, they’ve got the iron kettle, and how are we to cook our mate without that?” exclaimed Mike.

“We must roast our meat, and make use of shells for cups,” answered Owen; “anything would be better than remaining with them.”

When the men saw that the two lads and Mike were going away, they shouted after them to stop, but finding that they were resolute, began to abuse them, Mike coming in for the largest share of vituperation. This made his temper rise.

“Arrah! but I’ll be afther paying thim off for this,” he exclaimed.

“Keep quiet, Mike,” said Owen, taking his arm; “you were doing what was right, and must not mind them.”

Mike was at last pacified, and they went on, until they reached a part of the bank considerably higher than that where they had left their companions.

By means of some spars they set up a framework which was easily covered by several folds of cotton cloth, so that in a short time they had a very comfortable tent. They then collected wood for a fire, rolled up one of the casks of water, and got together some of the provisions they had just discovered.

Mike, however, continued to sigh for the fish-kettle.

“We must manage to do without it, at all events for the present,” said Owen; “perhaps to-morrow you will find something which will answer the purpose. Here we shall have to remain until the men have drunk up all the spirits and beer, and then perhaps they will regain their senses, and steps may be taken to enable us to escape.”

They could just distinguish the top of their shipmates’ tent, but their own being low, would not, they hoped, be observed, and they should thus escape molestation from any of the tipsy crew. That their fire might not be seen at night, Owen proposed to put it out.

“We’ll not do chat, Mr Hartley,” said Mike. “We’ll just scrape the ashes into a hole, and put a little wood on them, and the fire will keep in until to-morrow morning, and so it will be ready for lighting, and save our matches.”

As long as there was sufficient light they continued their search along the beach, and were rewarded by discovering a case which contained, among other articles, fish-hooks and lines. This was indeed a prize, for undoubtedly fish swarmed along the shore, and they might catch enough to supply themselves with food for an indefinite period. Still, Owen recollected that unless water was found they must perish.

There was little chance of rain falling at that season of the year, and if it did, they had but scanty means for securing it. Still he endeavoured to overcome any gloomy anticipations about the future, and endeavoured to be prepared for all contingencies. Thus several days passed by. The party at the large tent continued their revels, as Owen discovered when going in that direction by hearing their voices singing and shouting; occasionally, too, from the noises which reached him, he suspected that they were quarrelling and fighting.

At last Nat proposed that they should launch the boat, and try and make their escape from the island.

“There are several reasons against our so doing,” answered Owen. “In the first place, the boat requires repairs; she has neither mast, nor sails, nor oars, and none of us three is well acquainted with the management of a boat. Wait patiently; when the liquor is gone we may perhaps get the boat repaired, and a crew to sail in her. The first thing I propose to do is to rig up a flagstaff, so that we may have a better chance of attracting a passing vessel; and as we have plenty of fuel, we ought to keep a good blaze during the night. This would have been done at first had the mate kept sober.”

Owen and his two companions immediately set to work to carry out his suggestion. An ensign, although somewhat torn, had been washed on shore, and spars of various sizes lay on the beach. These they dragged to the highest part of the bank. By lashing them together they got a flagstaff nearly forty feet long. They found sufficient rope only for two stays, and having fixed one of the stays securely to the sand by the aid of stakes driven deep into it, the butt end was placed in the ground. Owen and Nat then going over to the opposite side hauled away, while Mike assisted to lift up the flagstaff, which was thus in a short time set up. Provided the wind remained moderate, they had no doubt that it would stand.

“Should a vessel pass within four or five miles of the sand-bank it will, I hope, be seen,” observed Owen, “and it may be visible even further off, if the weather is clear.”

Owen had at first entertained some fears that Mike would join the other party, but the Irishman remained faithful, and did with alacrity everything he advised.

For a whole day or more none of the men had been seen, nor had any sound come from the direction of the camp. Owen began to fear that something might have happened to them. Mike offered towards night to go and ascertain how matters stood.

“Just keep up a bit of a fire to light me back,” he said. “I’ll soon find out if they are sleeping all this time.”

He set off, and Owen and Nat waited some time expecting his return. Still he did not come back. They began to fear that an accident had happened to him, or that he might have remained, notwithstanding his good intentions, with his drunken shipmates.

At last they heard some one approaching.

“All right!” cried Mike; “I’ve got the fish-kettle into the bargain. Every man alive of them is fast asleep, for they have drunk out the last drop of their liquor. I sounded each cask, and made sure it was empty. They will for a good reason be sober enough now.”

“Now we have got the fish-kettle we will make use of it; but I wish, Mike, you would return it, as they will otherwise justly accuse us of stealing it.”

“Shure, we have as good a right to it as they have,” answered Mike; “it will be a mighty long time before they want it, and, seeing that their fire has gone out, even if they get the kettle they can’t use it at all at all.”

“When they want fire, we must, however, give it to them,” observed Owen; “because some of them have behaved ill to us, we must not refuse to help them.”

“If they find out that we have got a store of water, they will be coming to drink it all up, and we shall be left without any,” said Mike.

“Still we must try to help them when they require assistance,” observed Owen.

“Would it not be wise to hide our casks of water in the sand?” suggested Nat; “then if they come and ask for it, we can give them a little at a time, and they will value it the more.”

“A very good idea,” said Owen.

Nat’s suggestion was forthwith acted upon; and with some staves of one of the broken casks they dug holes in the higher part of the sand-bank, in which they concealed two casks of the precious fluid, covering them carefully over again, so that they were not likely to be discovered. The water was thus kept cooler than it would have been if left exposed to the hot sun. This being done, Mike lost no time in cooking a supply of “his porridge,” as he called it, sufficient for their supper and for the next day.

They all felt the better for the comfortable meal, and lay down to rest, grateful for the protection hitherto afforded them.

Mike had volunteered to get up every two or three hours to see if the beacon-fire which they had lit was blazing up.

Owen and Nat had been sleeping for a couple of hours or more, when they were aroused by Mike’s voice.

“Bedad! but the weather has changed entirely, and our beautiful fire has gone flying away right over the island,” he exclaimed.

Owen and Nat started up. A fierce gale was raging, threatening every instant to carry away their tent; while the sea, which had hitherto only lapped the edge of the sand-bank, now came foaming up against it in heavy billows.

“The boat, the boat!” cried Owen. “Our first care must be to secure her, if she is not knocked to pieces already. She is of more importance than the tent or anything else.” They hurried off to where the boat lay, some little distance from their tent. They were but just in time, as already the sea had driven her broadside to the beach and had begun to break into her. She was already nearly half full of water, and, being thus very heavy, they could only drag her up a foot or two. Fortunately there came a lull.

“If we had anything to bale her out with we might succeed,” observed Owen.

“The lid of the kettle will be the thing,” cried Mike. “Nat, run and get it!”

Nat was not a couple of minutes away, and, jumping into the boat, he baled away with all his might, while Mike and Owen endeavoured to drag her up. The greater part of the water having been baled out of her they succeeded better than at first, and at length got her, as they hoped, beyond the reach of the seas. The stake to which she was secured was then carried up as far as the painter would allow, and then fixed as deeply as possible into the sand. The tent had withstood the wind, and they further secured it by placing the casks and bales on the lower part of the cloth, so that, although it might be torn, it was not likely to be carried bodily away. They were thus engaged when they heard shouts and cries coming from the direction of the camp. The cause was too evident. The sea, driven by the wind, had risen considerably, and was rolling much further up the higher part of the bank than it had hitherto done. Too probably, therefore, it was sweeping over the lower end, on which their shipmates had remained.

“The sea must have caught them while they were still asleep, and they have only just discovered their danger,” exclaimed Owen. “They won’t know in which direction to run, and they are not aware of this higher spot on which they might take refuge.”

“Thin the best way will be to light up a bit of fire to show them the way,” said Mike. “There are a few embers up there still burning.”

Mike and Nat quickly collected some of the burning pieces of wood, and a small fire was soon blazing up. It required constant watchfulness, however, to prevent it from being blown away. In the meantime Owen and his companions shouted together at the top of their voices.

Again and again cries were heard. Owen proposed starting off to guide them to the only spot where safety could be found, but Mike and Nat entreated him not to make the attempt. Indeed it was evident that he would run great risk of being lost. Already the white foam could be seen through the darkness like masses of snow sweeping over the intermediate space between them and the camp, where the ground was apparently of a somewhat lower level.

Although possibly their companions were on somewhat higher ground, yet at any moment the sea might sweep over it. The three shouted and shouted again. At last they heard voices crying out in reply, but it was too dark to enable them to distinguish any one. All this time the boat, their tent, and the flagstaff were running great risk of being carried away. But the preservation of their fellow-creatures was of more consequence than anything else. At length they caught sight of a figure emerging from the gloom, rushing through the seething water which swept by him. The party on the sand-bank shouted to encourage him. Now he stopped, afraid of being carried off his legs.

“On, on!” shouted Owen, who had brought from the tent a long line of tolerable thickness.

“Hold on to this,” he cried to Mike and Nat. “I will fasten it round my waist, and should any of the men be knocked down, I will try and save them.”

Such appeared very likely to happen to the person they saw approaching them. Already he seemed half covered with foam. Again, however, the sea receded, and taking courage he rushed forward, and Owen, catching him in his arms, dragged him up. He proved to be the carpenter’s mate. Just then two more people appeared, making their way towards the beacon-fire. They were followed by a third, who quickly overtook them, and pushing on without hesitation soon reached the bank. Owen recognised Mr Scoones.

“I am glad you are safe, sir,” said Owen.

“No thanks to these fellows, for no one roused me when they saw the sea breaking close up to their feet.”

Of the two other men who were making their way, one hesitated, while the other, following the example of the mate, rushed boldly forward. He was within a few yards of the bank, when the sea, sweeping by as it receded, rose up to his middle. He vainly attempted to stem it; he was lifted off his feet, and was being hurried out among the breakers when Owen, springing forward into the receding water as it swept round the sand-bank, caught him by the arm, and they were both pulled up by their companions.

“Thank you, sir,” said the man, whose name was Bill Pratt, generally called Bill, and who was a well-conducted fellow when sober. “I owe you a good turn for this, Mr Hartley.”

The mate and the other men had thrown themselves down, overcome by their exertions. The fourth man was yet some distance off, and as another sea came rolling up, he was lifted off his feet. He shrieked wildly for help, but had he been even a good swimmer no strength of arm could have saved him.

In an instant the foaming waters closed over his head, and although Owen stood ready to plunge in and attempt to save him, he could nowhere be seen. His was probably the fate of the rest. Three or four other figures were seen for an instant making their way towards the fire; then they suddenly disappeared. Owen waited a short time, but no one else came.

“Stay by the fire, Nat,” he said; “we must now look after the boat.”

He hurriedly told the mate that the boat had been washed on shore, and begged him and the two other men to assist in securing her, as he was afraid every instant that she would be lost. Although scarcely yet recovered from his debauch, the mate was sufficiently alive to the importance of this object not to hesitate. Leaving Nat to watch the beacon-fire, the whole party set off to where the boat had been left. They found her in even a worse condition than she had been before. The sea was beating against her with great force, and would in a few minutes have rendered her a complete wreck.

Owen, who had thoughtfully brought the lid of the kettle with him, jumped in and baled her out, while the rest, uniting their strength, got her head round, and by great exertions Mike and Bill, putting their shoulders under her, managed to drag her up early to the highest part of the bank.

“If the sea does her any harm here, it won’t much matter, for we shall all be swept away at the same time,” observed the mate.

As they were returning to the tent, a crash was heard; the flagstaff had gone. It was useless attempting to put it up that night, and they returned to the tent, where the mate, throwing himself down, declared that he was too much fatigued to work any more.

Owen, still hoping that more men might be saved, joined Nat to watch at the beacon-fire. Should any one be seen they would be ready to give them help. But after watching for some time in vain, they returned together to the tent with hearts saddened at the thought that so many of their shipmates had lost their lives mainly through their own folly. The condition of the survivors was still perilous in the extreme. The sea, as far as they could judge, was still rising, and might at any moment overwhelm them. The gale raged as fiercely as at first. The rain, so unusual in that latitude, came down in torrents. Had they prepared anything for catching it, it would have proved of the greatest benefit. Owen recollected the bale of cotton cloth. He called Nat and Mike to undo it. They cut off a couple of lengths, which they held over the empty fish-kettle, and by stretching it tightly the rain ran off it into the fish-kettle, which was quickly filled. Two of the casks, out of which Owen had emptied the spirits they had contained, lay near the tent. He immediately brought one of them and filled it with the precious fluid which had been obtained.

“Quick—quick,” he cried, as he replaced the fish kettle; “let us have the other cask, not a drop of water must be lost if we can help it.” Bill Pratt, the carpenter’s mate, who, seeing what they were about? had joined them, rolled up the cask, and that also was nearly filled when the rain ceased.

“That cask has had better stuff in it than water not long ago,” observed Bill, putting his nose to the bung-hole.

“It was the stuff which caused the death of so many of our poor shipmates, and has brought thousands and tens of thousands of others to ruin and death,” answered Owen. “Before long, you would thankfully exchange a dozen casks of spirits, if you had them, for one cup of such pure water as we have just obtained. If we are wise we shall collect all the empty casks we can find, and be ready to fill them should another shower fall.”

“Ah, sir, I believe you are right; and I wish that others had had as little love for liquor as you have, and we shouldn’t have been where we now are, with our stout ship knocked to pieces,” said Bill, glancing at the mate who lay asleep in the tent.

“We have now to do our best, and pray to God for deliverance,” observed Owen. “Perhaps we shall be blessed with another shower, and be able to fill up this cask, and any others we can find.”

Although the rain had ceased, the wind blew as hard as ever. Still the water rose until the white foam reached almost close up to the spot on which their tent stood. A few minutes more might decide their fate. Owen felt deeply the awfulness of their situation. Ere long he and his companions might be standing in the presence of their Maker.

Throughout that live-long night the shipwrecked group sat beneath their tent on that narrow strip of sand. Its length they had not ascertained, but its width, as far as they could judge, was now scarcely fifty yards across. They waited on, knowing that, should the tide rise high, a single wave might sweep them all off. Mike proposed getting into the boat, there to await their fate.

“She would not live ten minutes with such a sea running outside. Without oars to steer her, we should be worse off than we are now,” answered Bill Pratt.

And thus they sat on and on, anxiously watching for daylight.

Chapter Seven.

Dawn at last appeared, and as the light increased, Owen and his companions on looking out discovered, to their joy, that the water had gone down considerably, and that other parts of the sand-bank were appearing above the hissing foam, although the water at intervals still swept around them. The wind, also, had abated. Their first care was to look after the boat. She lay broadside to the beach, proving that she had been in no small danger of being carried off, but happily she had escaped any serious damage. Small as she was, she would carry their now diminished company.

They all agreed that it was important that they should get away with as little delay as possible from the sand-bank, and either reach some higher island or make their way to Batavia. There was a possibility also of their being picked up by some passing vessel. Owen, who knew that the distance to the Straits of Sunda could not be much less than 800 miles, and perhaps very much more, earnestly hoped that they might be fortunate enough to meet with a vessel.

Although the mate talked of going to Batavia he seemed far less confident in his manner than usual; indeed he appeared greatly out of spirits.

“Do you think, sir, that we could make Batavia?” asked Owen, finding himself alone with the mate.

“Yes, and we might go twice as far in our boat; but you have got a head on your shoulders, as you have lately shown, and should recollect that we cannot make a voyage of five or six days without water, and we may be twice as long as that. Why, those small casks you have will be exhausted before the boat can be got ready.”

The mate’s spirits rose considerably when Owen in reply told him that there were two other casks concealed in the sand. “Oh, then we need not stint ourselves as we have been doing,” he answered. “We shall probably get another shower before long, only I wish that we had some good liquor to mix with it.”

“But we may not get a shower, and the small supply we possess can only, with the greatest economy, last us two or three weeks,” remarked Owen.

The mate did not reply, but shortly afterwards, going to one of the casks, took a large draught of water. His thirst seemed insatiable—again and again he applied his mouth to the cask—had it contained spirits he would have done the same, and would speedily have become as tipsy as before. Owen was thankful that such was not the case, but regretted having told the mate, who had thus exhibited his utter selfishness, of the two casks concealed in the sand. He resolved at length to appeal to the men, and to advise them to insist that an equal and limited allowance of water should be served out to each person, a measure absolutely necessary for the preservation of their lives. Bill Pratt, to whom he first spoke, agreed to this, as did the rest, and Bill undertook to be the spokesman. The mate was overawed, and having drunk as much water as he just then required, sulkily agreed to the proposal.

Happily, in a short time, another large cloud was seen coming up with the wind, the last, apparently, of the vast mass which had lately overhung the sand-bank; the casks were got ready, the cloth stretched out. Anxiously the shipwrecked seamen gazed at the approaching cloud. The rain was seen falling into the sea. Would it cease before it reached them? On it slowly came. They could hear the precious rain as it reached the ocean. In another instant down it came upon them. The casks were filled. With proper economy they would have enough water to last them for many a day. How to repair the boat was the next question. The tools and nails which Owen and Nat had saved had been left at the camp, and, too probably, had been washed away. Unless they could find some more tools in one of the chests thrown up they could scarcely hope to fit the boat for sea. There were spars and planks enough, but they could not shape them with their knives alone for the purpose. They searched in vain, however, and found only a few nails sticking in some of the planks, but not a tool of any description. Nat had set out to look along the beach, while the rest of the party were consulting about the boat. He made his way in the direction of the camp.

As the tide had now fallen to its usual level, the intermediate ground was perfectly dry. He had been absent for some time. The mate directed the rest of the party to collect all the spars, planks, and cordage they could find.

“We might live on here for months, lads,” said Mr Scoones, “but should another gale spring up somewhat rougher than the last, we may all be swept away; so depend upon it, the sooner we get off this sand-bank the better. Where there’s a will there’s a way; and as we have no other tools we must do the best we can with our knives. It will be a long business, and we must take care not to break them. The first thing we have to do is to stop the leaks in the boat; we must then form some oars from the spars we have got and the staves of the casks. They won’t be very shapely, but they will serve to move the boat along, and the ends of the ropes will afford us oakum. We have cotton enough to make a suit of sails, although they might not be fit to stand a strong wind. We have also spars for masts and yards.”

The mate having got over his drunken fit, was now completely himself again, and, although he was occasionally surly and overhearing, Owen was thankful that he had been saved. He was certainly better able to carry out the proposed plans than any one else.

Owen suggested that while they were repairing the boat they should not lose the chance of being seen by any passing vessel. The flagstaff was therefore again erected near where it had before stood, and the drift wood collected to dry in the sun in order that it might serve to form a beacon-fire at night. The first thing to be done was to caulk the boat. Mr Scoones and the carpenter’s mate undertook to do this and to nail such planks as had been started, which was no easy matter, as not a stone could be found, and they had only the handles of their knives. But patience and perseverance had overcome greater difficulties than theirs. The carpenter’s mate looked grave as he surveyed the boat.

“If it keeps calm she will swim, sir; but if it comes on to blow, heavily loaded as she will be, my idea is that she will swamp to a certainty. Had we the tools, I should have raised her a streak all round and put a bit of a deck on her fore and aft.”

“No use to talk about that,” said Mr Scoones, with a sigh; “it is beyond our power.”

While they were thus employed Nat’s voice was heard in the distance, and he was seen running from the direction of the old camp. He was holding aloft what they soon discovered to be a saw.

“Hurrah! I have found this and many things more,” he exclaimed, as he drew near.

On coming up to the party, he explained he had found that the sea had barely washed over the higher part of the bank, on which the tent had stood.

This latter, though knocked over, still remained, with a quantity of cordage and other heavy articles, besides some provisions. On hearing this, Mr Scoones took possession of the tools and nails, with which he and the carpenter’s mate worked away at the boat, while he despatched the rest of the party to bring up the other articles. It was heavy work toiling over the sand, but Owen, setting the example, the rest cheerfully obeyed. It took several days to fit the boat for sea. The tools were blunt, and no means existed to sharpen them.

Every day at sunrise the flag was hoisted, and every night the beacon-fire lighted, but the signals were observed by no passing vessel. While Mr Scoones and the carpenter’s mate were working at the boat, the rest of the party were engaged in arranging the provisions, repairing two of the water casks which leaked, in picking oakum, or in other work. No one could afford to be idle.

“It would be a fine thing now if we could only pick up a keg of spirits,” said Bill Pratt to Mike, as they were working at the water casks.

“Do you think so, mate?” observed Mike. “Shure wasn’t it the spirits cost all the rest of the poor fellows their lives, and well-nigh your own? I am thinking that it would be a good thing if there was never another dhrop of the crathur brewed in the world. How was it that the ship came to be cast away, I should like to know? Look at the mate there; he is steady enough now, but let him get liquor to his lips we don’t know what mad freak he would play. No, no; if we find a keg, the best thing we can do will be to knock in the head at once, before any one is tempted to touch it.”

Fortunately no keg of spirits was found, for the force of the gale had dashed everything which came out of the wreck to pieces, and had not the shipwrecked party secured a sufficient supply of provisions at first, they would have run great chance of starving. The hull of the boat was now complete. The flagstaff had to be taken down to be cut up into masts, spars, and oars. Mr Scoones, partly with the canvas which had served for a tent, and partly with cotton cloth, had fitted a suit of sails.

At length all was ready; the boat was launched, and appeared to be tolerably seaworthy. Her cargo was piled up on the beach. The men had to wade up to their middles to carry it on board. When everything was in her she was somewhat heavily laden, but with the prospect of a long voyage before them they were unwilling to leave either water or provisions behind.

All climbed on board. The sand-bag which served as her anchor was hauled up, the oars got out, and they pulled away to the northward, clear of the reefs. The sails were then hoisted. They consisted of three lugs and a foresail, for, from the light materials of which they were formed, it was considered more prudent to have several small sails than two large ones. The wind blew from the northward, and was thus abeam, and her course was about E.N.E.

The wind soon increased, and it became necessary to close reef all the sails, while the quick motion of the boat, as she danced lightly over the seas, made every one, with the exception of Mr Scoones and Owen, very ill. The mate abused them for giving way.

“Shure it’s not for pleasure, sir,” exclaimed Mike. “As soon as the sea chooses to be quiet, we will be quiet too.”

His remark produced a laugh, even among those who appeared the worst. In a short time they got better. The night as it approached threatened to be stormy, and some of the party expressed a wish that they were safe back again on the sand-bank.

“Suppose such another gale as we had before were to drive the water over it, where should we be?” asked Mr Scoones. “Depend upon it we are better off in a tight boat, with twice as much sea as we have running here.”

Owen thought the mate was right. He did his best to keep up the spirits of his companions. The wind increasing, the sea got up more and more. It was necessary to keep the boat’s head close to the wind, sometimes indeed to put the helm hard down so that she might ride over the seas, which otherwise would have broken on board and swamped her. As it was, in spite of the additional streak, the water constantly fell on board, and two hands were kept continually baling it out. The least carelessness in steering would inevitably have caused the destruction of the boat. It seemed surprising, small as she was, that she could live. All night long the wind continued to blow as hard as ever, and no progress was made. There was a fear, indeed, that they might drive back on the sand-bank. When morning broke Owen looked out anxiously to the southward, expecting to see it under their lee. He was, however, thankful to find, as the light increased, that they were out of sight of the dreaded bank.

For two days the same weather continued. Some of the people began to lose heart.

Owen did his best to cheer them up. “Depend upon it we shall have clear skies and a smooth sea before long; we shall then run along famously, and make up for lost time,” he observed.

Mr Scoones kept up his character as a good seaman. For hours together he sat at the helm, and only gave it up to Bill Pratt, who was the next best hand to him. At last, as Owen had predicted, the wind fell, and the sea went down. Once more the boat was put on her course to the eastward. During the day they steered by the sun, and at night by the stars, which shone forth with great brilliancy. Although Owen had often gazed before at the Southern Cross and the other beautiful constellations of that hemisphere, he now watched them with greater interest than ever. With the fine weather the spirits of the party rose. Owen proposed that each man should recount his adventures, tell a story, or sing a song. His proposal was adopted; it served to beguile the time, and prevented the men from thinking of the dangers which might be in store for them. Mr Scoones did not interfere. He sat silent and gloomy, as usual. He might possibly have reflected that it was through his own obstinacy that the ship had been cast away, and the lives of so many of her crew sacrificed. Fishing lines were also constantly kept out, and several fish were caught. The only means of cooking them was on a fire of chips on the lid of the fish-kettle. They proved a valuable addition to their fare, and assisted, with the dried fruit which had been saved, in warding off scurvy. The wind was, however, very light, and but slow progress was made. At length it became perfectly calm.

Mr Scoones immediately ordered the men to get out the oars. Owen set the example, and Nat and Mike obeyed, but the others grumbled, asserting that the advantage to be gained was so slight that it was not worth while to exert themselves.

Mr Scoones became very angry, and standing up with the tiller in his hand, declared that he would knock the first man overboard who refused to obey his orders.

“You’d better not try it,” answered the carpenter’s mate, a powerful-looking man, seizing the hammer which lay near him. “Having three or four hundred miles to sail, as I understand, we can do little good in tiring ourselves out by pulling along at the rate of two knots an hour in this blazing sun. Let those boys and the Irishman put in their oars. They will only kill themselves if they keep at it.”

Mr Scoones saw by this how slight was his authority over the men, and wisely gave up the attempt. After a time the calm became more difficult to endure than had been the gale. Owen and his two friends had their heads protected by the turbans which they had at first manufactured, but the others had taken no similar precautions. The straw hats they wore, which had been washed ashore, afforded but a slight resistance against the penetrating rays of the sun. Night brought them all some relief.

Then all hands, excepting one who remained on the watch, lay down to sleep. When it was Owen’s watch he saw the mate several times get up and look about him as if his slumbers were light and troubled. For upwards of four days the calm continued. Provisions were served out regularly, but Mr Scoones, believing that they would reach Batavia in ten days or so, had not put the people on an allowance of water; the consequence was that they drank away at the water casks without stint, as they had done at the spirit kegs. One of the casks was soon emptied. Without telling Mr Scoones, they began upon a second. Even Owen was not aware how rapidly the water was being exhausted, until Nat told him that he was afraid they were half-way through the second cask. Owen at once informed Mr Scoones, who on this occasion had good cause for his anger.

“If you wish to live, you fellows must consent to be put on short allowance. We have not made good more than thirty miles of the distance we have to run, and for what we know, we may chance to meet with contrary winds and more calms, and if so, we shall soon all die of thirst. Being without water is, as you will find, worse than being without food.”

These remarks brought the men to reason. The remainder of the kegs, including those which had been washed up upon the island, were therefore brought and kept aft by Mr Scoones, who served out half a cupful at a time twice a day to each man.

Owen, as before, tried to animate his companions.

“Here comes a breeze,” he exclaimed, as a light blue ripple was seen advancing over the mirror-like surface of the ocean. The sails were trimmed, and the boat once more glided on at the rate of three or four knots an hour. Even should the breeze continue, however it would take them many days to reach Batavia. The wind lasted but a few hours, when they were again becalmed. Thus they lay, making no progress for another two days. Once more a breeze sprung up, but it was directly in their teeth. The boat was hauled on the wind and stood to the northward.

“We may have a long beat of it, but it cannot be helped,” said Mr Scoones to Owen.

It was trying work; now they tacked to the south-east, now to the north-east. The imperfect observations they were able to take showed them, however, that they had gained some ground Owen cheered the men by reminding them that they were in the course of homeward and outward bound vessels, and that they might hope to fall in with one or the other.

Still day by day went by, and they were yet a long way from land. Once more the weather changed, and the wind shifted to the northward.

Night came on; Mr Scoones, unwilling to lose advantage of the breeze, continued to carry all sail, and it was evidently as much as the boat could bear. During the darkness a squall struck her. Before the sheets could be let go, the whole of the lighter canvas was blown away. Had not this happened, the boat would have been upset. She had now but her fore lug and foresail, so that she could no longer keep close to the wind without an after oar kept constantly going. The night, however, passed away without any farther accident. It was not until noon, when the weather moderated, that all hands turned to and tried to repair the tattered sails. This operation was almost beyond their power. They managed, however, to patch up a mizen, which enabled the boat once more to stand on her proper course.

Several days passed by; no land appeared in sight. Their provisions were almost exhausted. They had been on short allowance for some time; but a few pints of water remained in their last cask. Again the boat lay becalmed. The three men who had escaped with the mate from the camp—their strength previously weakened by drinking—had given in and lay at the bottom of the boat, or leaned against the side, unable to exert themselves.

Mr Scoones, strong and hardy as he had been, was utterly exhausted. Owen, Nat, and Mike, though feeling weak, were by far the most active of the crew.

Another day passed by; the carpenter’s mate was the first to die, the other two quickly followed. Owen had endeavoured to restore them by moistening their parched lips with water; but it was of no avail. He felt himself imbued with a strength which surprised him. The dead bodies were lifted over board. No funeral ceremony was possible.

Owen then went aft to attend to the first mate, who lay in the stern sheets unable to move. Owen brought him some water; he drank it eagerly, and opened his eyes.

“Is there much more?” he asked.

“Very little, sir; but we will take only what will keep us alive, you can have the rest.”

Owen, faithful to his promise, continued to give the apparently dying man a few thimblefuls at a time.

“Were a breeze to spring up we might yet be saved,” said the mate. “Do you see any signs of one?”

“Not as yet, sir,” answered Owen, after he had looked round the horizon; “but cheer up, sir, God may still think fit to preserve us, although we do not see how it is to be. I’ll get you a little more water.”

All day long Owen continued, as at first, to attend on the mate. Mike and Nat sat still, their spirits were too low to talk; but they were perfectly satisfied that the mate should have the water, though their own share was thus much diminished. They all ate sparingly of the provisions which remained. Fortunately among them was some of the dried fruit, which assisted to assuage their thirst. The mate did not appear to grow worse, and Owen hoped that during the cool hours of the night he might revive. The sun went down in a cloudless sky, and the stars shone out brightly above their heads. Still no breeze came. The first mate occasionally spoke and inquired how the weather looked, but Owen could only give the answer as before. Morning was approaching.

“If we do not make the land, Hartley,” said Mr Scoones, “or do not get picked up to-day, I shall not see another sun set.”

“I hope you will hold out, sir,” answered Owen; “we have still a little water, and our provisions are not quite exhausted. I trust you will not get worse.”

He said this, though scarcely a couple of pints of water remained, while the provisions he spoke of consisted of a small piece of dry salt beef and half a dozen figs. Owen, feeling that he could hold out some time longer, was anxious to give the mate as large a share as possible, for he evidently required it more than any one.

Owen spoke to Nat and Mike, and they agreed that he should have a double allowance. The night air had revived him considerably. Owen gave him a few drops of water, after which he managed to chew some beef and eat a fig. Owen then gave him a further allowance of the precious fluid. He asked for more. “You shall have it, sir, but we are running very short,” said Owen.

“How many gallons have you?” asked the mate.

“Gallons, sir! we have not more than a pint.”

“Good heavens! a pint only, and that among four people, with such a sun as we shall have scorching down upon our heads before long,” exclaimed the mate. “I feel my inside burning already.”

“I would give you another draught, but you will want it more by-and-by than you do now, sir,” said Owen. “Perhaps when the sun rises we may get a breeze and make the run you expect.”

Although the mate kept crying out for more water, Owen was firm. The sun rose on a sky undimmed by a single cloud. The sea shone like a sheet of burnished gold, not a ripple played over it, excepting when, here and there, a fish rose to the surface, or leapt out of the water, sending far around a circle of tiny wavelets. Occasionally, too, a sea-fowl winged its flight through the blue ether, and ever and anon would plunge down to seize its prey from the ocean. The appearance of birds showed that land could not be far off, but not the faintest outline could as yet be discovered. The mate, dragging himself up to the side of the boat, gazed round with aching eyes, then sank down with a groan to his former position. Owen felt himself growing weaker and weaker. Poor Nat and Mike could scarcely raise their voices above a whisper.

“Water! water!” groaned the mate; “give me some if you would save my life.”

The other two pointed to their lips, and gazed eagerly at the casks. Owen dragged himself towards them. He could have drunk the whole of the water himself, and yet not have been satisfied. He poured out a small quantity and took it to the mate.

“Sip it slowly, sir,” he said, “we have very little more remaining.”

To his dismay, as he again went to pour some in the cup, he found there was scarcely sufficient left to fill it. He took what he believed to be his own share, and then carried the remainder to Nat and Mike. He put it to the lips of the first, who seized it with both his hands, and would have drained it to the bottom.

“Let go,” cried Owen, “this is Mike’s share as well as yours.” With some difficulty he rescued it, and handed the cup to the Irishman, who swallowed it eagerly. Owen had not the heart to tell them there was no more. Before long they again cried out for water. Owen made no reply.

“Water! water!” groaned the mate. Owen shook his head. He had scarcely strength enough to crawl back and show that it was exhausted. The mate at last understood him.

“Is there none in any of the other casks?” he asked.

Owen knew that they had been emptied to the last drop. He crawled to where they were stowed, and tried one after the other. They were perfectly dry. Without water to moisten their lips, no one would be able to masticate the last remnants of food.

“I knew it would be so,” groaned the mate. “Any sign of a breeze?”

“None that I can perceive, sir,” answered Owen. He dragged himself up by the mast so as to obtain a wider range of observation. Unable to stand long he soon sat down again. After a lapse of some time the mate again asked in a faint voice, “Any sign of a breeze?”

Owen once more looked out. He was about to sink down on the thwart, when his eye fell on a white spot in the horizon. He gazed at it without speaking; it might be only a sea-bird’s wing. Again and again he looked with straining eyes.

“A sail! a sail!” he exclaimed. His voice sounded hollow and strange; he fancied some one else was speaking.

“Are you mocking us?” asked the mate.

“No, sir, I am certain it is a sail,” answered Owen.

His voice aroused Nat and Mike, who turned round and looked over the side. The mate, who just before appeared to have entirely lost his strength, dragged himself up and took Owen’s place at the mast.

With what sounded like an hysterical laugh, “Yes,” he cried out, “a sail! no doubt about it; she is bringing up a breeze, and standing this way. We are saved! we are saved!”

He kept his post, grasping the mast tightly, and watching the approaching sail. Owen returned to his seat, from whence he could well observe the stranger. A long time must pass before she could be up to them, and before then she might alter her course. They wore but a speck on the water, and might be passed unperceived. Still the mate kept his post, waving his hand and trying to shout out, as if at that distance he could be either seen or heard. By his behaviour Owen thought he must have lost his senses. Nat and Mike every now and then uttered strange exclamations, showing that they were much in the same condition. The stranger’s royals had first been seen, then her topgallant sails, and now the heads of her topsails appeared above the horizon. She was evidently a large ship, and, as her courses came in sight, the mate pronounced that she was a man-of-war, a frigate, or perhaps a line-of-battle ship. She stood steadily on, as if steering for the boat, which, however, could scarcely yet have been discovered. As the expectation of being saved grew stronger, Owen felt his energies—which he had hitherto by great effort maintained, when the lives of his companions seemed to depend on his retaining his senses—giving way.

He saw the hull of the ship rise above the water, he could count her guns, he knew that she was a frigate; he was certain that the boat was discovered, and then he lost all consciousness.

Chapter Eight.

When Owen regained his senses he found himself in a hammock in the sick bay of the frigate, with Mike and Nat close alongside of him.

“How do you feel, Mike?” asked Nat, who had not observed that Owen was awake.

“Mighty quare, but not sorry to find myself here. I hope Mr Hartley will come to soon. They seem to treat him as one of us.”

“He ought to be with the officers aft,” said Nat. “The mate is with them, I suppose, but I have not seen him.”

“Shure he’ll not fail to make himself out to be a big man somehow or other,” said Mike. “He’ll be after swaring he was the captain of the ship, although he will forget to say that it was through him that she was cast away.”

The conversation was cut short by the appearance of the surgeon, who observed, as he glanced over the hammocks—

“I am glad to see you are coming round again, lads.”

He stopped by Owen’s side.

“Well, boy, how do you feel?” he inquired, in a kind tone.

“Very weak, sir,” said Owen; “but all I want is food and water.”

“You shall have an ample supply by-and-by, but in your present state you must take only a little at a time.”

One of the sick bay attendants brought in three small basins of broth, from one of which the doctor fed Owen.

“Thank you, sir,” said Owen, “though I think I might save you that trouble.”

“You shall be welcome to do so next time,” answered the doctor, smiling.

“What rating did you hold on board the ship you belonged to?” asked the surgeon.

“I was a passenger, although I did duty as a midshipman.”

“Why, the captain described you as a ship’s boy,” observed the doctor.

“Arrah, shure, he’d not the captain at all, at all,” exclaimed Mike, lifting up his head; “he was first mate until the raal capt’n died. But maybe he didn’t say how the ship came to be cast away.”

The doctor made no reply to the Irishman’s remark. “I must see about this,” he said to himself.

Owen and his companions remained in their hammocks for a couple of days, when they all declared themselves strong enough to get up. A large tub was brought them to wash in, and they were supplied by the purser with a seaman’s suit apiece. Owen was thankful to put on clean clothing, as the garments he had on when wrecked were worn completely into rags. Thus habited, although in the dress of a common seaman, he certainly did not look like an ordinary ship’s boy. Still, he was allowed to remain forward with his two companions. As yet they had seen nothing of Mr Scoones, who was, they understood, occupying one of the officers’ cabins aft.

Owen found that they were on board the “Sylvia,” a thirty-six gun frigate, commanded by Captain Stanhope, on her way to Batavia. He had reason to suspect that the sand-bank on which they had been wrecked was further to the westward than Mr Scoones had supposed, and that had they not been picked up they would have perished long before reaching Java.

Having now sufficiently recovered to do duty, they were placed in a watch under the command of the second lieutenant, Mr Leigh. Owen concluded that this was as it should be. It did not occur to him that it would be of any use to explain who he was, and to endeavour to obtain a better position on board. He thought it but natural that he should be expected to work, and he was ready to do duty in any station in which he was placed. He supposed that his friend the doctor had forgotten him, or had not thought fit to carry out his intentions. Owen, who had been accustomed to go aloft while on board the “Druid,” soon attracted the attention of Lieutenant Leigh by the activity and diligence with which he performed all his duties. The lieutenant at length spoke to him.

“If you go on as you have begun, you will become a smart seaman,” he said, in a kind tone.

“Thank you, sir,” answered Owen, touching his hat; “I will do my best.”

“What is your name?” asked the lieutenant.

“Owen Hartley, sir.”

“Owen Hartley!” repeated a tall midshipman, who was in Mr Leigh’s watch, and who was standing near. He looked hard at Owen, but said no more.

It struck Owen, as he glanced at the midshipman, that he had seen him somewhere before, but he could not at first recollect where it was.

He puzzled his brains for some time. At last he inquired the midshipman’s name of one of the men, pointing him out as he walked the deck.

“That is Mr Ashurst, a sprig of nobility of some sort,” was the answer. “Take care you don’t get foul of him. He carries on with a pretty high hand when he has the chance, especially if you go away with him in a boat, or he is in command on any occasion.”

Shortly afterwards a squall was seen coming up, and the various necessary orders were issued for the shortening of sail. The midshipmen hurried to their posts, repeating the orders they had received. Mr Ashurst came forward, shouting out, as he did so, to the men.

“Yes, those are the very same tones,” thought Owen, and he recognised the naval officer who, with his brother, had been thrown out of their carriage, and whom he had assisted in getting to rights again. “His brother called him Reginald. If this midshipman’s name is the same I shall have no doubt about the matter.”

Owen had not hitherto been stationed aloft, but one of the other boys was on the sick list.

“What are you doing on deck here, you idle young rascal?” exclaimed Mr Ashurst. “Quick, up the rigging and help to hand the fore royal.”

Owen obeyed, and flew up aloft. The lighter sails were quickly handed. The topsails were reefed, and the crew called down; the frigate stood on her proper course. The way Mr Ashurst addressed Owen convinced him that he was the person he supposed.

“I will take care not to give him any cause of offence, for he is evidently not an amiable person,” thought Owen.

A few minutes afterwards the look-out at the masthead shouted—

“A sail on the weather bow!”

One of the officers immediately went aloft. On his return the bearings of the stranger were taken. She was a large ship, standing in for the land.

The frigate was immediately put about. The squall having blown over, all sail was made in chase. Many surmises were expressed as to what she was, but it was a general opinion that she was a French frigate.

“If she is, we shall have a fight, and take her too,” cried one of the men near whom Owen was standing.

“Little doubt about that, mates,” observed another.

Such were the expressions uttered by the crew. Owen felt as eager as any one. He had not come to sea to fight, but he knew that even on board the “Druid” they might have fallen in with an enemy and have had to defend themselves.

“Is there any chance of her getting away, Mr Hartley?” asked Nat, who never forgot their relative positions, though Owen treated him as a friend.

“No,” replied Owen; “for this frigate sails very fast, and from what I hear, Captain Stanhope is not likely to let an enemy escape him if he can help it.”

“I feel somewhat strange at the thoughts of having round shot and bullets flying about our ears,” said Nat.

“We must run our chance along with the rest,” answered Owen.

Mr Scoones, who had only come on deck that day for the first time, on seeing that there was a prospect of a sharp engagement, seemed to wish that he had kept below. After pacing up and down several times, he spoke to the first lieutenant.

“As I have had some experience in dressing wounds, although, of course, I should wish to see the fight on deck, I may be of assistance to the doctor. With your leave I will go into the cock-pit and offer to help him.”

The first lieutenant looked at him hard, suspecting the reasons.

“You are a passenger, and we do not expect you to fight, so do as you please,” he answered.

Mr Scoones immediately dived below. The doctor, who had been arranging the various instruments and dressings which he expected would be required, received Mr Scoones coldly.

“You have not thought of bringing the two boys and the seaman saved with you. They might like to escape the risk of being shot.”

“They have entered as part of the ship’s company, and must run their chance,” answered Mr Scoones.

“I thought as much,” remarked the doctor, and continued his preparations without further accepting the offer made him.

The “Sylvia” showed herself to be a fast craft as she rapidly gained on the chase. As yet, however, the colours of the latter had not been shown. It was possible, after all, that she might prove to be a friend. All hands were on deck watching the chase. A loud cheer rose from the crew as the French flag flew out from the stranger’s peak. She had tacked several times to keep the weather gauge, which it was Captain Stanhope’s wish to obtain. She was seen to be a frigate of the same size as the “Sylvia,” if not larger. The decks were now cleared for action, and the drum beat to quarters. Owen found that he and the other boys were to be employed in bringing up powder from the magazines in flannel bags placed in buckets. They had then to sit on them until the powder was wanted for loading the guns.

He would rather have been employed on some other duty, as he would thus have seen what was going forward. Still he did not for a moment think of trying to avoid what he was ordered to do. It was a satisfaction to find that Nat was near him.

“I don’t half like it,” said Nat; “but there is no one to care for me if I’m killed, except my old grandmother, and my brothers and sisters. You’ll tell them all about me, and take them my love, won’t you, Mr Hartley?”

“Yes, I will not forget your message, and I assure you, Nat, that I should care very much indeed if you were to be killed,” answered Owen. “But do not be down-hearted; it will be a great thing to have been in a fight, although we may have taken no very active part in it.”

Owen and Nat were stationed on the main deck, and had just brought up their powder from below.

“Hold your tongues, youngsters,” said a midshipman, who just then passed. Owen recognised Mr Ashurst; he looked pale, but whether this was from the thoughts of the coming fight, or from some other cause, Owen could not tell. He was stationed at the guns which it was Owen’s duty to keep supplied.

The second lieutenant passed along the deck, speaking an encouraging word to the men at each of the guns, while he gave the orders in regard to their mode of firing.

He then turned to the boys, and addressed a few kind remarks to them.

During this time the French frigate had shortened sail, showing that she had no intention of avoiding an action.

Owen could only get a glimpse of her through the port. The “Sylvia” had tacked several times. Again Mr Leigh came along the deck.

“In another minute we shall pass under the enemy’s stern, and every gun from forward is to be fired in succession,” he cried.

Just as he spoke, loud roars were heard, and several of the Frenchmen’s shot struck the frigate’s upper works, none penetrating to the main deck.

Owen peered out eagerly to try and get a glimpse of the enemy; then their own guns began firing, the crew cheering as their shot told with considerable effect. The French frigate, however, which had immediately luffed up, though too late to avoid being raked, returned the fire with her other broadside. The two frigates ran on together to the eastward, exchanging broadsides as fast as the guns could be run in and loaded.

“I wonder when she’s going to give in?” said Nat to Owen as they returned from below with a fresh supply of powder.

“Before long, if we continue pounding her as we have hitherto done,” said Owen, who after the first shots had been fired felt as cool as he had ever done in his life. Nat, too, recovered his self-possession, and seemed to have lost all his fears. Still, it was a trying time for youngsters who had never before been in battle. Round shot at times struck the ship in quick succession. Three or four men had been killed on the main deck, and others had been carried below badly wounded. Owen had observed Mr Ashurst constantly moving about, evidently in no very happy frame of mind.

“I say,” observed Nat, “I rather think he doesn’t half like it,” pointing at the midshipman as he spoke.

“You have no right to think that,” answered Owen. At that moment a shot struck the cill of the port nearest to the spot where Owen was seated, killing one man and wounding another, then flying across the deck close to Mr Ashurst, it committed further havoc on the other side, laying low another of the crew.

The midshipman gave a spring and fell over near Owen, who was at that moment supplying his gun with powder. As soon as he was at liberty, Owen endeavoured to help the midshipman.

“Are you hurt, sir?” he asked.

“I don’t know—I thought I was,” answered Mr Ashurst, getting on his feet.

His reply produced a laugh from several of the men who heard him. He walked away without uttering a word of thanks to Owen for his good intentions. Another broadside was fired, when a loud cheer burst forth from the crew on the upper deck, and was echoed by those on the main deck.

“She has struck! she has struck!”

The English frigate had been a good deal cut up. The Frenchman had lost her foremast and main topmast, while her hull was severely battered. The “Sylvia” was hove to, and Mr Leigh, with a boat’s crew, sent to take possession of the prize. She proved to be the “Venus,” forty-four guns. Her captain having been killed, the first lieutenant presented his sword to Mr Leigh; as he did so he pointed to a number of dead and dying men about the decks, observing with a sigh—

“We did not yield until we had no hope of success. It is the fortune of war.”

“You have fought bravely, monsieur, and you and your crew will be treated as brave men,” answered Mr Leigh.

He then ordered that the dead should be hove overboard, and the wounded carried below, to be attended to by the surgeon. He also directed the French officers and most of the crew to prepare for going on board the English frigate, though a few were retained for attending to the sick. The remainder of the “Sylvia’s” boats which had escaped damage now came alongside with fresh hands to form the prize crew and to carry off the Frenchmen. Mr Leigh, leaving the prize in charge of the master’s mate, who had accompanied him, returned on board the frigate to deliver the swords he had received, and report the state of the prize.

“I intend you to have charge of the prize, and you can take any hands you choose with you,” said Captain Stanhope.

Mr Leigh having selected two or three more men, observed—

“I will take the lads we picked up the other day; they are sharp fellows, especially one of them, and may be useful.”

Owen and Nat were summoned and ordered to get into the boat with the other men, among whom was Mike Coffey. Owen was well pleased to have been selected by Mr Leigh.

“We shall be out of the way, too, of that midshipman Mr Ashurst,” observed Nat. “He is a regular bully when he has the chance.”

On reaching the deck of the prize, however, what was their disappointment to find that Mr Ashurst had gone on board her in one of the other boats. He looked hard at Owen as he came up the side.

“Who sent you here, boy?” he asked.

“I was ordered to come,” answered Owen, touching his hat.

“Well, look out, and see that you behave yourself,” said the midshipman, as he walked away.

Owen felt a sickening sensation as he looked along the decks of the prize. Those of the “Sylvia” had been bad enough. These, although the dead and wounded had been removed, were still covered in every direction with blood, while they were thickly strewed with shattered spars, fragments of bulwarks, blocks, pieces of rope, and torn sails, while from below came up cries and groans of the wounded, either waiting to have their hurts dressed or already in the surgeon’s hands. As the frigates were at the time not far from the coast of Celebes, every effort was made to repair the more serious damages, in order to enable them to haul off the shore before nightfall. The first thing to be done was to get up a fore jury mast. Rather more than a third of the French crew still remained on board the prize; but as all hands were required for this work, Mr Leigh waited to send them away until it had been accomplished. Most of them, indeed, appeared willing to lend their help. It was nightfall, however, before sail could once more be made on the frigate. By that time it came on to blow very hard, and the sea getting up, made it dangerous for the boats to pass to and fro. Captain Stanhope, therefore, sent word to Mr Leigh to retain the remainder of the prisoners, and should the frigates get parted, to steer for Marrack, the nearest port on the Java coast where shelter could be found. The fort protecting the harbour had a short time before been captured by Lieutenant Lyons with two boats’ crews. The captain’s last directions to Lieutenant Leigh were to keep a sharp look-out on his prisoners. The wind increased, and the night became very dark. The English crew remained on deck, but most of the Frenchmen went below. All the sail the frigate could carry was set, but it soon became evident that she was making little or no way off the shore.

Captain Stanhope had directed Mr Leigh to keep the lead going, and to anchor should the prize drift into shoal water. He accordingly ordered the cables to be ranged ready for that emergency. Owen had been actively engaged the whole day, and Mr Leigh had employed him to carry orders to the different parties at work. Soon after nightfall the “Sylvia” was lost sight of; as, for her own safety, she had been compelled to get a good offing, Captain Stanhope not being willing to run the risk of anchoring on a lee shore. His intention was, however, to stand in the next morning and rejoin the prize. Had the wind been but moderate, the “Venus” would have run but little risk. Blowing, however, heavily, as it now did, Mr Leigh could not help acknowledging that they were in considerable danger. Though under reduced sail, she fortunately stayed very easily. The lieutenant, therefore, did not hesitate to go about as often as he considered necessary. A look-out was kept for the land, and every time she tacked the lead was hove, but as no bottom had yet been found, it was hoped she might yet be a considerable distance from it. The French crew had remained quietly below, one or two only occasionally coming on deck, apparently to ascertain the position of the ship.

Strange that even at this time of peril Mr Ashurst should have treated Owen in his usual tyrannical manner. He never met him without uttering a word of abuse. Two or three times he took up a rope’s end and struck him, declaring that he was idling or not obeying orders. At last Owen could bear it no longer.

“You are perfectly well aware, Mr Ashurst, that you have no right to treat me thus,” he said in a firm voice. “You are placing yourself in my power, for were I to complain of you, you would be punished. I have no wish to do that, but I must beg that you will desist.”

“Who are you, to speak like this to me?” exclaimed the midshipman, apparently astonished at Owen’s language and manner.

“Were I your inferior in birth and education I should have a perfect right to expostulate,” said Owen.

“In birth—in birth and education! You, a contemptible ship’s boy, put yourself on an equality with a nobleman’s son!” exclaimed Ashurst.

“I am not placing myself on an equality, for I am not a nobleman’s son, but I am the son of a gentleman, and have received a gentleman’s education, and have, I hope, the feelings of one,” answered Owen, his temper rising in a way he found it difficult to quell; “all, however, I insist on is that you should not strike or abuse me, for by so doing, as you well know, you are acting contrary to the articles of war.”

“A young sea lawyer, are you!” cried Ashurst. “Look out for squalls when we get on board the frigate again.”

“Has it occurred to you, Mr Ashurst, that if this gale continues we may never get there?” asked Owen, feeling suddenly prompted to put the question. “We have a wild rocky coast under our lee, and should the anchors fail to hold, we may, before morning, be cast on it with little hope of any one on board escaping.”

“Who told you that?” asked Ashurst, in a changed tone.

“My own sense and observation,” answered Owen. “When Mr Leigh sent me into the cabin this afternoon, I examined the Frenchman’s chart, which lay open on the table, and I saw the sort of coast we are off. I do not wish to alarm you, nor any one else, but I only tell you what I know to be the state of the case.”

“Does Mr Leigh think the same?” inquired Ashurst, in the same tone he would have used to an equal.

“I have no doubt he does, but of course he would not tell the crew until it was absolutely necessary to do so; unless he had foreseen that we should probably have to anchor he would not have ordered the cables to be ranged.”

“I hope things are not so bad as you think, Hartley,” observed Ashurst, although, at the same time, his voice belied his words. Without apologising to Owen, he walked away in a very different manner to that he had just before assumed.

“It is a great shame that that midshipman should treat you as he does,” said Nat. “Although he is civil enough now, he will be as bad as ever before long, and I have made up my mind what to do.”

“You’d better not interfere, Nat,” said Owen. “The officers probably would not listen to you, and you would only get yourself into bad odour.”

Nat did not exactly understand what that meant, but he did not mind doing anything which might benefit Owen. By midnight the gale had increased considerably, and the English crew, in addition to their previous exertions—having to work hard at the pumps—were almost worn-out. It was difficult, therefore, to spare hands to keep a proper look-out on the French prisoners.

Mr Leigh, calling Owen, sent him below to ascertain what they were about.

“I must get the fellows to take their spell at the pumps, if not, their lives will be sacrificed as well as ours.”

This last remark Owen did not hear, although the same idea had occurred to him.

Supposing him to be an ordinary ship’s boy, who had come among them for curiosity, the prisoners took little notice of him. The greater number were collected together in the fore-part of the lower deck. Some were playing cards, others with dice or dominoes. Some were lying down, others singing snatches of songs, talking and laughing, appearing to have forgotten altogether that they were prisoners. One group, composed chiefly, it seemed, of petty officers and able seamen, were standing together, engaged in more earnest conversation.

Owen, as he had been directed to do, stood by, counting their numbers, concealed by the foremast from the last-mentioned group. Taking no notice of Owen the Frenchmen continued their conversation. He was on the point of going away to report that the prisoners seemed very quiet, when he caught some words which made him listen with more attention. Although not accustomed to hear French spoken by Frenchmen, he had frequently read and talked French with his mother, and was well acquainted with the ordinary phrases in use. The Frenchmen went on. They spoke of the danger the ship was in. That before long she must anchor, when probably half the crew would lie down to rest, while the other half would be kept at the pumps. They appeared to know the coast; there were several islands abreast where they then were, with channels between them. Their intention was to master the English crew, cut the cables, and, making sail by dawn, to run through one of these channels, where the “Venus” might lie completely concealed. They would then have time to repair damages, and as soon as the English frigate had gone away, supposing her prize to be lost, they might make their escape. Only two French officers, however, remained on board who understood navigation, and they must be gained over. This the French boatswain undertook to do. Some thought their officers would not agree to the plan.

“Then they must be forced to do so,” answered the boatswain; “we will make them prisoners as well as the English, or heave them all overboard together.”

“That would be dangerous,” remarked another, “for should we be retaken, they would hang us.”

“The fortune of war, my friend,” answered the boatswain; “remain where you are, that the English may see that you are amusing yourselves, while I pay a visit to our lieutenant and the young Aspirante. They surely will not refuse to enter into our plan.”

Owen waited some time longer, but finding that he was not likely to gain any further information he stole sway, concealed by the darkness, from where he had been standing, unperceived, as he hoped, by any of the prisoners. The boatswain, he believed, had not yet gone aft, he therefore hastened to report what he had heard to Mr Leigh.

“This is important information you have brought me,” observed Lieutenant Leigh. “We can easily thwart the Frenchmen’s plot, and I doubt whether their two officers would agree to it. I had no idea you understood French. The first thing to be done is to send a gang of these fellows to the pumps. They shall work whether they like it or not.”

Calling Mr Stewart, the master’s mate, who had accompanied him, Mr Leigh directed him to take a dozen armed men and to bring up thirty of the French crew. “If they refuse, let them understand that they will be placed in irons. Hartley, accompany Mr Stewart, and tell the Frenchmen why they are wanted.”

The order was speedily put into execution. The Frenchmen grumbled, but as they had been deprived of all their weapons they could make no resistance, and the number required were marched up to the main deck. The French boatswain and several of his companions were greatly astonished, shortly afterwards, to find themselves handcuffed by another party of English seamen accompanied by their officers.

“You deserve it, you rascals,” said the French lieutenant. “Did you suppose we should break our word of honour, and join you in your villainous plot?”

The greater number of the prisoners were now kept at the pumps, with the exception of those in irons and attending to the sick. In vain they expostulated. They could not deny that they intended to try and recapture the ship. The English crew were thus greatly relieved, and a portion were enabled to lie down and obtain the rest they so much required.

Thus night wore on, and as yet no sign of land had been discovered. Again the lead was hove. It gave twenty fathoms, shortly afterwards fifteen; and at the same moment, during a lull in the gale, the roar of breakers on a rocky shore could be heard.

Mr Leigh instantly gave the order to prepare for anchoring. The canvas was quickly taken in and the anchor let go. This was the moment the Frenchmen had intended to carry their plot into execution. The English officers, with a party of men, well armed, kept watch on them, and deprived of their leaders they dared not make the attempt. It was now a question whether the anchor would hold. A second had been got ready to let go if necessary, and the French lieutenant undertook, should they part from that, to pilot the frigate through one of the channels of which the boatswain had spoken, where she could remain in safety until the gale was over.

“I will trust you,” said Mr Leigh, shaking him by the hand. “You have proved yourself a man of honour.”

Notwithstanding the promised assistance of the French lieutenant, Mr Leigh felt considerable anxiety as to what might be the fate of the frigate. The French crew might still rise and attempt to retake the prize should they find themselves at a distance from the “Sylvia.” The coast, too, was dangerous in the extreme, and it might be found impossible to reach the channel through which it was proposed to pass. Before sail could be made the frigate might be driven on the rocks under her lee, or the sails, if set, might be blown to tatters before she could again be brought to an anchor. With forebodings of evil, Lieutenant Leigh paced the deck. The night passed slowly away; when morning dawned the “Sylvia” was nowhere to be seen. The gale blew as furiously as ever. Captain Stanhope, in the crippled state to which his ship had been reduced by the action, although she had suffered much less than her opponent, had evidently considered it his duty to keep off the shore. “I should have done the same,” thought Mr Leigh. “He would have risked the ‘Sylvia’s’ safety by coming to our assistance. It was right to leave us to our fate.”

Although a long scope of cable had been run out, the “Venus” rode uneasily over the heavy seas which came rolling in. Now she rose, now she pitched into them, as they passed under her, while the spray in thick showers broke over her bows.

Still the stout cable held, although the lieutenant cast many an anxious look astern, where little more than a quarter of a mile away the breakers burst with a continual roar on the rock-bound coast. They could distinguish the entrance to the passage some distance to the northward, but even had all the masts of the “Venus” been standing, and a strong crew been ready to make sail, the difficulty of gaining it would have been very great. Should the French prisoners have succeeded in carrying out their design, the frigate would have been cast away. The fate of the wounded would have been certain, and few of those on board would have escaped.

Ashurst still continued his ill-treatment of Owen. Nat saw him again strike him.

“It is the last time he shall do that,” exclaimed Nat, who was a witness of what took place.

Without speaking to Owen, he hurried aft to where Mr Leigh was standing.

“Please, sir, I’ve something to say to you,” said Nat, touching his hat.

“What is it, boy?” asked the lieutenant, concluding that Nat had to give him some information regarding the conduct of the French prisoners. “Are the fellows down below inclined to be mutinous?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” answered Nat; “but what I want to say is about Mr Owen Hartley, who first found out their plot and saved us all from having our throats cut. He is a gentleman, sir, and came out with us as a passenger on board the ‘Druid,’ and I think, sir, if this had been known, he would not have been sent forward amongst us boys. Mr Scoones, our first mate, who pretended to be the captain, knows it as well as I do, but he had a spite against Mr Hartley, and so declared that he was a ship’s boy, and allowed him to be rated as such on board the ‘Sylvia.’ Mike Coffey, who belonged to the old ship, will tell you, sir, that what I say is true.”

“I am ready to believe what you say, and when we return on board the frigate I will speak to the captain on the subject. But what makes you come up now to say this? I wish that you had given me the information before.”

“Please, sir, Mr Hartley didn’t wish me to do that,” answered Nat, “but I could stand it no longer when I saw, every hour in the day, Mr Ashurst knocking him about and abusing him as if he were a dog. He won’t complain himself, so I made up my mind to complain for him, for I was sure you would not allow Mr Ashurst to behave in that way if you knew it.”

“Certainly not, my lad,” answered the lieutenant, who, not standing on his dignity or resenting the unusual conduct of a boy for presuming to bring a complaint against a midshipman, respected Nat for his boldness and eagerness to protect his friend. “Send Mr Hartley aft to me, but do not let Mr Ashurst discover that you have complained of him.”

Nat harried forward. As soon as he could find Owen, without saying what he had done, he told him that Mr Leigh wished to speak with him. Owen went aft, not knowing what the lieutenant could have to say.

“Hartley,” said Mr Leigh, “you appear to be superior to the other boys. In what capacity were you serving on board the ship in which you were cast away?”

Owen told him that he had come out as a passenger, but that, understanding mathematics and the principles of navigation, he had endeavoured to perfect himself in the science, as also to gain a knowledge of seamanship, although he had no intention of becoming a sailor, considering himself bound to return to the office in which he had been employed. Mr Leigh then questioned him, and learned more about his history.

“Had Captain Stanhope known this he would, I think, very likely, had you wished to enter the navy, have placed you on the quarter-deck. I cannot, of course, alter your rating now, but I will appoint you to act as my clerk, and I will let Mr Stewart and Mr Ashurst know that you are to mess with us, and that they are to treat you as a brother officer.”

Owen could scarcely believe his senses when he heard this. How would Ashurst now behave to him? He himself would not of course refer to the treatment he had received from the hands of the midshipman, but would act as if nothing unpleasant had occurred between them. Mr Stewart, the master’s mate, who was an amiable young man, had always treated him kindly, and would, he was sure, do so now.

It was nearly the dinner hour. “You will come at once into the cabin,” said Mr Leigh; “there is no reason for delay.”

Owen made his way forward, and told Nat what had happened.

Nat, who pretended to look very much surprised, said he was very glad to hear of Owen’s good fortune. “But it’s only your due,” he added, “and please for the future remember that you are now in the midshipmen’s berth, and a gentleman, that I am only a ship’s boy, and treat me accordingly.”

“I hope, Nat, I shall always treat you as a true friend, for such you have been to me,” said Owen.

There was no time to lose. Owen managed to wash his hands and brush his hair, so that he might appear as neat as possible.

Mr Stewart had the watch, but Ashurst was in the cabin. He looked hard at Owen as he entered, supposing that he had come to receive some orders, or to wait at table. The two French officers were about to take their seats.

“I am glad to see you, Hartley,” said Mr Leigh, when he came in.

Ashurst stared, and the colour rose to his brow.

“Messieurs,” said Mr Leigh, turning to the French officers, “I beg to introduce this young gentleman to you. Ashurst, I now make him known to you as I intend to employ him as my clerk, and he will soon become your messmate, for I have little doubt, if he wishes it, when we return to the frigate, that Captain Stanhope will place him as a midshipman on the quarter-deck.”

The first impulse of Ashurst on hearing this was to get up from the table, but he sat down again and fixed his eyes on Owen without saying a word. Owen, who at first felt somewhat strange at being thus suddenly introduced into the society of gentlemen, soon recovered himself, and behaved as might have been expected. He addressed Mr Leigh with freedom but perfect propriety, and spoke to the French officers in their own language. Although the eldest understood a little English, yet he expressed himself with difficulty in it.

Whenever Ashurst looked at him it was with a frown on his brow. He did not once speak to him, even though Mr Leigh attempted to make him do so. The dinner was got over rapidly, for it was not a time when the commanding officer could be long absent from the deck. The weather continued as before. So great was the strain on the cable that it appeared every instant ready to part. Hands were stationed at the stoppers of the second, ready to let it go should the first fail.

Owen had been sent into the cabin to make out some lists from notes which Mr Leigh gave him, the French lieutenant having supplied him with writing materials for the purpose.

Mr Leigh called Ashurst, who was on deck, to come to him.

“I am surprised at your conduct to young Hartley,” he said. “I have myself observed it, and I should have supposed, now that I have thought fit to place him on the quarter-deck, that you would have welcomed him as a messmate. He is gentlemanly and well-informed, and I have no doubt that he is, as he states, a gentleman by birth.”

“Pretenders often assume good manners when they have an object in doing so,” answered Ashurst, in a scornful tone; “he appeared as a ship’s boy, and I treated him as such, and made him do his duty.”

“You may have bullied others, but you have shown a special ill-feeling towards this lad,” answered Mr Leigh, feeling annoyed at the manner in which the midshipman spoke. “In future I beg that you will treat him as an equal.”

“An equal, indeed! Do you forget, Mr Leigh, that I am the son of a nobleman, and that he is or was till a few minutes ago, merely a ship’s boy!” exclaimed the midshipman, in a voice which made Mr Leigh almost smile.

“Had you said that in your berth, you would have been laughed at by all your messmates,” observed Mr Leigh, “Come, come, I cannot listen to such nonsense. While you remain on board the prize, treat him as I desire, and when we rejoin the ‘Sylvia’ Captain Stanhope will see to it.” Ashurst walked away, muttering something which Mr Leigh did not hear. All day long the weather continued the same as before, and night came on without any signs of an abatement of the gale. The British crew were well-nigh worn-out. Although the Frenchmen were now compelled to labour at the pumps, the English took a spell. They had, besides, to watch the prisoners, and be always on deck ready to let go the anchor and make sail. Not until morning did the wind begin to fall, although the sea appeared as heavy as ever. It burst forth again and blew with greater fury than before. Suddenly the cry arose—

“The cable has parted!”

“Let go the best bower,” cried Lieutenant Leigh.

In an instant the stoppers were cut, and the cable ran at a rapid rate, setting the hawse hole on fire. The danger had been seen, and men stood ready with buckets of water to heave over it. The cable ran out to its full range.

“Does the anchor hold, Stewart?” asked the lieutenant.

“Yes, sir, it holds,” answered the master’s mate.

“Thank Heaven!” ejaculated Mr Leigh.

Before the fresh anchor brought up the ship, she had drifted much nearer the rocks. Should this cable part her destruction was inevitable.

The gale seemed to have exhausted itself by its last effort, and the wind now rapidly fell. Still the breakers burst with the same fury as before under the stern. More anxiously than ever every one on board waited for daylight.

As soon as it came, the lieutenant ordered all hands to get fresh stays on the jury mast preparatory to making sail, his intention being, should the wind come off the shore, to stand away from the coast, in hopes of falling in with the “Sylvia,” and not finding her, at once to steer a course for Marrack.

At length a light wind began to blow off the land, but it was not sufficiently strong to make it prudent to cut the cable. Gradually it increased.

“All hands make sail!” shouted Mr Leigh.

The Frenchmen were as eager as the English crew to hoist away. The cable was cut and the prize stood off from the dangerous coast.

Chapter Nine.

The French crew, when all immediate danger was over, again began to show a mutinous disposition, some refusing to take their spell at the pumps, others forming groups and talking eagerly together. Owen ascertained, from what they were saying, that they believed the “Sylvia” to have gone down, so that if they could retake the frigate they might be able to make off with her. Some of them, having got hold of a cask of spirits, were becoming every instant more and more unruly.

“We shall have to clap the whole of them in irons, or lash them into their hammocks,” observed Lieutenant Leigh to Mr Stewart.

Just then Owen, who had been sent to the mizen topmast head by Mr Leigh to take a look-out, shouted—

“A sail to the north-west, she is standing this way and close hauled.”

On hearing this Mr Stewart went aloft with his spy-glass. After waiting some time he shouted—

“She is the frigate, sir, coming to look for us—no doubt about that.”

The “Venus,” by this time having got sufficiently far from the coast, was hove to. The Frenchmen, finding that they were out in their calculations, changed their conduct and became very submissive.

Before long the “Sylvia” was up to the prize. A boat came off from her, and Mr Leigh in return sent a report, written at his dictation by Owen, of what had occurred, with the request that the more troublesome of the prisoners might be removed. This occupied time, when the “Sylvia” shortening sail to keep company with the prize, the two frigates stood for the Bay of Marrack.

Here the French crew were sent on shore, the officers receiving permission, on giving their parole, to reside in the neighbouring village. Every effort was now made to repair the “Sylvia’s” damages, and to fit the prize for going round to Batavia, where, it was hoped, a sufficient number of men would be found to man her, as she would prove a valuable addition to the British squadron in those seas. As soon as Mr Leigh was able he went on board the “Sylvia,” taking Owen with him.

“Young Hartley has behaved admirably, sir,” he said to Captain Stanhope. “Through his intelligence we were saved from being set upon by the Frenchmen, who had formed a plot to attempt the recapture of the prize.”

He then gave the particulars with which he was acquainted of Owen’s history.

“I believe I am right, am I not?” he continued, turning to Owen.

“Yes, sir,” was the answer.

Captain Stanhope then put numerous questions to Owen, which he answered in an apparently satisfactory way.

“As my clerk—poor Jones—in our action with the ‘Venus’ was wounded and has since died, I will give you his berth at once,” said the captain, “as I understand you are fully capable of filling it, and I may perhaps, if you wish it, place you on the quarter-deck as a midshipman, unless you would rather take any opportunity which may occur of returning to your friends. If you stick to the service you may rise in it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Owen; “I wish to do as you think best. I am very willing to act as your clerk, and hope that I may give you satisfaction. I had not thought of entering the navy or remaining at sea in the merchant service.”

“At all events, I will at once give you a rating as my clerk; you will then be on the quarter-deck and mess in the midshipmen’s berth. In regard to your entering the service I will leave it to your further consideration.”

“If poor Jones’ things have not yet been sold I shall be happy to purchase them for Mr Hartley,” said Mr Leigh.

The second lieutenant was a young man of good means.

“You shall do as you wish,” said the captain. “At all events I will speak to the purser, and see that Hartley gets a proper outfit. The tailor will soon put a patch on his jacket should he become a midshipman.”

Owen felt very grateful to the captain and his kind friend the second lieutenant. He did not hesitate for a moment about acting as the captain’s clerk while he remained on board, but he asked himself the question whether it was not his duty, should he find the opportunity, to return to Mr Fluke’s counting-house, from which he had not been formally dismissed. He had come only for a holiday to regain his health, and he considered that he was bound to go back again. He found, however, that, having once entered, he could not leave the ship without the captain’s leave until she returned home and was paid off. There was now no help for it. Captain Stanhope was evidently a kind man, and would, should a favourable opportunity occur, allow him to go home. Still, Owen saw that the present was no time to talk about that. He at once set to work on his new duties, and he soon found, from the approval expressed by the captain, that he performed them satisfactorily.

Mr Scoones, who had not left the ship, wishing to go round in her to Batavia, looked very much astonished when he saw Owen in an officer’s dress on the quarter-deck. He had himself, however, so completely lost credit with the officers from his conduct in the action that few of them spoke to him. He was glad therefore for some one to speak to. Going up to Owen, he addressed him with a patronising air—

“Glad to see that your talents have been discovered, my young friend,” he said; “had I felt justified, I should have recommended you to the captain from the first, but as you thought fit to associate with the ship’s boys and men, I could not do so with any propriety.”

“I do not know with whom else I could have associated, Mr Scoones,” answered Owen, laughing. “You certainly showed no inclination for my society, and unhappily all the other officers were lost. Had it not been for the ship’s boy you speak of, and the only man who remained sober, we none of us should have escaped.”

“Well, well,” answered Mr Scoones, “let bygones be bygones. If I get home first I will report your good fortune—that you are as strong and hearty as your friends could wish you to be. You will not, I suppose, send home an account of the shipwreck, for you and I may differ in our statements. Mine of course is the one which will be accredited, as no one at home will fancy that you can know anything about the matter.”

“I should not wish to say anything to incriminate you,” answered Owen; “but the lives of a great number of our fellow-creatures are at stake when an officer loses his senses, and I therefore hope that you will either give up drinking or quit the sea.”

“Then you intend to accuse me of casting away the ship through drunkenness?” exclaimed Mr Scoones, looking as though he could eat Owen up.

“Whatever I say or do will be from a sense of duty,” answered Owen.

A part of this conversation had been overheard by the first lieutenant, who held Mr Scoones in most supreme contempt, fully believing, from what he knew of him, that it was through his drunkenness that the ship had been lost.

“Mr Scoones,” he said, addressing that person, “it has been decided that you should go on shore at once. If you are in a hurry to reach Batavia, you can, without difficulty, find your way overland.”

A boat was just then about to shove off. The first mate of the hapless “Druid” having no traps to get ready, stepped into her, and was conveyed on shore.

“Hartley,” said the first lieutenant, turning to Owen, “I wish you to draw up an exact account of the shipwreck, and state, to the best of your belief, how it occurred, and if corroborated by your two surviving shipmates, they shall sign it, and it shall be sent home. That fellow ought never to get the command of a ship, or sail again even as a mate.”

Owen was sorry to leave Mr Leigh, who remained in command of the prize; at the same time he was glad to escape from Ashurst, who showed, during a short visit he paid to the frigate to get some of his traps, that he retained the ill-feeling he had all along manifested towards him.

Mike and Nat managed to come on board the “Sylvia” for a few moments to congratulate Owen, they having heard of what they called his good fortune.

“You are in your proper place now, Mr Hartley,” exclaimed Nat; “one good thing is, that Mr Ashurst won’t venture to hit you with the rope’s end.”

“Shure I’m mighty plased to see you made an officer, Mr Hartley,” said Mike; “when you are a commander, as you will be sartain one of these days, I’d be proud to be your coxswain.”

“I’m not a midshipman yet,” answered Owen, laughing, “though I truly thank you for your good wishes.”

Owen drew up a faithful report of the loss of the “Druid,” which, meeting with the approbation of Captain Stanhope, was forwarded by the first opportunity. The repairs to the frigate and her prize having been made, they sailed to Batavia, where several other men-of-war were found at anchor.

Not without some, difficulty a crew was collected to man the “Venus,” partly from the seamen of merchant vessels in port, as also from some who had been shipwrecked, with a few men-of-war’s men from the “Sylvia” and other ships. Mr Hawkins, the first lieutenant of the “Sylvia,” who had just been promoted to the rank of commander, received an acting order as captain of the “Venus,” and Mr Leigh returned to the “Sylvia” as her first lieutenant. Owen was very glad to have Mr Leigh on board, as he had shown him so much kindness, and equally well pleased that Ashurst remained in the “Venus.”

Ashurst, however, paid two or three visits to the “Sylvia,” during which he made disparaging remarks about Owen in the mess.

Although several of the things were said in his presence, Owen took no notice of them. He trusted that he might win the regard of his new messmates by his uniform good conduct and gentlemanly bearing towards them. Still, he found that he had much to put up with. Ashurst possessed considerable influence in the berth, and there is an old saying, that “dirt cannot be thrown without some of it sticking.” Owen was often treated in a contemptuous manner by several of the mates and midshipmen. He heard himself called a wretched young quill-driver, Cheeseparings, junior—Cheeseparings being the name gived to the purser—the captain’s spy, or licenced talebearer, with many similar uncomplimentary epithets. He made no complaint even when Mr Leigh once kindly asked him if he was happy in the berth, nor did he reply in a way to excite the anger of those who were endeavouring to annoy him.

He knew that it could not last long. He had written to Mr Fluke, stating the position in which he was on board the “Sylvia,” and asking whether it was his wish that he should return home and resume his duties in the counting-house. He dispatched a much longer letter to his friends at Fenside, giving a full account of his adventures. He did not forget either to write to Mrs Aggett, describing her husband’s peaceful death, feeling that a knowledge of this would be far more consolatory to the widow, than should she suppose that he had been lost during the horrors of a shipwreck, which otherwise she would very naturally have concluded to have been the case. He was greatly puzzled whenever he thought the matter over, to account for Ashurst’s manner. As far as Owen could judge, Ashurst did not treat any of his other young messmates in the same way, although he might have been somewhat supercilious in his manner towards them, as if he considered himself a being of a superior order. Captain Stanhope was anxious, as soon as possible, to get away from Batavia, there being much sickness in the place, as is usually the case in that unhealthy town. He hoped, however, that the ships would escape, as he allowed none of the officers or men to visit the shore oftener than could be helped. Owen, however, on one occasion accompanied the captain, who had business to transact. They were returning to the harbour to embark when they met a party of natives, carrying a person on a stretcher, followed by several Dutchmen, and two or three English sailors. The bearers stopped on seeing the captain, supposing that he was some one in authority, and placed the stretcher on the ground.

“Please, sir,” said one of the seamen, “we have just picked up this Englishman; can you tell us where we are to take him to?”

“To the public hospital of course,” answered Captain Stanhope, “if the man is alive. But are you sure of that?” he asked, looking down.

Owen just then recognised the countenance of the first mate of the “Druid,” as did also Captain Stanhope.

“I suspect that he is a subject for the dead-house rather than the hospital,” observed the captain.

“Why, so I believe,” cried the seaman, placing his hand on the mate’s heart, and then lifting up his arm, it fell motionless by his side.

Captain Stanhope ascertained that the man had been seen to fall down, apparently in a drunken fit and had not since uttered a word.

“Take him to the hospital, and you will soon learn whether he is dead, or if there is any hope of his recovering,” said the captain.

The bearers taking up the dead body—for dead he was, there could be no doubt—hurried on to the hospital as directed. Such was the ending of the first mate of the “Druid,” and such has been that of countless numbers of seamen who have given way to the terrible vice of drunkenness.

Owen returned on board with the captain. It was his last visit to the shore. Indeed, attractive as the country is in appearance, few would wish to visit that pestiferous region. The two frigates having been refitted, sailed together for a cruise through the Indian seas.

Captain Stanhope’s orders were to visit Amboyna, several of the Molucca islands, Banda Neira, and other places which had been lately captured from the Dutch. The castle of Belgica, the chief fort of Banda Neira, had been taken in an especially gallant manner the year before by Captain Cole, of the frigate “Caroline,” and Captain Kenah, of the “Barracouta” sloop. Landing at night, during a violent storm, accompanied by Lieutenant Lyons and several other officers, they made their way to the rear of the citadel. Though discovered, scrambling up by means of scaling ladders, they forced their way in, and in a few minutes became masters of the castle.

Very naturally the officers and crew of the “Sylvia” regretted that they had not been there to share in the honour of the achievement.

Some months passed away in a satisfactory manner to Owen, as numerous places of interest were visited, especially the spice-producing islands, where he had an opportunity of seeing numberless objects of natural history. Birds of rare plumage, shells of magnificent size, tinted with the most beautiful colours, as well as curious animals, such as were to be seen in no other region. Owen, who was a fair swimmer, took every opportunity, when the ships were at anchor and bathing was possible, to improve himself in the art. Although others bathed with him, very few took as much pains as he did. His frequent companion on such occasions was John Langton, a master’s mate, who, being older, was a superior swimmer, and seemed to take much pleasure in giving him instruction. They did their best to induce others to join them, but very few would take the trouble to learn to swim.

“We never can tell what may happen,” remarked Langton. “A time may come when you may earnestly wish that you had learnt to swim. A person who can do so may be the means of saving not only his own life but that of others.”

It was necessary, however, to be very careful, as many places in these seas swarmed with sharks and other marine creatures. They had always to select some lagoon, cut off from the ocean, or to keep a bright look-out when swimming along the shore, and never to venture far out. Owen, though still inferior to Langton, soon became an expert swimmer.

Two mails had come out from England, which, according to Owen’s calculations, might have brought him letters, but none arrived, and he began to fear those he had written home had been lost. Not that he was very anxious to leave the ship, as he had already succeeded in overcoming the prejudices of his messmates, and even the most ill-natured had to acknowledge that he was not a bad fellow, although he might be somewhat mean-spirited. John Langton had from the first stood his friend in a judicious way. He had not defended him in his presence when attacked, seeing how wisely Owen was conducting himself, but he had taken good care to speak in his favour when he was not present.

Langton was a quiet-mannered, somewhat silent young man, but those who knew him best were very sure that he was capable of daring and doing, should an opportunity occur, as much as any man, and Owen was naturally drawn towards him. For some time he was the only person in the mess with whom he had much conversation. By degrees Owen’s messmates forgot that he had been a boy before the mast, and treated him as one of themselves. He thus found the position as pleasant as he could desire, until one day while the frigates were in harbour Reginald Ashurst made his appearance on board.

“I’m come to take up my berth among you again,” he said to Langton. “I should be very well pleased if it were not for having that little upstart Hartley in our mess. I expected that he would have been sent home before this. I wonder why the captain was induced to retain him?”

“I should think because he finds him very well qualified for the duties he has to perform,” answered Langton. “If you had seen as much of him as we have, I think that you would have no reason to find fault with him.”

“Birds of a feather flock together,” muttered Ashurst, as he turned away.

Langton heard the remark, but took no notice of it. Owen had again a good deal to endure from Ashurst, and his temper was sorely tried. Often a retort rose to his lips, though he refrained from uttering it. A month or more went by. The two frigates had come round to the northern end of Celebes.

Captain Stanhope sent the “Venus” on to Batavia, while the “Sylvia” stood in for the port of Gorontello in the Bay of Tomonie, which place had been taken from the Dutch, and which was governed by a native prince who had declared his attachment to the British Government. Captain Stanhope’s object was to communicate with the sultan, and to present him with some presents in order to retain his friendship. The frigate, however, had got within eight or ten miles from the port when it came on a perfect calm. Bringing the ship to an anchor the captain resolved to go on shore in the pinnace. He took with him Langton, Ashurst, and Owen, as also the purser, who went to purchase fresh provisions.

A small party of marines accompanied him to act as a guard of honour. The frigate being to the southward of the port, the boat after a long pull reached Gorontello. The visit to the sultan was paid, and passed off satisfactorily, although the ceremonies occupied a longer time than the captain had expected. The purser had purchased his stores, and got them on board. Some other delays occurred, so that it was late before the boat started to return to the frigate. A light wind was, however, blowing; sometimes it came from the northward and at others from off the land.

“If this wind holds we shall get down to the frigate in little more than an hour,” observed Captain Stanhope to Langton.

Darkness in those latitudes, as is well-known, comes on very rapidly. The sun had set, the boat was carrying all sail, when the wind came off the land, from which she was then about two miles distant. Whether the coxswain had indulged in a glass of arrack on shore, or from some other cause, neither he nor any one else was keeping an eye to windward, as should have been done. Suddenly a squall struck the boat, and before the helm could be put down, or a sheet let go, over she heeled, and being already heavily laden with the fresh provisions, the water rushed in on the lee side, and she capsized. Providentially most of the provisions fell out of her, and her ballast consisting of water casks, instead of sinking, she floated keel upwards. The officers had previously taken off their swords, the marines let go their muskets, and nearly all hands, disentangling themselves from the rigging, got hold of the boat.

The captain, setting the example, climbed up on the keel, calling on his men to follow. All who could, did so. Two unfortunate marines, however, encumbered with their accoutrements, had remained under her. Their cries for help were almost immediately stifled. Owen found himself seated next to Langton.

“Help! help!” cried a voice close astern. “I cannot swim, and am sinking.”

“It is Ashurst,” exclaimed Owen; “come and help him.”

Owen and Langton immediately slipped into the water, and striking out quickly got up to where Ashurst was struggling.

“Keep quiet, and trust to us,” said Langton, seizing him by one arm. Owen grasped the other, and thus preventing him from clutching them, they towed him back to the boat; then telling him to hold fast while they climbed again on the keel, they hauled him up.

He was too much exhausted to speak, but he certainly made no attempt to express his thanks. A boat-hook and a couple of oars had been found floating close to the boat, and the men had placed them on the bottom. Langton proposed to Owen to swim round and pick up others. They succeeded in finding three more, but the rest by that time had drifted out of sight. They returned with those they had regained, and resumed their seats.

The captain, on calling over the names of the crew, found that, besides the two marines who had been drowned under the boat, two of the men were missing. The position of those on the boat was now perilous in the extreme. The wind was increasing, and was drifting her further and further from the shore. Although it was possible that she might be seen in the morning by the frigate, before that time all on her, in all probability, would be washed off.

“We might get help from Gorontello, as there are several boats in the harbour,” observed the captain; “but it is not likely that the accident was observed there, unless any one by chance has been watching us through a spy-glass.”

“I am afraid there is very little hope of that,” answered Langton.

“We must endeavour to hold on until the morning, when the frigate may discover us,” said the captain. “Cheer up, my lads, many men have been in a worse condition than we are and have escaped.”

The seamen cheered, to show that they were not down-hearted, and were ready as ever to obey their captain.

“If we had but some food, we might fare better,” observed the purser. “I think I see something floating near us now.”

“I’ll get it,” cried Owen, slipping into the water and swimming towards it. The object proved to be a covered basket of fruit, which he towed back in triumph. It was hauled up and secured. The men cried out for some at once.

“Stay, my lads,” said the captain, “none of you can be very hungry or thirsty as yet. By-and-by I will serve out a share to each man.” The sailors acquiesced without a word. “I fear that we shall drift out to sea,” observed Captain Stanhope, after a silence of some minutes. “Although when we are missed Mr Leigh will certainly send boats in search of us, they will not know where to look. Could we by any means communicate with the shore, word might be sent along he coast, and those who are acquainted with the set of the current would easily know in what direction to pull.”

“I might be able to swim to the shore, sir,” said Langton, “but it is a long distance to go alone. Are any of you men good swimmers?”

No one answered. There was not a man who felt capable of accomplishing the feat.

“If I may go with Langton I will, sir,” exclaimed Owen. “I never have swum as much as two miles, but I know that I can keep in the water a long time, and I think I can do it.”

The captain hesitated. “I accept Langton’s offer, but I would rather that an older person than you are should go. Since I was wounded I have been unable to make any violent exertion, and I am very sure that I should be unable to accomplish half the distance.”

“I would gladly have Hartley accompany me,” said Langton. “I have often seen him take a long swim, and come in as fresh as he was at starting. Every instant increases our distance from the shore.”

“If you both feel confident that you can swim as far, I will no longer object,” said the captain. “Before you go, however, take some of the fruit; it will refresh you, although it will not add much to your strength.”

“Thank you, sir,” exclaimed Owen, as if an especial favour had been granted him.

He and Langton each ate a small portion of the fruit, both offering up in the meantime an earnest prayer for protection.

“May Heaven preserve you, my lads,” said the captain, as he shook their hands.

Having taken off their outer clothes, retaining only their drawers, socks, and shirts, they both together slipped into the water and struck out for the shore, which could still be dimly seen. Their companions cheered as they swam from the boat.

“We must not over-exert ourselves at first,” said Langton, as Owen, putting forth all his strength, was shooting past him. “We shall both do it, please Heaven, but we must not be down-hearted although we appear to make but little way.”

Owen, taking the advice, kept pace with Langton, who maintained a slow, steady stroke. They could hear the voices of their companions, who every now and then raised a cheer to encourage them. For some time the cheers sounded almost as distinct as those at first uttered.

“We can have got but a very short distance,” remarked Owen.

“The sound travels further than you suppose,” answered Langton. “We have made good way already.”

On they went, every now and then speaking a word of encouragement to each other.

“I am thankful you came with me,” said Langton; “it would have been far more trying had I been alone.”

On and on they went, still the dark outline of the shore appeared as far off as ever. Now and then Langton proposed that they should turn on their backs. They could not venture to make way for any length of time in that position for fear of getting out of their proper course. Owen had somewhat overrated his strength. He began to feel his arms and legs ache, but he would not tell Langton of his sensations. At last he was compelled to propose that they should float for a short time. Langton guessed the cause, and willingly agreed.

In a minute Owen felt rested, and once more they proceeded. He was again about to propose taking another rest, and was turning on his back, when he saw rising above the water, a few feet from him, a triangular fin. Though certain that it was that of a huge shark, he resolved not to tell his companion. Dreadful were his feelings. At any moment the monster might discover them. As yet it had not apparently done so. The dark fin glided on, but another and another came into sight. There might be many more astern. Not one, however, deviated from its course, and the creatures at length disappeared. Not until then did Owen utter an exclamation.

“What was it?” asked Langton.

Owen confessed that he had seen the sharks.

“A good sign,” said Langton, “it shows that they are not given to attack human beings in these waters. Don’t let us trouble our heads about them.”

This Owen found it was not so easy to do. It appeared to him that they had been hours in the water. The courage of the two swimmers was greatly tried, for still the land seemed as far off as ever.

More than once Owen felt that he could go no further. He prayed that strength might be given him, and again struck out bravely. The sight of the sharks made him unwilling to rest even for a moment, for he knew as long as he kept his arms and legs moving there was less danger of being seized. At last a feeling came over him that he must give in.

“Push on ahead, Langton,” he said, in a faint voice, “I will follow slowly; but I only detain you now.”

“No, no, Hartley,” answered Langton. “I will not desert you; cheer up, cheer up.”

Just at that moment Langton felt his feet strike the ground. For an instant he feared that it was a shark, or some other monster fish, but, again putting down his foot he felt the hard, soft sand.

“Thank Heaven, Owen, it’s all right, here’s the bottom!” he exclaimed.

Both swimming on a few strokes more, Owen found that his feet also could touch the sand, and that he could stand up with his head out of water.

They waded on; the depth decreased but slowly, but still it did decrease. Langton’s shoulders rose above the surface, he could now assist Owen. Exerting all their strength they made rapid way, and in a few minutes more found themselves standing on the dry beach.

Both offered up their thanks to Heaven for their preservation, when, Owen’s strength failing, he sank down on the sand. Langton was the first to recover.

“Do not wait for me,” said Owen. “I suppose you’ll make the best of your way along, the shore until you get abreast of the ship, unless you can find a native boat before then to take you off to her?”

“That’s what I propose doing,” answered Langton; “but I will not leave you until you regain your strength.”

In a few minutes Owen declared himself able to walk.

“Before we start let us try to find out whether any natives are near; they may be able to help us,” said Langton.

They shouted at the top of their voices, but no reply was heard. They did so, believing that all the natives were friendly in that region.

“We must get help without delay,” said Langton. “That we may have a double chance, I suggest, Owen, that you try to make your way back to Gorontello, which cannot be more than three or four miles off, while I go down towards the ship. If I fall in with a native boat, I will go off at once; if not, I will make a signal from the shore with a big bonfire, and Mr Leigh is pretty sure to send in a boat to learn the cause. You must, in the meantime, endeavour to obtain a boat. You are certain to find some one to interpret for you; promise a handsome reward to those who succeed in discovering the captain and the rest.”

The plan was no sooner arranged than acted on. Owen, as fast as his legs could carry him, started along the shore in one direction, and Langton in the other. Sometimes Owen found the sand smooth enough, but at others he came to rough rocks, over which he had to climb. Now and then he saw a light on his left twinkling in the distance, but he passed no human habitation. Again and again, however, he shouted, hoping that some fisherman’s boat might be concealed among the rocks. No one came near him, and he concluded that the people had retired for the night to their homes. Often, overcome by fatigue, he felt inclined to stop, but remembering that the lives of his captain and shipmates were at stake, he pushed on, now running at full speed along the sand, and now climbing over the rough ground.

At length, greatly to his joy, he saw some lights ahead, they showed that he was approaching the town. “I hope that all the people have not gone to bed. It will be a hard matter to rouse them up,” he thought. “The lights show that some are up at all events.” At length he got among the houses, or rather huts, for few of the buildings deserved a grander name. Some of the natives came out and stared at him, but he could not make them understand what he wanted. They did not, probably, recognise him as one of the smartly dressed officers who had paid a visit to the sultan in the morning. They saw, however, that he was a stranger. At last one made signs to him that he would show him where a person lived who could understand what he said; so Owen fancied was the meaning of the native’s gesticulations. “Yes, quick,” answered Owen.

The native led the way along several rows of huts, until they reached the door of a building of superior pretensions with a broad verandah overlooking the harbour. Owen at once called out—

“Does any one understand English here? If so, I want their assistance without delay. I can promise a handsome reward to all who give it.”

“Come in, come in,” said a voice in a foreign accent. A native appeared at the door with a light in his hand. “Mynheer Van Wijk will see you,” said he, as he conducted Owen into a room where a white man was reclining in a hammock, with a huge pipe in his mouth, whom he supposed to be Mynheer Van Wijk, the owner of the mansion.

“Vat you want?” exclaimed Mynheer, gazing at Owen, as he stood, shoeless and hatless, in his still damp shirt and trousers.

Owen, in as few words as possible, explained who he was, and the accident which had happened.

“Donder en bliksem, dat is bad,” exclaimed the Dutchman, tumbling out of his hammock and putting on his coat and shoes. “Dare is no time to lose; we must go off at once. And you, young gentleman, want food and clothing. You’ll be getting fever if we don’t look after you. Mine young son’s clothes will fit you; you must put them on.”

He shouted, when a servant appeared, to whom he gave some orders. In a few minutes the servant returned with a bundle of clothes and a towel.

Owen thankfully exchanged his wet garments for the young Dutchman’s dress, although he was conscious that he cut a somewhat unusual appearance in it. He had scarcely time to finish his toilet before another servant came in with several dishes of food.

“Fall to,” said Mynheer Van Wijk; “we have no time to lose I have sent down to ze harbour to order two boats to be got ready. You and I will go in one, and my friend Jacob Leefkens will take charge of ze other. He known ze set of ze tides about here as well as any native.”

Owen quickly finished his repast, of which he stood greatly in need.

“My captain and the men with him have no provisions, and I should be thankful to take a supply if you will enable me to procure them,” said Owen.

“Of course we will carry food and water and scheidam for ze poor fellows,” said the Dutchman.

Owen accompanied Mynheer Van Wijk down to the harbour, where they found two boats, each manned by eight powerful-looking natives. Jacob Leefkens was evidently a seafaring man by the way in which he received Mynheer Van Wijk’s directions. Owen was thankful when he found himself thus far successful in commencing the search for his shipmates. He had described as minutely as he could the position of the boat when she was upset, and the two Dutchmen arranged their courses accordingly. The boats pulled on and on. Owen thought that they ought to have got up to the spot where he had left his shipmates. He shouted several times as loudly as he could, aided by Mynheer Van Wijk. The wind had risen considerably, and the further they pulled out the higher the sea was running. Owen began to fear that the people might have been washed off the boat, or that perhaps righting, she had filled and gone down. He thought, too, of Langton, and the dangers he might have to encounter. On speaking on the subject to Mynheer Van Wijk the reply was—

“They are not good people down there; they are too fond of cutting off heads, and a white man himself would be looked upon as a prize.”

“I trust such has not been the fate of my friend,” said Owen.

“The natives have probably gone to their huts, and his safety will depend on his not falling in with them,” observed Mynheer Van Wijk.

From time to time Owen continued to shout, so that they should not pass the boat without being discovered. Jacob Leefkens at last rejoined them.

“I am afraid she’s gone to the bottom,” he observed.

“Do not say that, Jacob,” answered Mynheer Van Wijk. “We will search for them until to-morrow night, if we do not find them before.”

This last remark was consolatory to Owen, and thankful he was that he had fallen in with the honest Dutchman. Now the boats rowed further off shore, now pulled along parallel with it. Owen saw that it would have been impossible for Langton to have found the boat, and, having righted her, to have towed her back to the ship.

Again Jacob, shouting from his boat, declared that the boat must have gone down, as not a sign of her appeared.

“Perhaps I mistook her position,” suggested Owen.

“Well, we will push on further,” said Mynheer Van Wijk. “Let us give one more hearty shout together.”

All three, joined by the natives, raised their voices.

Just then a faint sound came from the southward.

“There they are! there they are!” cried Owen. “They heard us, and are holloaing in return.”

The natives were ordered to give way, and in a few minutes more a louder “holloa” was heard.

They were evidently nearing the boat.

Owen, eager to know how they had fared, stood up and hailed them as he approached.

“Are all safe?”

“Ay, ay,” was the answer.

In a short time Mynheer Van Wijk’s boat was alongside the pinnace. One by one the people were taken off her, Captain Stanhope remaining until the last. Several of them were greatly exhausted, especially Ashurst, who could scarcely speak. Captain Stanhope grasped Owen by the hand. His first question was for Langton. He felt satisfied when Owen told him that, after landing safely, he had gone in the direction of the ship along the shore.

As the captain was unwilling to lose the boat, he accepted Jacob Leefken’s offer to right her, and to tow her back to the frigate. He was specially anxious that this should be done, as they would probably fall in with Langton on the way, and save him from a vain search.

Captain Stanhope was also very glad to accept Mynheer Van Wijk’s invitation to his house, as it was a long pull back to the frigate.

“Hartley,” said the captain, “you have acted nobly in risking your life for the sake of saving those of your shipmates. I shall never forget it, and I will not fail to make known your conduct to those in authority, who will still better than I am be able to promote your interests. I before told you that I should be ready to rate you as a midshipman, and immediately on our return to the frigate I will do so. You may depend upon rising in the service while I live and possess any influence.”

On hearing Mynheer Van Wijk’s report of the natives the captain became very anxious about Langton. Owen at once volunteered, if Mynheer Van Wijk would provide a boat, to pull along the shore, and ascertain whether he had succeeded or not in getting off to the frigate. Several of the boat’s crew offered to accompany him.

The rest, including the captain, were too much exhausted to make the attempt. Ashurst declared that he should not be fit for duty for a month to come, he felt so thoroughly done up.

The Dutchman promised the boat at daybreak, observing that it was of no use to start before then.

Owen, for the sake of his friend, was eager to be off, and, in spite of the fatigue he had gone through, he was up at dawn. He aroused those who were to accompany him, and Mynheer Van Wijk leading the way, they hurried down to the harbour. The latter did not offer to go with them, “as he must,” he observed, “attend to the captain and other guests on shore,” but he sent a competent interpreter, who would enable Owen to communicate with the natives.

As the boat pulled out of the harbour, it was found that the wind had changed to the southward. No sooner did the sun rise than his rays struck the white canvas of the frigate, which was seen under all sail standing for them. Owen steered towards her, in order to ascertain whether Langton had got on board. Shortly afterwards he caught sight of two men-of-war boats, one under sail, the other pulling.

“Hurrah! Langton must have escaped then,” he exclaimed. In a few minutes he was up to the nearest, and Langton himself answered his hail. He had got on board with less difficulty than he had expected in a native boat, and seemed but little the worse for his exertions.

In a short time they were on board, and having answered the numerous questions put to them, were both thankful to turn into their hammocks and get the rest they so much required.

In the evening the captain and the rest of the people returned on board, and a substantial acknowledgment having been made to the worthy Dutchman, next day the frigate sailed for Batavia.

Chapter Ten.

Owen found himself in a very different position to what he had ever before been on board. He at once received the rating of a midshipman, and donned his new uniform. No one was inclined to snub him, and even Ashurst treated him with respect, though at the same time with marked coldness.

“I wonder that you do not show more gratitude to Hartley, who was undoubtedly the means of saving your life,” remarked Langton to Ashurst one day.

“He save my life!” answered Ashurst. “You had an equal share in that important act. My heart is not big enough to be grateful to both. I am very much obliged to you, I can assure you.”

“I consider that Hartley had the largest share,” answered Langton, laughing; “his courage inspired me, and it was he, at all events, who rescued you with the captain when you were on the boat’s bottom.”

“Well, some day I may prove that I am grateful,” said Ashurst, turning away, evidently unwilling to continue the subject.

The frigate remained some time at Batavia. During that period several of the men who had formerly belonged to the “Sylvia” were transferred from the “Venus” to her, among whom were Mike Coffey and Nat Midge. Owen was very glad to see his old friends again. He had now an opportunity of showing them occasionally little acts of kindness in return for the regard which they had always exhibited towards him.

“Didn’t I say, Mr Hartley, that you’d be a captain some day, and so I’m shure you will if you stick to the sarvice,” said Mike. “And shure a fine captain you’ll be afther making. When you want a crew you’ll only have to hold up your hand, and the men will flock on board, I’ll stake my davy.”

Nat, although he had been so intimate with Owen never presumed in consequence, but ever showed an eagerness to obey him on duty.

The “Sylvia” again sailed on a cruise in one direction, while the “Venus” went in another.

Owen rapidly gained a knowledge of his new duties, and became one of the smartest midshipmen on board. The captain showed him unusual favour, frequently inviting him to dine in the cabin, and treating him as if he were his son.

“I am not afraid of spoiling Hartley,” he remarked to Mr Leigh; “he remains as modest as at first, and would evidently not think of presuming on the service he has rendered me and his other shipmates. I, of course, do not forget Langton, and will take good care that he obtains his promotion on our return home. In my last report to the admiral I specially mentioned his gallant conduct. I received a pretty strong hint to favour Ashurst, but he has managed never to do anything which would allow me to say a word to his advantage.”

The frigate was chiefly engaged in capturing Malay and other piratical craft, which at that time swarmed in those seas. She had just taken a large proa, with a villainous crew, and lay at anchor in a channel between Mindano and one of the Sooloo islands. The prize was anchored a short distance astern, most of her crew having been removed, while a guard was placed over the remainder. It was a calm and lovely night. The moon shed a pale light over the smooth surface of the sea, while the land appeared on either hand covered with graceful trees coming down to the very edge of the water. Here and there fantastic rocks rose above the surface. It was the middle watch, which Owen was keeping under Langton, who now did lieutenant’s duty. Owen was walking the deck, gazing on the calm sea, now on one side then on the other, now going forward to ascertain that the ship was not by chance dragging her anchors.

The first stroke of four bells was just sounding when, having just reached the forecastle, he suddenly saw a bright light astern, followed by a loud roar, which he knew alone could proceed from the Malay proa. She had blown up. He heard Langton’s voice ordering a boat to be lowered, and was on the point of running aft when he felt the deck beneath his feet tremble. A roar far greater than that which had just been heard sounded in the midnight air. For a moment the ship appeared to be enveloped in flame. He experienced the sensation of being lifted up, when he lost all consciousness. How long he continued senseless he could not tell. On recovering he found himself in the water, amid a mass of spars and rigging and fragments of timber, and he caught a glimpse of the upper works of the frigate descending beneath the waves. Here and there, scattered over the surface, were struggling human forms. Arms held up, and hands clasped together. One by one they speedily disappeared. Although almost overcome with horror, he struck out towards a spar of a size which promised to afford him support. As he got nearer, he saw that two other persons had just reached the spar, and were in the act of climbing up to place themselves on it.

“I’ll swim on and find another position on the wreck to support me!” Owen cried out.

“Hurrah! ’shure it’s Mr Hartley. No, no, sir; come here. Bedad there’s room enough for you, and half a dozen more of your weight!” cried out Mike Coffey, who was one of the persons, and Nat was the other. “I’d sooner swim off myself, Mr Hartley.”

Owen accordingly complied, and found that the spar would support them all.

“What has been and happened?” asked Nat, still not recovered from the terror.

“The frigate has blown up by accident, or through treachery, of that there is no doubt,” answered Owen. “It is dreadful, most dreadful, and I fear that the greater number of our shipmates have been lost; still a few may have escaped, and we must try to help them. Hark! I heard some one cry out not far off. If we cut away the rigging from this spar, we may be able to move it through the water.” They got out their knives and worked away. Again the voice was heard. “Help! help!”

“I’ll swim off and see if I can render any assistance,” said Owen. He swam towards a mass of wreck. On getting near it he saw that a person was hanging on with his body in the water, without apparently strength enough to climb up and secure himself. Owen immediately clambered on to the wreck, and was then able to drag up the other person.

“Ashurst, is it you?” he asked, recognising his messmate.

“Yes, but I am fearfully hurt in the side and leg, and have no strength left to help myself.”

Ashurst continued to groan. He had not yet discovered that it was Owen who had assisted him.

The first impulse of Owen was to stand up and try and ascertain whether any other persons were floating near whom he and Mike might help. He listened. A few faint cries, apparently from a distance, reached his ear, but he could not tell from which direction they proceeded; he could only hope that others had succeeded in getting on portions of the wreck.

In a short time Mike and Nat managed to get up to him. Owen proposed that they should form a raft with the spars and smaller pieces of timber floating about, on which they might be able to make their way to the land. The large piece of wreck on to which Mike and Nat had now climbed seemed to be stationary. They were therefore able to move about it, and began to form the proposed raft from the spars which they secured alongside.

Scarcely had they commenced the work, when a voice was heard at no great distance.

“Who is that?” shouted Owen. “Do you want help?”

“Langton,” was the answer. “I thought I heard voices. Do not move, I will be with you presently.”

In a short time Langton swam up. Owen and his two companions greeted him warmly. Ashurst lay still, occasionally uttering a groan.

“I am indeed thankful that you have escaped,” said Owen to Langton. “We were doing our best for poor Ashurst; he wants assistance, and I should have been much troubled how to act. Do you think any one else has escaped?”

“I hope a few have,” replied Langton; “but the greater number of our shipmates are, I fear, lost.”

“Although our lives have been saved for the present, we are still surrounded by dangers. We must do our duty and trust to God. I’ll now turn to and help you to build the raft. It is the first thing we have to do, that is certain.”

Langton’s assistance was of great value, as he was experienced, and very active. Having lashed all the spars they could find of about the same length side by side, they crossed them with others of a smaller size, and pieces of plank, placing a sort of platform in the centre, the whole being lashed together with ropes which they cut off the spars. It was, of course, roughly formed, but was large enough to support, not only themselves, but any other people they were likely to pick up. By the time it was finished, Ashurst had somewhat recovered, and Langton and Owen carried him and placed him on the platform where he could be out of the wet. They had kept two of the lighter spars for a mast and yard, and they picked up a royal unburnt, which would serve as a sail.

Dawn broke just as they were ready to shove off from the wreck.

“Where are we going?” asked Ashurst, in a faint voice.

“To the nearest shore we can reach,” answered Langton; “when there we must consider what next to do.”

“Can’t you give me some water, or some fruit? I am very thirsty,” said Ashurst.

“I am sorry we have nothing to give you,” answered Langton; “we may possibly pick up something when we have daylight.”

“I’ve a chaw of baccy, sir,” said Mike; “it’s me last, but it’s at yir sarvice.”

Poor Ashurst uttered an expression of disgust. Just then Owen thankfully recollected that he had put a couple of small limes, some of which he had been eating late on the previous evening, into his pocket. He immediately skinned one of the refreshing fruit, and handed it in small pieces to Ashurst.

“This from you, Hartley?” he said, as he swallowed it eagerly.

“I have another which will be at your service when you want it,” said Owen, not noticing the remark, and feeling intense pleasure at thus being able to help his suffering messmate. Every thought of the ill-treatment he had received vanished from his mind. Langton and Owen now examined Ashurst’s hurts. They found that his left arm had either been dislocated or broken, and that a splinter had torn his side and severely wounded him.

“He is in a bad way,” whispered Langton to Owen; “had one of the surgeons been with us, he might have been doctored, but as it is, I do not think he will weather out what we shall have to endure. I ought to tell him so if he gets worse, but we will do our best for him.”

As daylight increased, they saw other masses of wreck floating about, while a portion of the shattered upper works of the frigate appeared above the water with several men clinging to them. A current, however, was running from the wreck, slowly drifting the raft away. Who the people were it was impossible to say at that distance.

“Unless a breeze springs up to blow us back we cannot get up to them,” said Langton; “we will rig our sail, however, in case it should come.”

While engaged in setting up the mast, Mike and Nat especially were keeping an eye on the water around them, in the hopes of picking up something that might be floating by.

Without giving notice of what he was about to do, Mike suddenly sprang off the raft and swam out towards an object of which he had just caught sight.

“This will serve us for mate and drink too,” he exclaimed, as he swam back, pushing before him a couple of melon-like fruit. He handed them up to Nat, and without getting on the raft, swam off to the other side, where he saw a small barrel, which proved to contain biscuits. This was but a small supply of food; but the fact that they had found it made them hope that more might be obtained. The water remained perfectly smooth, which was an advantage.

As the sun rose the heat became intense. Poor Ashurst suffered greatly, even though Owen gave him piece by piece the remainder of the lime, and then supplied him with small bits of the melon.

At Langton’s suggestion they attempted to get up to the wreck, but as they had only pieces of plank to row with, and the raft was heavy, they made no progress against the current. They saw, however, that their shipmates were endeavouring to imitate their example, and were engaged in making another raft; but several, it was too evident from the way they clung to the wreck, were severely injured and unable to exert themselves. As far as Owen and his companions could make out, the people they saw had on only their shirts and trousers. It was impossible to ascertain, therefore, whether any were officers. Langton feared not.

The land appeared on either side of them, and another island stretched away to the southward, closing the channel, so that they might hope, in the course of a few hours at most, should a breeze spring up from the east or west, to reach the shore. Still hour after hour went by, the raft driving further and farther to the southward, and away from the wreck, until the people moving about on it could no longer be distinguished.

In the meantime they had been unsuccessful in obtaining any further provisions. Owen regretted that they had not secured another piece of canvas with which to form some sort of shelter above poor Ashurst. All they could do was to hoist up the sail, so as to throw a shadow over his head. Langton, who had had a long swim, felt much fatigued, and charging Owen to call him should any change take place, he lay down to obtain the rest he so much needed.

Owen, meanwhile, was seated by Ashurst’s side. The latter was continually speaking, though Owen thought that he occasionally rambled.

“Hartley,” he said at last, “do you think that I’m dying?”

“You are evidently very ill; but I hope, if we can get you on shore, that you may yet pull through it.”

“Do you wish me to recover?” asked Ashurst.

“Of course I do,” answered Owen; “and I have been praying to God that you may.”

“You do not know what you have been praying for then,” murmured Ashurst. “I have ill-treated you, and have shown in every way I could the hatred I felt.”

“Pray do not talk of that,” said Owen. “I never hated you.”

“You had infinitely more cause to do so than I had to hate you,” answered Ashurst.

He was silent for a minute or more; then he exclaimed suddenly—

“Hartley, did it ever occur to you that we are relatives? My family name was Hartley until we changed it for Ashurst. Do you know why we changed it? Because it was asserted that the elder branch of the family was extinct, although my father and my elder brother—who is now Lord Arlingford—knew that such is not the case. My brother has no children, and when I last heard from home he was very ill. In case of his death I should succeed to the title, though as well aware as he is that I have no just right to it. There seems to me but little prospect that either you or I will escape, but I feel that I must unburden my mind. When I first saw you on board and heard your name, I immediately thought that you must belong to our family. Upon making further inquiries I was convinced of it. I hated you, not that you had done anything to offend me, but because my family had kept you out of your just rights. You have returned only good for evil. But can you now forgive me for the great wrong which I have done you?”

“Indeed I can do so most heartily,” answered Owen; “but I confess that I do not understand all you have been telling me, nor how your family can have injured mine. I know that we had relations of noble birth, and I should think that my father, had he possessed any claim to the Arlingford title and estates, would not have failed to assert it.”

“He was not aware, perhaps, that several of the intermediate heirs had died in rapid succession, and that my father had been tempted successfully to make his claim.”

Ashurst as he spoke was evidently becoming weaker and weaker, and although Owen would gladly have obtained more information from him, yet he had not the heart to do so. He had very little hope indeed that Ashurst would recover, but still was unwilling to tell him how ill he was, lest it should lower his spirits and do harm.

The raft all this time was floating on the calm sea, drifting slowly down the channel; but as there was not a breath of wind, with only the pieces of board, it could scarcely be urged through the water.

Mike and Nat sat watching for anything likely to be of use which might appear on the surface of the water. Owen devoted all his attention to Ashurst, who was constantly complaining of the pain the wound in his side caused him, and of the thirst he was enduring.

At last Owen asked him if he thought that he should recover?

“I dare not think about it,” answered Ashurst. “I have lived a careless life. I have done much evil, and no good that I can bring to my remembrance. I can only now look forward to a few hours of suffering before I quit the world. I wish that I had perished with the other poor fellows. I do not know why I was saved, except as a punishment for my sins.”

“No, no, that could not have been,” answered Owen. “You were preserved because God loves you, and still to the last moment offers you salvation. Turn to Him through Christ. He has said that although your sins might be as scarlet, they may become as white as snow. God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins. Believe in His glorious promises.”

“I find it a hard matter to do so,” groaned Ashurst, “but I will try.”

Owen offered to pray with him, and knelt down by his side. Ashurst’s lips continued to move, but his voice grew weaker and weaker. At length Langton awoke. No sooner did he cast his eyes on Ashurst than he gave a look at Owen and whispered, “He is going.”

He took his messmate’s hand, who returned the pressure he gave, but gradually the fingers relaxed. Langton and Owen bent over him; ere another minute had passed he was dead.

“Poor fellow!” said Langton. “Although he was no favourite of mine, I am truly sorry.”

“So am I,” said Owen; “and I heartily forgive him for the way in which he used to treat me. He has been making a strange confession to me, and has been telling me that, I am the rightful heir to the title and property his brother at present possesses. I do not think he was wandering, as he seemed so very certain about the matter; but I should have been glad if you had been awake to hear him.”

“He may or may not have spoken the truth,” said Langton; “but before you can benefit by the information you have received, we must get home. It seems more than doubtful whether we shall ever reach the shore.”

Langton and Owen were unwilling to throw their messmate overboard, for they had nothing to sink the body.

“We must try and carry it to the shore and give it burial,” said Langton.

Owen was perfectly ready to do this, though when they should reach the shore was a question.

Hour after hour the calm continued. Often they could scarcely bear the heat. Langton, who took the command, served out a small piece of melon at a time, which somewhat alleviated their thirst, while the biscuits—though wetted by the water, which had got into the cask—satisfied their hunger.

At length, towards evening, a breeze from the northward sprang up. The sail was hoisted, and by means of a paddle on either side they managed to steer the raft.

“We are making nearly two knots an hour,” said Owen, as the breeze freshened. “During the night we shall, I hope, reach the island to the southward.”

“That depends on what currents me encounter, or whether the wind continues,” answered Langton; “I would rather get up to the shore at daylight when we may choose a place for landing.”

The raft required all their attention, for the sail being large it might in a moment have been upset. Nat was stationed at the halyards, and Mike at the sheet, while Langton and Owen steered. Darkness came on, but the breeze continued. They appeared to have made good progress. The fear was that the wind might increase still more. Langton thought it prudent to reef the sail. Scarcely had they done so than a squall came over the water, and sent the raft flying along at a far more rapid rate than it had hitherto moved. The wind, however, soon again dropped, and the raft moved on as slowly as before. The night became unusually dark, the sky was obscured, and it was impossible to ascertain in what direction the raft was drifting. The party on it could only hope that it was continuing on the same course as before, still it was possible that it might be drifting out through either of the channels to the right or left, and that they might miss the island which they had hoped to reach. Mike and Nat kept up their spirits.

“If it was not for poor Mr Ashurst I’d be afther singing yer a stave to prevent you from getting down-hearted,” exclaimed Mike, “though it would not do just now, lest the poor young gintleman might be thinking we were afther wakin’ him.”

“No, pray do not sing,” said Owen; “it would be more sensible to pray for assistance, for we must admit it is very little we can do to help ourselves.”

During the night they satisfied their hunger with the biscuits, reserving the fruit for the time when the hot sun would increase their thirst. Langton persuaded Owen, who had hitherto not slept, to lie down and take some rest. He was glad to do this, indeed at times he could scarcely keep his eyes open. He was awakened by an exclamation from Mike—

“Arrah! now, how’s the land got out there?”

He started up, as did Langton, who had also fallen asleep, and on looking to the eastward he saw two islands, between which the raft must have drifted some distance astern, a strong current having carried them through the passage at a faster rate than they had supposed possible. It was a bitter disappointment. Unless the wind should come from the west they could not hope to make either of the islands, as they would, at all events, have the current against them.

“What do you recommend, Langton?” asked Owen.

“We must wait and see what will next happen,” answered Langton. “In case we should be kept out much longer we must economise our provisions. I have no other fear for the present, unless the weather should change.”

“We can put our trust in God; we know that He orders everything for the best,” said Owen.

They ate a little more biscuit, which was divided in equal shares. Each took a small portion of fruit. Owen and Langton were looking towards Ashurst’s body.

“We shall not get in in time to bury it after all,” observed Langton; “we must give him a sailor’s grave.” It was time, indeed, to do so. “Before we launch the poor fellow overboard let us see what things he has about him,” said Langton.

He took a ring off Ashurst’s finger as he spoke. His watch and several smaller articles were found in his pockets.

“Here, Hartley, you had better take care of these,” he said, “as they may be of value to you in some way or other, or you can return them to his nearest kin, whom you are more likely to meet than I am. Come, Coffey, lend a hand here,” continued Langton, and between them, taking up the body of the young officer, they allowed it to slip overboard. Greatly to Owen’s satisfaction it sank immediately.

“Poor fellow,” said Langton again, “I should have been truly thankful had he lived.”

Almost immediately after this a breeze sprang up, but it came off the land and drove the raft further and further away. They were all silent for some minutes, their position was becoming truly critical. Langton at length got up and looked about him.

“I see land away to the west. I believe that we shall reach it much sooner than we can hope to do that to the eastward if we hoist our sail and take advantage of the breeze.”

To this proposal Owen agreed, and the sail being set the raft glided rapidly over the water. Still, after going some distance, only the dim outline of the land towards which they were steering could be distinguished. All that they knew about it was that it must be one of the Sooloo Archipelago, and that most of those islands were inhabited by a savage race addicted to piracy.

These might, however, treat them kindly, though it was more possible that they would keep them in slavery. As they were running before the breeze the wind assisted but little to temper the rays of the sun which beat down on their heads. Their thirst increased, it was with difficulty that they could refrain from consuming the last remnants of their fruit. Langton, however, gave out only a very small piece at a time, which helped to moisten their throats and tongues, though it did little more. At the rate they were going, even should the breeze continue, it would take nearly the whole of the day to reach the land. Since the morning they had, however, undoubtedly neared it.

“We must hope for a bright night,” said Owen, “and we shall then be able to steer by the stars, although we may not see the land.”

When the sun went down Langton calculated that they were still nearly fifteen miles off. By this time their thirst became excessive. They had a little biscuit remaining, but the last piece of fruit had been divided among them. They hoped by next morning, at all events, to have got in close to the land, should the breeze not fail. They scarcely dared to contemplate their position should they be exposed another day to the hot sun on the raft without water.

Owen and Langton agreed to keep watch and watch, the former taking Mike and the latter Nat. For two or three hours after sunset the breeze continued to blow steadily, and the cool night air greatly restored their strength. The sky was clear and the stars shone brightly. They had taken the bearings of the land, and had no fear of not keeping to their proper course.

It was Owen’s watch, the raft had been gliding on briskly, when suddenly the sail gave a flap against the mast, and then hung down motionless.

“Let go the halyards!” he sang out. Before this could be done the sail was taken aback. Owen sprang forward to assist Mike in lowering it. Greatly was he disappointed to find the wind blow directly from the shore, and all hope of further progress, unless it should again change, denied them. He called up Langton, who at a glance perceived what had happened.

“We must get out the paddles and work away during the cool of the night,” he said. “Perhaps some current may be setting towards the shore and assist us.”

The proposal was at once adopted. All night they paddled on until their arms ached. Though sure that they were on their right course the land could not be seen. Morning again came, when bitter was their disappointment to find themselves still a long way from it.

A sigh escaped Langton. “It cannot be helped; it is God’s will, we must submit,” he said. “Perhaps a breeze will again spring up.” There was nothing to be done; not a particle of fruit, not a biscuit remained. Langton did not express his apprehensions to his younger companions, but the dreadful thought forced itself upon him that they would all perish. He knew that they could not without water endure another day exposed to the rays of the sun. Hour after hour passed, the land within five or six miles of them, and yet without the means of reaching it.

Evidently a current, instead of setting them towards the land, was sweeping them away from it. In vain they tried to paddle against the current, they had at length to give up the contest.

Collected around the platform in various attitudes they waited on. Mike and Nat had thrown themselves down at full length. Owen, unwilling to succumb, still sat upright, occasionally getting on his feet to look about, but as the fever in his veins increased he felt his strength diminish. Langton sat near him with his arms folded, resigned to his fate; he had done his utmost, he felt he could do no more. The day wore on. Owen cast his eyes around the horizon in the hopes that some help would come. Even a Malay proa, manned by pirates, would have been welcomed. Savage as they might be they would scarcely allow four human beings to perish thus miserably.

Owen had been sitting for some time without moving. He felt that he scarcely had strength to rise again.

“I must get another look-out,” he said to Langton. He stood up on the platform, holding by the mast. He had not been there many seconds when he exclaimed—

“A breeze from the eastward!”

A dark line was seen suddenly advancing over the shining ocean, it increased in width, the whole surface became rippled with tiny wavelets. The sail blew out, the raft glided on more rapidly than it had hitherto done. The comparatively fresh air restored strength to the almost exhausted occupants of the raft. The shore rose before them, and their eyes were gladdened by a bright cascade falling over the rocks, and in a bubbling stream making its way to the ocean. How intensely they longed to reach the land! A small bay opened out before them, towards which Langton steered the raft, until at last it grounded on the smooth sandy beach.

Langton and Owen, who were the strongest, assisted their companions to land. They could do no more. While Mike and Nat sank down on the ground, unable to move further, they crawled rather than walked on towards the waterfall. In a few minutes, though it seemed a long time to them, the stream came in sight. Even then, with difficulty, they could reach it. Stretching themselves out, with their hands in the cool water, they eagerly drank the refreshing fluid, which seemed to put new life into them. They rose to their feet. They had not forgotten their companions. How was the water to be carried? They had neither hats nor shoes. On the beach lay several large shells. They selected two, which appeared perfectly clean, and filling them with water hurried back to where they had left Mike and Nat.

The former was making signals, and pointing to the boy, who appeared to be unconscious. Owen put the water to his lips, and sprinkled his face. He opened his eyes, and as the water trickled down his throat he began to revive. In a few minutes he seemed himself again and could sit up. Their thirst satisfied, they were assailed by the pangs of hunger. As there was abundance of shell-fish they had no fear of starving, while the woods they hoped would afford them fruit of some sort. They soon found on some rocks on one side of the bay an ample supply of shell-fish. Mike at once began to eat them raw.

“Stay!” exclaimed Langton. “Let us refrain until we have cooked them, when they are less likely to do us harm.”

“But how are we to get a fire?” asked Owen.

“I have a burning glass in my pocket,” said Langton.

Dry sticks were soon collected, and some moss, which ignited almost immediately the glass was held over it. A bright fire was kindled. The shell-fish were cooked, Langton having selected those which appeared to him most likely to prove wholesome.

“We are better off here than we were on the sand-bank,” observed Mike. “We escaped from that, and we’ll be afther getting away from this before long.”

While he was speaking Owen happened to turn his eyes to the southward.

“A sail! a sail!” he exclaimed.

Just rounding a point of the island which had hitherto hid her from sight appeared a large ship, the heads of her courses already rising above the horizon.

“We must make a signal or she may pass us,” exclaimed Langton. “The mast and yard of our raft will serve as a flag.”

Mike possessed a coloured handkerchief, which he had hitherto worn round his waist. Other handkerchiefs were produced. Nat contributed his shirt, so that a flag of good size was formed.

The fire having been first made up so as to emit a large amount of smoke, they hastened with their flagstaff to the end of the point, where it was speedily erected. As no other means of attracting the attention of those on board could be devised, they sat down, anxiously waiting the result. With some small line, which they got from the raft, they drew out the flag so as to present a broad surface to the approaching ship. Her hull soon rose above the water.

“Thank Heaven! She is a British sloop-of-war, and is sure to keep a bright look-out,” said Langton. “She will pass within a mile of the island, and cannot fail to see us.”

The wind had by this time shifted to the southward. The corvette—for such she was—came on before it, under easy sail, with the lead going.

The party watched her with intense eagerness. Every moment they feared that she might haul off the shore, but the water was deep, and she continued on her course. Already she was abreast of the spot where the signal was flying.

“She takes no notice of us; she is standing on as before,” exclaimed Owen.

“No, no; see, she is heaving to,” cried Langton.

The courses were hauled up, the ship’s head was turned off shore, the main-topsail was backed, and she remained stationary.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Mike. “We are seen.” The rest echoed the cheer. A boat was lowered, and came pulling towards the point. As she approached, the party on shore unshipped the flagstaff and hurried with it to the bay to guide her in; she soon reached the beach. Langton explained to the officer in command in a few words what had occurred. They were helped on board, and the boat immediately pulled back to the corvette.

She proved to be the “Kestrel,” of 18 guns, Commander Holmes. Directly the commander heard of the loss of the “Sylvia,” he steered for the spot where the ill-fated vessel had gone down, in the hopes of rescuing any more of her crew who might have escaped.

Mike and Nat were placed under the doctor’s charge, but Langton and Owen, though still feeling very weak, were anxious to remain on deck while the corvette was searching for their shipmates.

Owen learned, with satisfaction, that, after her cruise among the islands, she was at once to return home. He was naturally anxious to ascertain the truth of the account given him by Reginald Ashurst. Sometimes he thought the imagination of his dying shipmate might have been excited, and that the story he had told was without foundation. Langton, when he talked the matter over, did not give him much encouragement.

“He was always fond of romancing. Sometimes I do not think he knew himself whether he was speaking the truth or falsehood,” he observed.

“He knew that he was dying, and would scarcely have invented a tale to deceive me,” answered Owen; “but at the same time I am not ambitious, nor shall I be much disappointed if I find you are right.”

A calm at nightfall compelled the corvette to come to an anchor just inside the island, where blue lights were burned and rockets discharged to attract the attention of any who had escaped, and might have the means of reaching her; the boats were also manned and sent off, some to visit the scene of the disaster and others to search for any rafts or floating pieces of wreck on which the people might have sought refuge.

The doctor would not allow Langton or Owen to go in the boats, anxious as they were to ascertain the fate of their shipmates.

The night passed away; the boats had not returned. It was not until late the next day that they appeared.

“Hurrah! they have a number of people on board; some of the poor fellows have escaped then!” was uttered by those on the look-out.

On the boat coming alongside, fourteen people were handed up on deck, all in a weak state, some dreadfully burned and otherwise injured by the explosion. Among them was Mr Leigh, who, though weak, was but slightly hurt. Owen was for many reasons rejoiced to see him. By his exertions a raft had been constructed, on which the survivors had reached the shore. They were there seized by a party of natives, who were on the point of carrying them off into captivity when the boats had arrived and they had been rescued. These, with the four already on board the corvette, had alone escaped of all the frigate’s gallant grew, several men having died on the wreck. The other incidents of the “Kestrel’s” cruise need not be described. A loud cheer was uttered as she bade farewell to the Indian seas, and her course was shaped for the Cape on her way to England.

Chapter Eleven.

Owen did duty as a midshipman on the voyage home. He confided to Mr Leigh the strange account which Ashurst had related just before his death. Mr Leigh was more inclined to believe it than Langton had been.

“At all events, Hartley,” he said, “it is a matter which must be looked into immediately on our arrival in England. I am glad you have mentioned it to no one else, and as Lord Arlingford is not aware that his brother had confessed the truth to you, he will be the less prepared to resist your claim. If you can find an honest lawyer I would advise you to put the matter into his hands Langton and your other companions on the raft can prove Ashurst’s death, and I can give evidence of the extraordinary animosity he always exhibited towards you.”

“I hope that it will not be necessary to mention that subject,” said Owen. “I would rather not have to refer to the poor fellow’s ill-treatment of me. In regard to a lawyer, I know of one in whom I have thorough confidence. He will by this time, I hope, have set up for himself, and I could not place the matter in better hands.”

Owen had frequent conversations with Mr Leigh and Langton, but no one else on board had any idea that the apparently friendless young midshipman was the claimant to a title and handsome estate. Owen maintained his usual demeanour, and endeavoured to think as little about the subject as possible. Should he be disappointed he would place himself under Mr Fluke again and return to the counting-house, or remain in the service, trusting to his own good conduct to make his way in it, which he hoped to do, although he had lost the promised patronage of Captain Stanhope.

The “Kestrel” met with much heavy weather. She encountered a gale off the Cape, and another in the Bay of Biscay, when she was “hove to” for several days. The voyage home thus occupied a much longer time than usual. At last, however, the white cliffs of old England were sighted, to the joy of all on board. As she had been fitted out at Portsmouth, she returned to that port, where she was immediately paid off.

Mike’s mother was living at Gosport, and he took Nat to stay with him until they should get another ship, as both had made up their minds to remain in the navy. Owen having obtained from Nat his grandmother’s address, thoughtfully wrote to tell her of her grandson’s safety, promising, as soon as he had the means, to send him down to see her. Mike promised not to go to sea again without communicating with Owen.

Mr Leigh and Langton accompanied Owen up to town, where they intended to remain for some time. Leaving them at the lodgings they had taken, he set off to Wapping. He arrived at Messrs Kelson, Fluke and Company’s office a short time before the usual closing hour. Owen still wore his midshipman’s uniform. During the three years he had been absent he had grown into a tall young man, his handsome countenance well bronzed by tropical suns. He stood at the entrance for some seconds without advancing. No one seemed to know him. Looking round he saw many of the old familiar faces still there.

Mr Tarwig was at his desk. Several of the clerks glanced up at him, but supposing that he was a stranger, went on with their work. He advanced to where the head clerk was sitting, and putting out his hand—

“I suspect you do not know me, sir?” he said.

“What is your business?” asked Mr Tarwig, putting the usual question to a stranger.

“I have come to see Mr Fluke, and to resume my duties in this office if he wishes it,” answered Owen.

Mr Tarwig opened his eyes wider than he had ever opened them before. Then starting up, in his eagerness kicking over his stool, and very nearly toppling down on his nose, which he would have done had not Owen caught him by the hand, he exclaimed—

“Bless my heart! Can you be Owen Hartley? We had given you up for lost long ago. But are you really yourself? Yes, I see you are, only double as big, and a naval officer to boot. Well, it will put new life into the old man, for he grieved sorely for you. Well, I am glad, that I am.”

Here Mr Tarwig wrung Owen’s hand in a way very unwonted with him when greeting a fellow-mortal.

“Mr Fluke will be pleased,” he continued; “but he went home to-day an hour earlier than usual. He did not feel quite well, and he wanted Kezia Crump to give him something to do him good.”

“I will follow him at once then,” said Owen. “I can easily get to his house before dark, and I should not like to let another day pass without seeing him.”

Owen, however, found it difficult to get away before he had answered the numerous questions which Mr Tarwig put to him. None of his letters had been received, and it was therefore supposed that he had been lost in the “Druid,” which ship had never been heard of since she had sailed.

“You may depend upon having your old berth here as soon as you like,” said Mr Tarwig; “but I am afraid, Mr Owen, seeing you have become an officer in the navy, that you will not be so willing as formerly to take it, though your hand, I’ll warrant, has not lost its cunning.”

“I intend to act as Mr Fluke wishes, and therefore cannot say what I may do,” answered Owen, feeling, however, that he should be very unwilling to go back to his old occupation.

For once in a way all the clerks in the office were idle, as Owen went round to shake hands with them. He then hurried off, and walked at a quick pace through the well-known streets. As he passed the spot where he had first met Reginald Ashurst the whole scene came vividly before his mind, he could even picture the countenance of the elder brother, whom he now knew to have been Lord Arlingford.

On reaching Mr Fluke’s house he hesitated for a moment to consider whether his unexpected appearance might not injuriously agitate his old friend. “I must leave it to Kezia to tell him. I can safely do that,” he thought. “She is a strong-minded woman, and glad as she will be to see me, she, at all events, will not go into hysterics.”

He rapped at the door, hoping that Kezia would answer the summons herself. He was not mistaken. She opened it and stood gazing at him, looking exactly as she had done when he last saw her.

“Speak, speak, who are you?” she at length exclaimed.

Scarcely had Owen opened his lips to pronounce his name, than she threw her arms around his neck.

“I knew, I knew it!” she cried out, and burst forth into an uncontrollable fit of crying, followed by one of laughter, as she hugged him again and again to her bosom. Strong-minded as Mrs Kezia was, she possessed a woman’s affectionate heart, and if she had never been in hysterics before, she was undoubtedly on this occasion. She very soon gained the mastery over herself, however.

“What a fool I am; but you will not tell him of it, Owen,” she said, “or he will be putting his back up at me.”

Looking out into the garden, where Mr Fluke was in earnest confabulation with Joseph, Owen promised Kezia to say nothing about the demonstrative way in which she had received him.

“I should be very ungrateful if I did,” he added. “And how is Mr Fluke? Shall I go to him, or will you tell him I have arrived?”

“I will go to him,” she answered, “for though he has got a heart of some sort, it may be like his outside, a little withered. He took on sadly when he thought you were lost, and as he has been rather shaky lately, it might upset him if he were to see you suddenly.”

“Do, then, my dear Mrs Kezia, tell him that I have come, and am the same Owen Hartley that was when I went away, although I have got some strange things to talk to him about,” said Owen.

“Well, then, go into the parlour, and wait until I fetch him,” said Mrs Kezia, and she hurried out into the garden, nearly falling down the steps in her eagerness.

Owen would have liked to watch her while she communicated the news of his arrival. He had some time to wait before he heard her voice calling him. He at once went out; Mr Fluke was at the further end of the garden.

“I got him down there before I told him nat a young gentleman had come to see him, and that although he was a good deal bigger than Owen, and dressed in a naval uniform, that to my mind he was no one else. Even now he is not quite certain whether or not he is to see you.”

“You have acted prudently, as you always do, Mrs Kezia,” said Owen.

Mr Fluke looked at Owen, and then began to walk towards him, increasing his pace until he broke almost into a run. His limbs refused to obey the impulse of his feelings.

“Can it be? No! It is impossible! But yet, I don’t know. Yes! It is Owen Hartley. It must be! Owen, my boy, are you really come back?”

These expressions burst from the old man’s lips as he hurried forward. He grasped Owen’s hands, gazing up into his face. Owen was now upwards of a head taller.

“Are you yourself? Don’t mock me, Owen.”

“I am indeed myself,” answered Owen, smiling as he spoke. “Most grateful I am for the kind way in which you have received me, after I had played truant so many long years; but I could not have come back before, unless you had sent for me, and I have received no letters since I left home.”

For a few minutes they stood talking, when, after Owen had exchanged greetings with Joseph Crump, he accompanied Mr Fluke into the parlour, where Kezia was busily employed in preparing supper.

“You need not be afraid of depriving him of his supper by not eating as much as you want,” she said, nodding her head to Owen. “I’ve got plenty for both of you.” Then turning to Mr Fluke, she added, “You must get off your boots, here are your slippers, and then Owen will tell you all about himself, and I’ll warrant there will be something worth listening to.”

Kezia was as good as her word, an ample supper being placed on the table. Mr Fluke ate but sparingly. Owen saw that he was eager to hear his adventures. He ran over them as rapidly as he could, dwelling only on the more important points. Occasionally Mr Fluke stopped him to ask a question, then said, “Go on, go on.”

When Owen got to the account of the confession made by Reginald Ashurst and his death, Mr Fluke paid the greatest attention.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “there is something in that. Lord Arlingford; yes, I remember there was some doubt as to who was the rightful heir, and that the name of the family was originally Hartley. How your grandfather or father never came to put in a claim, I don’t know. It is just possible that they never heard about the matter. They were poor, and the other Hartleys had money at command. That makes all the difference. We shall now see what another generation can do; although possession is nine parts of the law, yet the chances are that the present Lord Arlingford has not much at command to dispute your claims, should he not have a right to the title and estates.”

As Kezia had supposed, Mr Fluke continued talking or listening until it was far later than he was accustomed to retire for the night. She at length came in.

“I have given you an hour’s grace,” she exclaimed. “You will be fit for nothing to-morrow if you don’t go up to bed.”

“She knows best,” said Mr Fluke, looking at Owen, and taking the candle which Kezia handed to him; “every one obeys her in this house.”

After Mr Fluke had gone to his room, Owen gratified Kezia’s curiosity by giving her an outline of his adventures. When he told her of the possibility of his inheriting the Arlingford estates she almost gasped for breath.

“You, Owen, you become a lord!” she exclaimed. “It may be pleasant, and will be pleasant, if you do succeed; but have you thought, my boy, of the disappointment should you fail? I cannot say that I am the happier for what you tell me, except that I shall be glad for you not to have to go back to the office or to follow a sea life; but, Owen, whatever happens, you will not forget Kezia Crump?”

“Indeed I will not,” said Owen, taking her hand; “you have ever been a true friend to me, and the way you received me to-day proves your affection, which I shall never forget.”

The next morning Mr Fluke announced his intention of staying at home that he might have time to discuss matters with his young friend.

Owen’s first task was to write to David Rowe, requesting that he would come up at once to London at Mr Fluke’s desire. Owen also wrote to John, giving him a sketch of his adventures, though he did not mention the object for which he wished to see David. In spite of slow coaches, within three days David Rowe appeared at Mr Fluke’s office, where Owen had gone to meet him.

“You’ll want money to carry out this undertaking,” said Mr Fluke, turning to David; “draw on me for all you require. From the report of your friend here I will trust you, and that’s more than Simon Fluke would say to every man.”

“If our friend Owen has the right, we shall succeed, for right and might in this case go together, as you, Mr Fluke, supply the might,” said David, slapping his pockets.

David having received his instructions, set about the necessary preliminaries without a moment’s delay.

Owen begged for leave of absence for one day to fulfil his promise to Captain Aggett, by visiting his widow, who lived some way from London.

“I am thankful, most thankful for what you tell me, Mr Hartley,” she exclaimed, “that he died in peace as a Christian. Though I shall see him no more on earth, we shall, I know, meet in heaven.” It was a satisfaction to Owen to feel that his visit had brought comfort to the heart of his kind friend’s widow, to whom he was afterwards able to render the material assistance her husband had expressed his anxiety to afford her.

Mr Fluke returned every day at an unusually early hour from the office that he might have more of Owen’s society.

Owen had mentioned his two naval friends. “Bring them here to dinner,” said Mr Fluke. “Kezia shall prepare a feast, for they deserve it, and I’ll show them my tulips.”

Owen found both Lieutenant Leigh and Langton, who had received his promotion, at their lodgings. They willingly accepted his invitation, when he explained who Mr Fluke was, and how much depended on him. Kezia took care to have a handsome dinner, and a man-servant to wait, and had, moreover, induced her master to put on a new suit and wig, so that when Owen came in he scarcely knew him. The two officers undertook to remain within call in case their evidence should be required at the trial.

They had just taken their places at dinner when David Rowe was announced. Having paid his respects to the master of the house, shaking hands with Owen, and made his bow to the other guests, he took his seat.

“I do not want to spoil anybody’s appetite, and I hope good news won’t do that,” he said, “for good news, and wonderful news, I have to communicate. Have I your leave to make it known in the presence of these gentlemen, Mr Fluke?”

“Certainly, certainly, if you think fit, Mr Rowe,” was the answer.

“Then allow me to congratulate Lord Arlingford on his accession to his family title and estates, but I hope, as I do so, that he will not object to take the name of Ashurst. We have made quick work of it. From information I received, I was induced to go down and see the ci-devant Lord Arlingford. I found him very ill and without a particle of combativeness, so I told him of all the information I possessed, and gave him his choice to contest the point, assuring him that we had unlimited supplies at command, or to yield at once, and save a family scandal. As he appeared inclined to take my advice, I promised him an annuity of a thousand a year, knowing from his circumstances that he was not likely to enjoy even so much as that should he retain his title. He immediately accepted my offer, acknowledging that your claim was valid. Of course I made my offer subject to the approval of the true Lord Arlingford. There must be a trial pro forma, legally to settle the point, but it will prove a very short one.”

It was some little time before Owen could recover his equanimity sufficiently to eat his dinner; but fortunately midshipmen are not given, under any circumstances, to loss of appetite, and he was very soon himself again.

Little more need be said. Mr Fluke bore all the expenses of the trial, which proved without doubt that Owen Hartley was the rightful possessor of the Arlingford title and estates. Indeed, on the death of his cousin, which occurred while the trial was going forward, no other claimant appearing, Owen immediately came into peaceful possession.

Mr Fluke insisted on paying off all the mortgages, so that Owen might commence his new career free of incumbrances.

“Begin, my dear boy, out of debt, and never get into it,” said the old man; “you’ll never regret following that rule, whatever else you may be sorry for.”

Owen’s first care was to appoint a good man of business to look after the estate, and, as may be supposed, he selected David Rowe, whose brother John became his head bailiff. His old shipmates, Captain Leigh and Lieutenant Langton, were his frequent guests whenever they came on shore.

On the death of his kind relative, Simon Fluke, Mrs Kezia and Joseph Crump came down, the one to become his housekeeper and the other his head gardener.

“I hope you will find no tom cat to kill at Arlingford, Mrs Kezia!” said Owen, laughing, as she made her appearance.

“Please your lordship, I don’t think there’ll be any need,” she answered.

Indeed Owen had never the slightest cause to complain of presumption, nor had Lady Arlingford—for by this time Owen was possessed of a fair young wife, who ruled as mistress of Arlingford Hall.

He placed his old nurse, Jane Hayes, who had lately married, in a pretty cottage, which he had built expressly for her. He did not forget Nat Midge. One of his first journeys was to visit Nat’s grandmother. He found the old lady in great poverty, struggling to maintain her grand-children. “You will, I hope, see Nat in a couple of days,” said Owen; “and though he may not have come back with his pockets full of gold, he has gained a sincere friend, who can afford to support you and his brothers and sisters till he is able to do so himself.”

Nat arrived, and escorted his family to Arlingford, where Owen had ordered a cottage, which had been vacant, to be got ready for their reception.

Nat, who had had enough of the sea, was apprenticed to a carpenter employed on the estate, whose duties he ultimately was able to undertake.

Mike Coffey continued in the service until he lost a leg, when he retired on a pension. His mother having died, he came, at Owen’s invitation, to Arlingford.

“I’m afther thinkin’, my lord, of gettin’ a wherry and settin’ up as a boatman at Portsmouth,” answered Mike to Owen’s question as to the way he intended to employ himself.

“How would you like to become my commodore?” asked Owen, pointing to a miniature frigate which floated on the lake near the house, and to a couple of boats drawn up on the bank.

“With the greatest delight in the world, your honour—your lordship I mane,” answered Mike. “The frigate wants re-fitting, and the boats will be better for a coat of paint. I had a look at them as I came along this mornin’. Thinks I to meself, shure the young master hasn’t had time to see afther his fleet, so I was just goin’ to offer to do the work, to show me love to your lordship.”

“I have no doubt that I shall find other work for you when that is finished, so I appoint you to the berth, and you can take up your abode with Widow Midge until you set up a home of your own.”

Owen, although he still retained his love for the sea, retired from the service and devoted himself—as is the bounden duty of every proprietor—to the improvement of his estate and to advancing the moral and spiritual welfare of his tenants.

The End.

W H G Kingston

"Paddy Finn"

Chapter One.

The home of my ancestors.

“The top of the morning to you, Terence,” cried the major, looking down upon me from the window of his bedroom.

I was standing in front of the castle of Ballinahone—the seat of the O’Finnahans, my ancestors—on the banks of the beautiful Shannon, enjoying the fresh air of the early morning.

“Send Larry up, will you, with a jug of warm water for shaving; and, while I think of it, tell Biddy to brew me a cup of hot coffee. It will be some time before breakfast is ready, and my hand isn’t as steady as it once was till I’ve put something into my inside.”

The old house had not been provided with bells for summoning the attendants; a loud shout, a clap of the hands, or the clatter of fire-irons, answering the purpose.

“Shure, Larry was sent to meet the postboy, uncle, and I’ll be after taking you up the warm water; but Biddy maybe will not have come in from milking the cows, so if Dan Bourke is awake, and will give me the key of the cellar, mightn’t I be bringing you up a glass of whisky?” I asked, knowing the taste of most of the guests at the castle.

“Arrah, boy, don’t be tempting me!” cried the major in a half-angry tone; “that morning nip is the bane of too many of us. Go and do as I bid you.”

I was about entering the house to perform the duty I had undertaken, when I caught sight of my foster-brother, Larry Harrigan, galloping up the avenue, mounted on the bare back of a shaggy little pony, its mane and tail streaming in the breeze.

“Hurrah! hurrah! yer honour; I’ve got it,” he cried, as he waved a letter above his carroty and hatless pate. “I wouldn’t have been after getting it at all, at all, for the spalpeen of a postboy wanted tinpence before he would give it me, but sorra a copper had I in my pocket, and I should have had to come away without it, if Mr McCarthy, the bailiff, hadn’t been riding by, and paid the money for me.”

I took the letter; and telling Larry, after he had turned the pony into the yard, to bring up the warm water and the cup of hot coffee, I hurried, with the official-looking document in my hand, up to my uncle’s room. He met me at the door, dressed in his trousers and shirt, his shirt-sleeves tucked up in order to perform his ablutions, exhibiting his brawny arms, scarred with many a wound,—his grizzled hair uncombed, his tall figure looking even more gaunt than usual without the military coat in which I was accustomed to see him. He eagerly took the letter.

“Come in, my boy, and sit down on the foot of the bed while I see what my friend Macnamara writes in answer to my request,” he said, as he broke the seal, and with a deliberation which didn’t suit my eagerness, opened a large sheet of foolscap paper, which he held up to the light that he might read it more easily.

While he was thus engaged, Larry brought up the warm water and the cup of steaming coffee, and, with a look at the major’s back which betokened anything but respect, because it was not a glass of whisky, placed the jug and cup on the table. Larry was, I must own, as odd-looking an individual as ever played the part of valet. His shock head of hair was unacquainted with comb or brush; his grey coat reached to his calves; his breeches were open at the knees; his green waistcoat, too short to reach the latter garment, was buttoned awry; huge brogues encased his feet, and a red handkerchief, big enough to serve as the royal of a frigate, was tied loosely round his neck. He stood waiting for further orders, when the major, turning round to take a sip of coffee, by a sign bade him begone, and he vanished.

Major McMahon, my mother’s uncle, was an old officer, who, having seen much service for the better part of half a century,—his sword being his only patrimony,—on retiring from the army had come to live with us at Castle Ballinahone when I was a mere slip of a boy. Knowing the world well,—having been taught prudence by experience, though he had never managed to save any of his pay or prize-money, and was as poor as when he first carried the colours,—he was of the greatest service to my father, who, like many another Irish gentleman of those days, knew nothing of the world, and possessed but a small modicum of the quality I have mentioned. The major, seeing the way matters were going at Castle Ballinahone, endeavoured to set an example of sobriety to the rest of the establishment by abstaining altogether from his once favourite beverage of rum shrub and whisky punch, although he had a head which the strongest liquor would have failed to affect, and he was therefore well able to manage everything on the estate with prudence, and as much economy as the honour of the family would allow. My father was an Irish gentleman, every inch of him. He delighted to keep up the habits and customs of the country, which, to say the best of them, were not calculated to serve his own interests or those of his family. He was kind-hearted and generous; and if it had not been for the rum shrub, and whisky-toddy, and the hogsheads of claret which found their way into his cellar, and thence into his own and his guests’ insides, he would have been happy and prosperous, with few cares to darken his doors. But the liquor, however good in itself, proved a treacherous friend, as it served him a scurvy trick in return for the affection he had shown to it, leaving him a martyr to the gout, which, while it held sway over him, soured his otherwise joyous and happy spirits. It made him occasionally seem harsh even to us, though he was in the main one of the kindest and most indulgent of fathers. He was proud of his family, of his estate,—or what remained of it,—of his children, and, more than all, of his wife; and just reason he had to be so of the latter, for she was as excellent a mother as ever breathed, with all the attractive qualities of an Irish lady. That means a mighty deal; for I have since roamed the world over, and never have I found any of their sex to surpass my fair countrywomen.

I must describe our family mansion. Enough of the old building remained to allow it still to be called a castle. A round tower or keep, with two of the ancient walls surmounted by battlements, stood as they had done for centuries, when the castle had often defied a hostile force; but the larger portion had been pulled down and replaced by a plain structure, more commodious, perhaps, but as ugly as could well be designed. Round it ran a moat, over which was a drawbridge,—no longer capable of being drawn up,—while a flight of stone steps led to the entrance door, ungraced by a porch. The large hall, the walls of which were merely whitewashed, with a roof of plain oak, had from its size an imposing appearance. The walls of the hall were decked with firearms,—muskets, pistols, arquebuses, blunderbusses,—pikes, and halberts, symmetrically arranged in stars or other devices; stags’ horns, outstretched eagles’ wings, extended skins of kites, owls, and king-fishers, together with foxes’ brushes, powder-flasks, shot-pouches, fishing-rods, nets, and dogs’ collars; while in the corners stood four figures, clothed in complete suits of armour, with lances in their hands, or arquebuses on their arms.

Over the front door were the skin and wings of an enormous eagle, holding a dagger in its mouth,—the device of our family. A similar device in red brick-work was to be seen on the wall above the entrance on the outside. Paint had been sparsely used,—paper not at all,—many of the rooms being merely whitewashed, though the more important were wainscotted with brown oak, and others with plain deal on which the scions of our race had for several generations exercised their artistic skill, either with knives, hot irons, or chalk. The breakfast and dining-rooms, which opened from the great hall, were wainscotted, their chief embellishments being some old pictures in black frames, and a number of hunting, shooting, and racing prints, with red tape round them to serve the purpose of frames; while the library so-called was worthy of being the habitation of an ascetic monk, though two of the walls were covered with book-shelves which contained but few books, and they served chiefly to enable countless spiders to form their traps for unwary flies, while a table covered with green cloth and three wooden chairs formed its only furniture.

The bedrooms were numerous enough to accommodate the whole of our large family, and an almost unlimited number of guests, who, on grand occasions, were stowed away in them, crop and heels. The less said about the elegance of the furniture the better; or of the tea and breakfast services, which might once have been uniform, but, as most of the various pieces had gone the way of all crockery, others of every description of size and shape had taken their places, till scarcely two were alike; but that didn’t detract from our happiness or the pleasure of our guests, who, probably from their own services being in the same condition, scarcely noticed this.

I had long had a desire to go to sea, partly from reading Captain Berkeley’s History of the Navy, Robinson Crusoe, and the Adventures of Peter Wilkins, and partly from taking an occasional cruise on the Shannon,—that queen of rivers, which ran her course past the walls of Ballinahone, to mingle with the ocean, through the fair city of Limerick.

Often had I stood on the banks, watching the boats gliding down on the swift current, and listening to the songs of the fishermen, which came from far away up the stream!

I had, as most boys would have done, talked to my mother, and pestered my father and uncle, till the latter agreed to write to an old friend of his in the navy to consult him as to the best means of enabling me to gratify my wishes.

But I have been going ahead to talk of my family, forgetful of my honoured uncle, the major. He conned the letter, holding it in his two hands, now in one light, now in another, knitting his thick grey eyebrows to see the better, and compressing his lips. I watched him all the time, anxious to learn the contents, and yet knowing full well that it would not do to interrupt him. At last he came to the bottom of the page.

“It’s just like him!” he exclaimed. “Terence, my boy, you’ll have the honour of wearing His Majesty’s uniform, as I have done for many a long year, though yours will be blue and mine is red; and you’ll bring no discredit on your cloth, I’ll be your surety for it.”

“Thank you, uncle, for your good opinion of me,” I said. “And am I really to become a midshipman, and wear a cockade in my hat, and a dirk by my side?”

“Within a few days you may be enjoying that happiness, my boy,” answered the major. “My old friend, Captain Macnamara, writes me word that he’ll receive you on board the Liffy frigate, which, by a combination of circumstances, is now lying in Cork Harbour,—fortunate for us, but which might have proved disastrous to her gallant officers and crew, for she was dismasted in a gale, and was within an ace of being driven on shore. But a miss is as good as a mile; and when under jury-masts she scraped clear of the rocks, and got into port in safety. Here my letter, after wandering about for many a day, found him, and he has lost no time in replying to it. One of his midshipmen having gone overboard in the gale, he can give you his berth; but mind you, Terence, don’t go and be doing the same thing.”

“Not if I can help it, uncle,” I replied. “And Larry? will he take Larry? The boy has set his heart upon going to sea, and it would be after breaking if he were parted from me. He has been talking about it every day since he knew that I thought of going; and I promised him I would beg hard that he might go with me.”

“As Captain Macnamara says that the Liffy has had several men killed in action, I have no doubt that a stout lad like Larry will not be refused; so you may tell him that when he volunteers, I’ll answer for his being accepted,” was the answer.

“Thank you, uncle; it will make him sing at the top of his voice when he hears that,” I said. “And when are we to be off?”

“To-morrow, or the day after, at the furthest,” answered the major. “I intend to go with you to introduce you to your captain, and to have a talk with him over old times.”

“Then may I run and tell my father and mother, and Maurice, and Denis, and the girls?”

“To be sure, boy; but you mustn’t be surprised if they are not as delighted to hear of your going, as you are to go,” he answered, as I bolted out of the room.

I found my brothers turning out of bed, and gave them a full account of the captain’s letter. They took the matter coolly.

“I wish you joy,” said Maurice, who was expecting shortly to get his commission in our uncle’s old regiment. I then went to the girls, who were by this time dressed. Kathleen and Nora congratulated me warmly.

“And shure are you going to be a real midshipman?” said Nora. “I wish I was a boy myself, that I might go to sea, and pull, and haul, and dance a hornpipe.”

They, at all events, didn’t seem so much cast down as my uncle supposed they would be. My father had just been wheeled out of his chamber into the breakfast room, for he was suffering from an attack of his sworn enemy.

“Keep up the honour of the O’Finnahans, my boy; and you’ll only do that by performing your duty,” he said, patting me on the back,—for shaking hands was a ceremony he was unwilling to venture on with his gouty fingers.

My mother was later than usual. I hurried off to her room. As she listened to my account her eyes were fixed on me till they became filled with tears.

“You have chosen a rough life, Terence; but may God protect you,” she said, throwing her arms round my neck, and kissing my brow. “I could not prevent your going even if I would, as your uncle has accepted Captain Macnamara’s offer; for a profession you must have, and it is a fine one, I’ve no doubt. But wherever you go, my dear boy, remember that the thoughts of those at home will be following you.”

More she said to the same effect. When she at length released me, I hurried out to tell Larry, Dan Bourke, and the rest of the domestics. At first Larry looked very downcast; but when he heard that he was to go too, he gave expression to his joy in a wild shout, which rang through the kitchen. Biddy, the cook, and the other females were not so heroic as my sisters, for they began to pipe their eyes in a way I couldn’t stand, so I ran off to the breakfast room; whether it was at the thoughts of losing Larry or me, I didn’t stop to consider. My speedy departure to become a son of Neptune was the only subject of conversation during the morning meal. It was agreed that to enable me to make a respectable appearance on board His Majesty’s frigate, I ought to be provided with a uniform; and a message was despatched to Pat Cassidy, the family tailor, to appear forthwith, and exercise his skill in manufacturing the necessary costume. The major, who had frequently been at sea, believed that he could give directions for shaping the garments correctly; and as all were agreed that blue was the required colour, he presented me with a cloth cloak, which, though it had seen some service, was considered suitable for the purpose.

Pat Cassidy soon arrived with his shears and tape; and being installed in a little room, where he was sure of not being interrupted, took my measure, and set to work, under the major’s directions, to cut out and stitch a coat and breeches in what was considered approved nautical fashion. The difficulty was the buttons; but my mother fortunately discovered a moth-eaten coat and waistcoat of a naval lieutenant, a relative, who had paid a visit to Castle Ballinahone many years before, and, having been killed in action shortly afterwards, had never returned to claim his garments. There being fewer buttons than the major considered necessary, Pat Cassidy proposed eking them out with a few military ones sewn on in the less conspicuous parts. Meantime, my mother and sisters and the maids were as busily engaged in preparing the rest of my kit, carrying off several of my brothers’ shirts and stockings, which they faithfully promised in due time to replace. “Where there’s a will there’s a way,” and before night, Pat Cassidy, aided by the busy maids, had performed his task, as had my mother and sisters theirs; and it was considered that I was fairly fitted out for my new career, the major promising to get for me at Cork such other things as I might require.

With intense satisfaction I put on my uniform, of which, though the gold lace was somewhat tarnished, and the buttons not over bright, I was mightily proud. My father presented me with a sword, which had been my grandfather’s. It was of antique make, and, being somewhat rusty, was evidently unwilling to leave the scabbard. Nora, notwithstanding, proudly girded it on my side by a broad leathern belt with a huge silver clasp, which I thought had a very handsome appearance. I little dreamed that my costume was not altogether according to the rules and regulations of the naval service. The coat was long in the waist, and longer in the skirts, which were looped back with gold lace, Pat having also surrounded the cuffs with a band of the same material. The inside was lined with white silk, and there were patches of white cloth on the collar. The waistcoat, which came down to my hips, was of flowered silk, made out of one of my great-grandmother’s petticoats, which had long been laid by, and was now by unanimous consent devoted to my use. The breeches were very full, Pat observing that I should be after growing rapidly on the salt sea, and would require room in them. White cotton stockings covered the lower part of my legs, and huge silver buckles adorned my shoes; a cockade, manufactured by my uncle, was stuck in my hat; while a frilled shirt and red silk handkerchief tied round my neck completed my elegant costume. Having once donned my uniform,—if so it could be called,—I was unwilling to take it off again; and, highly delighted with my appearance, I paced about the hall for some time. My father watched me, while he laughed till the tears streamed from his eyes to see me draw my sword and make an onslaught on one of the mailed warriors in the corner.

“Hurrah, Terence! Bravo! bravo!” cried Maurice. “But just be after remembering that a live enemy won’t stand so quiet as old Brian Boru there.”

The toils of the day over, my father, in spite of his gout, was wheeled into the supper room, when he, in a glass of the strongest whisky-toddy, and my uncle in one of old claret, drank my health and success in the naval career I was about to enter, my brothers joining them in other beverages; and I am very sure that my fond mother more effectually prayed that I might be protected from the perils and dangers to which I should be exposed.

Chapter Two.

I commence my journey to Cork.

It was on a fine spring morning, the birds carolling sweetly in the trees, that I set forth, accompanied by my uncle and Larry Harrigan, to commence my career on the stormy ocean. My father had been wheeled to the hall door, my mother stood by his side with her handkerchief to her eyes, my sisters grouped round her, my brothers outside tossing up their hats as they shouted their farewells,—their example being imitated by the domestics and other retainers of the house. The major rode a strong horse suitable to his weight. He was dressed in his red long-skirted, gold-laced coat, boots reaching above his knees, large silver spurs, three-cornered hat on the top of his wig, with a curl on each side, his natural hair being plaited into a queue behind. A brace of pistols was stuck in his leathern belt, while a sword, with the hilt richly ornamented,—the thing he prized most on earth, it having been presented to him for his gallantry at the capture of an enemy’s fort, when he led the forlorn hope,—hung by his side. I was mounted on my own horse, my legs for the journey being encased in boots. A cloak was hung over my shoulders; I also had a brace of pistols—the gift of my brother Maurice—in my belt; while in my hand I carried a heavy riding-whip, as did my uncle, serving both to urge on our steeds, and to defend ourselves against the sudden attack of an unexpected foe. Larry followed on a pony, with uncombed mane and tail, its coat as shaggy as a bear’s; his only weapon a shillelah; his dress such as he usually wore on Sundays and holidays. I need not describe the partings which had previously taken place. The major gave the word “Forward!” and we trotted down the avenue at a rapid rate. I could not refrain from giving a lingering look behind. My sisters waved their handkerchiefs; my mother had too much use for hers to do so; my brothers cheered again and again; and I saw Larry half pulled from his pony, as his fellow-servants gripped him by the hands; and two or three damsels, more demonstrative than the rest, ran forward to receive his parting salutes. My chest, I should have said, was to come by the waggon, which would arrive at Cork long before the ship sailed. The more requisite articles, such as changes of linen and spare shoes, were packed in valises strapped to Larry’s and my cruppers; while the major carried such things as he required in his saddle-bags. We soon lost sight of the Shannon, and the top of the castle tower appearing above the trees. For some time we rode on in silence, but as neither my respected relative nor I were accustomed to hold our tongues, we soon let them wag freely. He talked as we rode on in his usual hearty way, giving me accounts of his adventures in many lands. Larry kept behind us, not presuming to come up and join in the conversation. He was of too happy a spirit to mind riding alone, while he relieved himself by cracking jokes with the passers-by. I have spoken of his warm affection for me. He also—notwithstanding his rough outside—possessed a talent for music, and could not only sing a capital song, but had learned to play the violin from an old fiddler, Peter McLeary, who had presented him with an instrument, which he valued like the apple of his eye. He now carried it in its case, strapped carefully on behind him. We rode on too fast to allow of his playing it, as I have seen him do on horseback many a time, when coming from marriages or wakes, where he was consequently in great request. We made a long day’s journey, having rested a couple of hours to bait our horses; and not reaching the town of Kilmore till long after sundown.

The assizes were taking place. The judge and lawyers, soldiers, police, and witnesses, filled every house in the town. Consequently the only inn at which we could hope to obtain accommodation was crowded. All the guests had retired to their rooms; but the landlady, Mrs Mccarthy, who knew my uncle, undertook to put us up. Larry took the horses round to the stables, where he would find his sleeping place, and we entered the common room. Mrs McCarthy was the only person in the establishment who seemed to have any of her wits about her. The rest of the inmates who were still on foot had evidently imbibed a larger amount of the potheen than their heads could stand, she herself being even more genial than usual.

“Shure, major dear, there are two gentlemen of the bar up-stairs who don’t know their feet from their heads; and as your honour will be rising early to continue your journey, we’ll just tumble them out on the floor, and you can take their bed. We’ll put them back again before they wake in the morning; or if we’re after forgetting it, they’ll only think they have rolled out of their own accord, and nobody’ll be blamed, or they be the worse for it; and they’ll have reason to be thankful, seeing that if they had really tumbled on the floor, they might have broken their necks.”

My uncle, who would on no account agree to this hospitable proposal, insisted on sitting up in an arm-chair, with his legs on another, assuring Mrs McCarthy that he had passed many a night with worse accommodation.

“Shure, then, the young gentleman must go to bed,” observed the hostess. “There’s one I’ve got for him in the kitchen,—a little snug cupboard by the fireside; and shure he’ll there be as warm and comfortable as a mouse in its hole.”

To this the major agreed, as the bed was not big enough for both of us, and indeed was too short for him.

Supper being ended, my uncle composed himself in the position he intended to occupy, with his cloak wrapped round him, and I accompanied Mrs McCarthy into the kitchen, which was in a delightful state of disorder. She here let down, from a little niche in which it was folded, a small cupboard-bed, on which, though the sheets and blankets were not very clean, I was not sorry to contemplate a night’s rest. The landlady, wishing me good-night, withdrew to her own quarters. Molly, the maid-servant, I should have said, long before this, overcome by the sips she had taken at the invitation of the guests, was stowed away in a corner somewhere out of sight.

Pulling off my boots and laced coat and waistcoat, which I stowed for safe keeping under the pillow, I turned into bed by the light of the expiring embers of the fire, and in a few seconds afterwards was fast asleep. I was not conscious of waking for a single moment during the night; and had I been called, should have said that only a few minutes had passed since I had closed my eyes, when, to my horror, all at once I found myself in a state of suffocation, with my head downwards, pressed closely between the bolster and pillow, and my feet in the air. Every moment I thought would be my last. I struggled as violently as my confined position would allow, unable, in my confusion, to conceive where I was, or what had happened. I in vain tried to shout out; when I opened my mouth, the feather pillow filled it, and no sound escaped. I felt much as, I suppose, a person does drowning. Thoughts of all sorts rushed into my mind, and I believed that I was doomed to an ignominious exit from this sublunary scene, when suddenly there came a crash, and, shot out into the middle of the room, I lay sprawling on the floor, unable to rise or help myself, my head feeling as if all the blood in my body had rushed into it. The button which had kept the foot of the shut-up-bed in its place had given way.

“Murder! murder!” I shouted out, believing that some diabolical attempt had been made to take my life.

“Murther! murther!” echoed Molly, who, broom in hand, was engaged at the further end of the kitchen. “Och, somebody has been kilt entirely.” And, frightened at the spectacle I exhibited, she rushed out of the room to obtain assistance.

My cries and hers had aroused Mrs Mccarthy, who rushed in, followed by the waiting-man and my uncle, who, gazing at me as I lay on the floor, and seeing that I was almost black in the face, ordered one of the servants to run off for the apothecary, to bleed me. In the meantime, Mrs Mccarthy had hurried out for a pitcher of cold water. Having dashed some over my face, she poured out several glasses, which I swallowed one after the other, and by the time the apothecary had arrived had so far recovered as to be able to dispense with his services. Molly confessed to having got up at daylight, and begun to set matters to rights in the kitchen; and, not observing me, supposing that her mistress—who usually occupied the bed—had risen, she had hoisted it up into its niche, and had turned the button at the top to keep it in its place. Had not the button given way, my adventures, I suspect, would have come to an untimely termination.

Having performed my ablutions, with the assistance of Mrs McCarthy, in a basin of cold water, I was perfectly ready for breakfast, and very little the worse for what had happened. Our meal was a hearty one, for my uncle, like an old soldier, made it a rule to stow away on such occasions a liberal supply of provisions, which might last him, if needs be, for the remainder of the day, or far into the next.

Breakfast over, he ordered round the horses, and we recommenced our journey. After riding some distance, on turning round, I perceived that Larry was not following us.

“He knows the road we’re going, and will soon overtake us,” said my uncle.

We rode on and on, however, and yet Larry didn’t appear. I began to feel uneasy, and at last proposed turning back to ascertain if any accident had happened to him. He would surely not have remained behind of his own free will. He had appeared perfectly sober when he brought me my horse to mount; besides which, I had never known Larry drunk in his life,—which was saying a great deal in his favour, considering the example he had had set him by high and low around.

“We’ll ride on slowly, and if he doesn’t catch us up we’ll turn back to look for the spalpeen, though the delay will be provoking,” observed the major.

Still Larry did not heave in sight.

The country we were now traversing was as wild as any in Ireland. High hills on one side with tall trees, and more hills on the other, completely enclosed the road, so that it often appeared as if there was no outlet ahead. The road itself was rough in the extreme, scarcely allowing of the passage of a four-wheeled vehicle; indeed, our horses had in some places to pick their way, and rapid movement was impossible—unless at the risk of breaking the rider’s neck, or his horse’s knees. Those celebrated lines had not been written:—

“If you had seen but these roads before they were made,

You’d have lift up your hands and blessed General Wade.”

I had, however, been used to ground of all sorts, and was not to be stopped by such trifling impediments as rocks, bushes, stone walls, or streams.

“Something must have delayed Larry,” I said at length. “Let me go back, uncle, and find him, while you ride slowly on.”

“No, I’ll go with you, Terence. We shall have to make a short journey instead of a long one, if the gossoon has been detained in Kilmore; and I haven’t clapped eyes on him since we left the town.”

We were on the point of turning our horses’ heads to go back, when suddenly, from behind the bushes and rocks on either side of the road, a score of ruffianly-looking fellows, dressed in the ordinary costume of Irish peasants, rushed out and sprang towards us, some threatening to seize our reins, and others pointing muskets, blunderbusses, and pistols at us. Those not possessing these weapons were armed with shillelahs. One of the fellows, with long black hair and bushy beard,—a hideous squint adding to the ferocity of his appearance,—advanced with a horse-pistol in one hand, the other outstretched as if to seize the major’s rein. At the same time a short but strongly-built ruffian, with a humpback, sprang towards me, evidently intending to drag me off my horse, or to haul the animal away, so that I might be separated from my companion.

“Keep close to my side, Terence,” he said in a low voice. “Out with your pistol, and cover that villain approaching.”

At the moment, as he spoke, his sword flashed in the sunlight, and with the back of the blade he struck up the weapon of his assailant, which exploded in the air. He was about to bring down the sharp edge on the fellow’s head, when a dozen others, with shrieks and shouts, rushed towards us, some forcing themselves in between our horses, while others, keeping on the other side of the major, seized his arms at the risk of being cut down. Several grasped his legs and stirrups. His horse plunged and reared, but they nimbly avoided the animal’s heels. Two of the gang held the horse’s head down by the reins, while an attempt was made to drag the rider from his seat. They doubtless thought if they could master him, that I should become an easy prey. Their object, I concluded, was to make us prisoners, rather than to take our lives, which they might have done at any moment by shooting us with their firearms. Still our position was very far from an agreeable one. My uncle, who had not spoken another word, firmly kept his seat, notwithstanding the efforts of the ruffian crew to pull him off his saddle. In the meantime, the hunchback, whose task, it seemed, was to secure me, came on, fixing his fierce little eyes on my pistol, which I fancied was pointed at his head.

“If you come an inch further, I’ll fire,” I cried out.

He answered by a derisive laugh, followed by an unearthly shriek, given apparently to unnerve me; and then, as he saw my finger on the trigger, he ducked his head, as if about to spring into the water. The pistol went off, the bullet passing above him. The next instant, rising and springing forward, he clutched my throat, while another fellow caught hold of my rein.

Chapter Three.

We meet with further adventures.

In spite of my uncle’s skill as a swordsman, and the pistols, on which I had placed so much reliance, we were overpowered before we could strike a blow in our own defence, and were completely at the mercy of our assailants. The major, however, all the time didn’t lose his coolness and self-possession.

“What are you about to do, boys?” he asked. “You have mistaken us for others. We are travellers bound to Cork, not wishing to interfere with you or any one else.”

“We know you well enough, Major McMahon,” answered the leader of the gang. “If you’re not the man we want, you’ll serve our purpose. But understand, we’ll have no nonsense. If you come peaceably we’ll not harm you; we bear you no grudge. But if you make further resistance, or attempt to escape, you must take the consequences; we care no more for a man’s life than we do for that of a calf.” The ruffian thundered out the last words at the top of his voice.

“Who are you, my friend, who talk so boldly?” asked the major.

“If you want to know, I’m Dan Hoolan himself, and you may have heard of my doings throughout the country.”

“I have heard of a scoundrel of that name, who has murdered a few helpless people, and who is the terror of old women; but whether or not you’re the man, is more than I can say,” answered the major in a scornful tone.

“Blood and ’ounds, is that the way you speak to me?” cried Hoolan, for there could be no doubt that he was the notorious outlaw. “I’ll soon be after showing you that it’s not only women I frighten. Bring these fine-coated gentlemen along, boys, and we’ll set them dangling to a branch of Saint Bridget’s oak, to teach their likes better manners. Och, boys, it’ll be rare fun to see them kick their legs in the air, till their sowls have gone back to where they came from.”

I fully believed the outlaws were going to treat us as their leader proposed.

“You dare do nothing of the sort, boys,” said my uncle.

“You know well enough that if you ill-treat us there will be a hue and cry after you, and that before many weeks have passed by, one and all of you will be caught and gibbeted.”

“That’s more aisy to say than to do,” answered Hoolan.

“Bring them along, boys; and mind you don’t let them escape you.”

“Sorra’s the chance of that,” cried the men, hanging on tighter to our legs. We were thus led forward, still being allowed to keep our seats in our saddles, but without a chance of effecting our escape, though I observed that my uncle’s eye was ranging round to see what could be done. He looked down on me. I daresay I was paler than usual, though I did my best to imitate his coolness.

“Keep up your spirits, Terence,” he said. “I don’t believe that those fellows intend to carry out their threats. Though why they have made us prisoners is beyond my comprehension.”

Some of our captors growled out something, but what it was I could not understand, though I think it was a hint to the major and me to hold our tongues. The hunchback kept close to me, having released my throat, and merely held on to me by one of my legs. Hoolan himself stalked at our head, with the pistol, which he had reloaded, in his hand. The men talked among themselves in their native Irish, but didn’t address another word to us. They seemed eager to push on, but the character of the road prevented our moving out of a foot’s pace. On and on we went, till we saw a group of large trees ahead. Hoolan pointed to them with a significant gesture. His followers, with loud shouts, hurried us forward. I now observed that two of them had coils of rope under their arms. They were of no great strength, but sufficient to bear the weight of an ordinary man. We quickly reached the trees, when the outlaws made us dismount under one, which, I remarked, had a wide extending bough, about fifteen feet from the ground. My uncle now began to look more serious than before, as if, for the first time, he really believed that our captors would carry out their threats.

“Terence, we must try and free ourselves from these ruffians,” he said. “I have no care for myself, but I don’t want your young life to be taken from you. Keep your eyes about you, and if you can manage to spring into your saddle, don’t pull rein until you have put a good distance between yourself and them.”

“I could not think of going, and leaving you in the hands of the ruffians, Uncle McMahon,” I answered. “I’ll beg them to spare your life, and will promise them any reward they may demand,—a hundred, or two hundred pounds. Surely they would rather have the money than take your life.”

“Don’t promise them anything of the sort,” he said. “If they were to obtain it, they would be seizing every gentleman they could get hold of. Their object is not money, or they would have robbed us before this. Do as I tell you, and be on the watch to escape while they are trying to hang me. I’ll take care to give you a good chance.”

While he was speaking they were throwing the ropes over the bough, and ostentatiously making nooses at the end of each of them. They were not very expert, and failed several times in throwing the other end over the bough. The ends of each of the ropes were grasped by three men, who looked savagely at us, as if they were especially anxious to see our necks in the opposite nooses, and apparently only waiting the order from their chief.

“If you have prayers to say, you had better say them now,” cried the leader of the outlaws.

“It’s time to speak to you now, Dan Hoolan,” said my uncle, as if he had not heard the last remark. “Whether you really intend to hang us or not, I can’t say; but if you do, vengeance is sure to overtake you. To kill an old man would be a dastardly deed, but doubly accursed would you be should you deprive a young lad like this of his life. If you have no pity on me, have regard to your own soul. There’s not a priest in the land who would give you absolution.”

“Hould there, and don’t speak another word,” shouted Hoolan. “I have given you the chance of praying, and you wouldn’t take it, so it’s yourselves will have to answer for it. Quick, boys, bring them along.”

Our captors were leading us forward, and, as I had no wish to lose my life, I was looking out for an opportunity of obeying my uncle’s instructions, when, with a strength which those who held him could not have supposed he possessed, knocking down one on either side, he threw himself upon Hoolan, who, not expecting such an attack, was brought to the ground. At the same moment the major, drawing a knife which the ruffian had in his belt, held it as if to strike him to the heart. The hunchback, seeing the danger of his leader, regardless of me, rushed forward to his assistance; when, finding myself at liberty, I darted towards my horse, which was held by one only of the men, who, eagerly watching the strife, did not observe me. Twisting his shillelah from his hands, and snatching the reins, I was in a moment in the saddle; but I had no intention of deserting my uncle. Firmly grasping the shillelah, I laid it about the heads of the men who were on the point of seizing the major. Hoolan, however, was completely at his mercy; and had they ventured to touch him, one blow of the knife would have ended the villain’s life, though probably his companions would have revenged his death by shooting us the moment after. But just then loud shouts were heard in the distance, and a party of men on horseback, whom no one had observed, were seen galloping at a tearing rate towards us.

“Hoora! hoora! Tim Phelan’s gained his cause!” shouted a horseman. “He’s proved an alibi, and been set free by the judge.”

Our captors, on hearing the shouts, turned to greet the new-comers, forgetting for the moment their previous intention and their leader, who lay on the ground, the major still holding his knife at his throat. Presently, who should I see riding out from the crowd but Larry Harrigan himself.

“Thunder and ’ounds!” he exclaimed. “What were they going to do to you? Shure I never thought they’d have ventured on that.”

He now came up to Hoolan with my uncle bending over him.

“Spare his life, major dear,” he exclaimed. “He never intended to kill you; and if you’ll let him go I’ll tell your honour all about it by and by.”

“Is this the case, Dan Hoolan?” asked my uncle. “On your soul, man, did you not intend to put your threat into execution?”

“No, I didn’t, as I’m a living man,” said the outlaw, as, released by my uncle, he rose to his feet.

“I’ll tell your honour. I wanted to see how you and your young nephew would face the death I threatened; and I intended at the last moment to release you both if you would promise to take a message to the judge who was trying Tim Phelan, swearing that he was free of the murder of Mick Purcell, and knows no more about it than a babe unborn; for there’s one amongst us who did the deed, and they may catch him if they can.”

This announcement completely changed the aspect of affairs. The outlaws brought us our horses, and with many apologies for the trouble they had given us, assisted us to mount.

“I’m not the man to harbour ill-feeling against any one,” said the major, turning to the crowd of apparently humble-looking peasants. “But, my boys, I’d advise you to follow a better calling without delay. And now I’ll wish you good morning. If we ever meet again, may it be under pleasanter circumstances.”

Though the greater part of those present didn’t understand what he said, the rest interpreted it in their own fashion: the outlaws and the new-comers raising a loud cheer, we rode off, followed by Larry, and continued our journey as if nothing particular had occurred.

“And what made you keep behind us, Larry?” asked my uncle, who summoned him up alongside.

“I’ll tell your honour,” answered Larry. I was sleeping in the stables after I’d attended to the horses, when I heard three or four boys talking together; so I opened my eyes to listen, seeing it was something curious they were saying. I soon found that they were talking about Tim Phelan, who was to be tried in the morning. I thin recollected that Tim was my father’s second cousin’s nephew, and so of course I felt an interest in the fate of the boy.

“Says one to the other, ‘If the alibi isn’t proved, shure we’re bound in honour to try and rescue him.’

“‘There are a hundred at least of us bound to do the same,’ answered the other, ‘and of course we’ll find many more to help if we once begin.’

“‘Thin I’ll be one of them,’ I cried out, starting up without thinking that yer honour would be wanting me to continue the journey this morning. Blood is stronger than water, as yer know, major dear, and with the thought of rescuing Tim Phelan, I forgot everything else. When I joined the boys, I found a dozen or more met together, and they made me swear a mighty big oath that I would stick to them till Tim Phelan was acquitted or set free if condemned. So when the morning came, I knew that I could overtake yer honour and Maisther Terence by making my baste move along after the trial was over. As soon as yer honour had started, I went back to my friends, and after some time, while talking to them, I heard that Dan Hoolan was on the road to carry out another plan of his own, in case Tim should be condemned. What it was I didn’t find out for some time, when one of the boys tauld me that Dan intended to get hold of one of the lawyers, or a magistrate, or a gintleman of consequence, and to threaten to hang him if Tim was not set free. I was almost shrinking in my brogues when I thought that Dan Hoolan might be after getting hold of yer honour, but my oath prevented me from setting off till the boys came rushing out of the court saying that Tim was acquitted. I thin tauld them about all I was afraid of, so they jumped on the backs of the horses without waiting to cheer Tim or carry him round the town. It was mighty convanient that we arrived in time; but, major dear, you will see clearly that if I hadn’t stopped behind, there would have been three of us to be hung by Dan instead of two; so well pleased I am that I found out that it was Tim, my father’s second cousin’s nephew, who was going to be tried.”

“Well, master Larry, it’s well for us all that you had your wits about you, so I’ll say nothing more to you for neglecting your orders, which were to follow close at our heels,” observed the major.

“Thank yer honour; but you’ll be after remembering that I didn’t suppose that Dan Hoolan was really going to hang yer honour, or I’d have been in a much more mighty fright at hearing that he was going to have a hand in the matter.”

This little incident will afford some idea of the state of my native country at the time of which I write.

After Larry had given this explanation for his non-appearance, he dropped behind, and my uncle and I rode on side by side, talking of various matters, and whenever the road would permit, putting our horses into a trot or a canter to make up for lost time. Darkness overtook us before we reached the town at which my uncle proposed to stop for the night. I confess that I kept a look-out now on one side, now on the other, lest any more of Dan Hoolan’s gang might be abroad, and have a fancy to examine our valises and pockets. We rode on for nearly three hours in the dark, without meeting, however, with any further adventure. We reached Timahoe, where there being no event of importance taking place, we found sufficient accommodation and food both for man and beast, which was promised on the sign outside, though, to be sure, it could not be seen in the dark, but I observed it the next morning as we rode away.

I must pass over the remainder of the journey till we had got over the greater part of our journey to the fair city of Cork. We had been riding on like peaceable travellers, as we were, when we reached a village, through the centre of which, having nothing to detain us there, we passed on at our usual pace. It appeared quiet enough. The children were tumbling about with the pigs in the mud, and the women peered out of the half-open doors, but seeing who we were, drew in their heads again without addressing us, or replying to any of Larry’s most insinuating greetings.

“There’s something going on, though what it may be is more than I can tell,” remarked my uncle.

Just as we got outside the village, though not a sound reached our ears, we caught sight, coming round a corner on the right, of a party of men, each armed with a shillelah, which he grasped tightly in his right hand, while he looked keenly ahead, as if expecting some one to appear. They had started forward apparently at the sound of our horses’ feet, and stopped on seeing who we were.

“Good evening, boys,” said my uncle, as we rode on. They made no reply.

We had got a little further on when I saw another party on the left coming across the country at a rapid rate. One of them, running forward, inquired if we had seen any of the boys of Pothrine, the name, I concluded, of the village we had just passed through.

“Not a few of them, who are on the look-out for you, boys, and if you’re not wishing for broken heads, you’ll go back the way you came,” answered my uncle.

“Thank yer honour, we’ll chance that,” was the answer, and the man rejoining his party, they advanced towards the village. Scarcely a minute had passed before loud cries, whacks, and howls struck upon our ears.

“They’re at it,” cried my uncle, and turning back we saw two parties hotly engaged in the middle of the road; shillelahs flourishing in the air, descending rapidly to crack crowns or meet opposing weapons. At the same time Larry was seen galloping in hot haste towards the combatants. My uncle called him back, but the noise of the strife must have prevented him from hearing the summons, for he continued his course. I rode after him, being afraid that he was intending to join in the scrimmage, but I was too late to stop him, for, throwing his rein over the stump of a tree which stood convenient at one side of the road, he jumped off, and in a second was in the midst of the fray.

I had often seen faction fights on a small scale in our own neighbourhood, but I had never witnessed such ferocity as was displayed on the present occasion.

Conspicuous among the rest were two big fellows, who carried shillelahs of unusually large proportions. They had singled each other out, being evidently champions of their respective parties, and it was wonderful to observe the dexterity with which they assaulted each other, and defended their heads from blows, which, if delivered as intended, would have crushed their skulls or broken their arms or legs. In vain I shouted to Larry to come out of it, and at last I got so excited myself, that had I possessed a shillelah, I think that, notwithstanding the folly of the action, I should have jumped off my horse and joined in the battle. At length one of the champions was struck to the ground, where three or four others on the same side were already stretched. It was the one, as far as I could make out, that Larry had espoused, and to which the men who had spoken to us belonged. Presently I saw Larry spring out from the crowd, his head bleeding and his coat torn.

On seeing me he shouted, “Be off with yer, Maisther Terence, for they’ll be coming after us,” and running towards his pony, which the tide of battle was approaching, he took the reins and leaped on its back.

Knowing how annoyed my uncle would be if we got into any trouble, I followed Larry’s advice, but not a moment too soon, for the defeated party came scampering along the road, with the victors after them, shrieking and yelling like a party of madmen let loose.

“On, on, Master Terence dear!” shouted Larry, and galloping forward, I soon overtook my uncle, who had turned back on hearing the hubbub, to ascertain what had become of me. On seeing that I was safe, he again turned his horse’s head, and as he had no wish to get involved in the quarrel, he rode forward, closely followed by Larry. The howls, and shouts, and shrieks grew fainter as we advanced.

“That boy will be brought into proper discipline before long if he gets on board the frigate,” said my uncle when I told him what had occurred, “and that love of fighting any but his country’s enemies knocked out of him, I’ve a notion.”

It was growing dusk when the lights of the town where we were to stop appeared ahead. Suddenly it struck me that I didn’t hear the hoofs of Larry’s steed. Turning round to speak to him, he was nowhere visible.

“Larry, come on, will you?” I shouted, but Larry didn’t reply.

“The boy can’t have had the folly to go back with his broken head to run the chance of another knock down,” observed my uncle. “We must go and see what he has been after.”

We accordingly turned round and rode back, I galloping ahead and shouting his name. I hadn’t gone far when I saw his pony standing by the side of the road. As I got up to the animal, there was Larry doubled up on the ground. I called to him, but he made no reply. Leaping from my horse, I tried to lift him up. Not a sound escaped his lips. I was horrified at finding that to all appearances he was dead.

My uncle’s first exclamation on reaching me was, “The lad has broken his neck, I’m afraid; but, in case there may be life left in him, the sooner we carry him to a doctor the better. Help me to place him on my saddle, Terence.”

Stooping down, notwithstanding his weight, my uncle drew up his inanimate body, and placed it before him, whilst I led on his pony.

Fortunately, the inn was at the entrance of the town. My uncle, bearing Larry in his arms, entered it with me, and ordering a mattress to be brought, placed him on it, shouting out—

“Be quick, now; fetch a doctor, some of you!”

My countrymen, though willing enough to crack each others’ pates, are quite as ready to help a fellow-creature in distress; and, as my uncle spoke, two, if not three, of the bystanders hurried off to obey his order.

Meanwhile, the stable-boy having taken our horses, my uncle and I did our best to resuscitate our unfortunate follower. His countenance was pale as a sheet, except where the streaks of blood had run down it; his hair was matted, and an ugly wound was visible on his head. On taking off his handkerchief, I discovered a black mark on his neck, which alarmed me more than the wound. I fully believed that my poor foster-brother was dead.

Scarcely a minute had elapsed before two persons rushed into the room; one short and pursy, the other tall and gaunt, both panting as if they had run a race.

“I have come at your summons, sir!” exclaimed the tall man.

“And shure, so have I! and was I not first in the room?” cried the second.

“In that, Doctor Murphy, you are mistaken!” exclaimed the tall man, “for didn’t I put my head over your shoulder as we came through the door?”

“But my body was in before yours, Mr O’Shea; and I consider that you are bound to give place to a doctor of medicine!”

“But this appears to me to be a surgical case,” said the tall man; “and as the head, as all will allow, is a more honourable part of the body than the paunch, I claim to be the first on the field; and, moreover, to have seen the patient before you could possibly have done so, Doctor Murphy. Sir,” he continued, stalking past his brother practitioner, and making a bow with a battered hat to the major, “I come, I presume, on your summons, to attend to the injured boy; and such skill as I possess—and I flatter myself it’s considerable—is at your service. May I ask what is the matter with him?”

“Here’s a practitioner who doesn’t know what his patient is suffering from by a glance of the eye!” cried the doctor of medicine. “Give place, Mr O’Shea, to a man of superior knowledge to yourself,” exclaimed Doctor Murphy. “It’s easy enough to see with half a glance that the boy has broken his neck, and by this time, unless he possesses a couple of spines,—and I never knew a man have more than one, though,—he must be dead as a door nail!”

“Dead!” cried Mr O’Shea; “the doctor says his patient’s dead without feeling a pulse or lifting an eyelid.”

“You, at all events, ought to know a corpse from a live man,” cried the fat medico, growing irate, “when it’s whispered that you have made as many dead bodies in the town itself as would serve for a couple of battles and a few scrimmages to boot.”

“And you, Doctor Murphy, have poisoned one-half of your patients, and the others only survive because they throw the physic you send them to the dogs.”

“Come, gentlemen,” exclaimed the major, “while you are squabbling, any spark of life the poor boy may contain will be ebbing away. As I am not acquainted with the skill you respectively possess, I beg that you, Doctor Murphy, as holding the higher grade in your profession, will examine the boy, and express your opinion whether he is dead or alive, and state, if there’s life in him, which you consider the best way to bring him round, and set him on his feet again.”

Mr O’Shea, on hearing this, stepped back a few paces, and, folding his arms, looked with supreme contempt on the little doctor, who, stooping down over Larry with watch in hand, at which he mechanically gazed with a serious countenance, felt his pulse.

“His hand is cold and clammy, and there’s not a single thump in his arteries,” he said with solemn gravity; and letting fall Larry’s hand he proceeded to examine his neck. “The vertebra broken, cracked, dislocated,” he continued, in the same solemn tone. “D’ye see this black mark down his throat? it’s amply sufficient to account for death. I hereby certify that this is a corpse before me, and authorise that he may be sent home to his friends for Christian burial.”

“Och ahone! och ahone!” I cried out, throwing myself by the side of the mattress. “Is Larry really dead? Oh, doctors dear, can’t both of you put your heads together and try to bring him to life again?”

“When the breath is out of the body, ’tis more than all the skill of the most learned practitioners can accomplish,” exclaimed Doctor Murphy, rising from his knees. “I pronounce the boy dead, and no power on earth can bring him round again.”

“I hold to the contrary opinion,” said Mr O’Shea, advancing and drawing out of his pocket a case of instruments, from which he produced a large operation knife, and began to strop it on the palm of his hand. “It’s fortunate for the boy that he didn’t move, or Doctor Murphy would have been thrusting one of his big boluses down his throat and drenched him with black draughts. Stand aside, friends, and you shall see that a surgeon’s skill is superior to a doctor’s knowledge. I have your leave, sir, to proceed as I consider necessary?” he asked, turning to the major.

“Certainly,” answered my uncle; “if Doctor Murphy considers him dead and you believe him to be alive, and act accordingly, I have more hopes in the results of your skill than in that of the other gentleman.”

“You’ll remain in town some time, sir, I presume, and as you’re a gentleman, I shall expect a visit from you,” exclaimed the fat doctor, as, nearing the door, he made a bow, and, gold cane in hand, waddled out of the room.

Mr O’Shea cast a contemptuous glance at him, and then kneeling down, applied his knife to the nape of Larry’s neck. Warm blood immediately spouted forth. “I told you so,” he exclaimed; “blood doesn’t flow like this from a corpse. Bring hot water and cloths.” These he applied to Larry’s neck, and continued to pour the water on them, “to draw out the blood,” as he said, and relieve the patient’s head. Then pressing his knees against Larry’s shoulders, he gave a pull at his head which seemed likely to dislocate his neck, if it hadn’t been broken already.

As he did this, he exclaimed, “There now, I have taken the twists out, and the boy will be all to rights in the course of an hour.”

A groan and a heavy sigh proclaimed that there was still life in poor Larry. Presently he opened one eye and then the other, and some spoonfuls of whisky and water, which Surgeon O’Shea poured down his throat, contributed still further to revive him.

In the course of half-an-hour Larry asked in a low voice, “Did yer beat back the O’Sullivans, yer honour? shure they were coming after us at a mighty great rate, and I fancy some one of them gave me a whack on the crown which brought me to the ground.”

“Keep quiet and don’t be talking,” answered the surgeon, who, proud of his success, had been carefully watching his patient. “He’ll do now, gentlemen,” he added, looking up at my uncle and me. “We’ll put him to bed, and by to-morrow morning he’ll be as blithe as a lark, barring a stiff neck.”

Chapter Four.

My first day on board.

I sat up with Larry for the greater part of the night, after the surgeon had left him. He groaned sometimes as if in pain, and talked at one time of the scrimmage with the O’Sullivans, and at another of his fiddle, which he feared had been broken. I accordingly, to pacify him, went down and got it, and managed to produce some few notes, which had the desired effect. The major after some time came in to relieve me, for we could not trust any of the people at the inn, who would to a certainty have been dosing our patient with whisky, under the belief that they were doing him a kindness, but at the risk of producing a fever.

In the morning Mr O’Shea came in.

“I thought you said that the boy would be all to rights by this time,” I observed.

“Shure that was somewhat hyperbolical,” he answered, with a wink. “You can’t expect a man with a broken neck, and a gash as big as my thumb at the back of it, to come round in a few hours.”

We couldn’t complain, for certainly the worthy surgeon had been the means of saving Larry’s life; but the incident detained us three whole days, before he was fit to mount his pony and accompany us to Cork. Before leaving my uncle called on Doctor Murphy, who, to his great amusement, he found had no intention of calling him out, but merely expected to receive a fee for pronouncing a living man a dead one. Though my uncle might have declined to pay the amount demanded, he handed it to the doctor, and wished him good morning.

I afterwards heard that Doctor Murphy had challenged Mr O’Shea. That gentleman, however, refused to go out on the plea that should he be wounded, and become a patient of his brother practitioner, he should certainly go the way of the rest of those under his medical care. For many a long day Doctor Murphy and Mr O’Shea carried on a fierce warfare, till their patients agreed to fight it out and settle the matter, when the doctor’s party being defeated, no inconsiderable number of broken heads being the result, he left the town to exercise his skill in some other locality, where, as Mr O’Shea remarked, there was a superabundant population.

We were too late on arriving at Cork to go on board the frigate that evening, and thus Larry got the advantage of another night’s rest, and I had time to brush up my uniform, and, as I conceived, to make myself as smart as any officer in His Majesty’s service. The next morning my uncle hired a boat to proceed down the fair river of Cork to the harbour where the frigate lay. As we approached her my heart thrilled with pleasure as I thought of the honour I was about to enjoy of becoming one of her officers.

“There’s the Liffy, yer honour,” said the boatman, pointing her out as she lay some distance from the shore. Her masts had already been replaced, and her yards were across, though the sails were not as yet bent; this, however, I did not observe.

“I hope I have not detained her, uncle,” I said; “I should be sorry to have done that.”

The major seldom indulged in a laugh, but he did so on this occasion till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Midshipmen are not of so much account as you suppose, Terence,” he said, still laughing. “If you were to go on shore and not return on board in time, you would soon discover that the ship would not wait for you a single moment after the captain had resolved to put to sea.”

As we approached, the sentry hailed to know who we were. In my eagerness I replied, “Major McMahon and the new midshipman, Mr Terence O’Finnahan,” whereat a laugh came forth from one of the ports at which, as it appeared, some of my future messmates were standing.

“You’d have better have held your tongue,” said my uncle. “And now, Terence, remember to salute the flag as you see me do,” he added, as he was about to mount the side of the ship. He went up, I followed, and next came Larry. On reaching the deck he took off his hat, and I doffed mine with all the grace I could muster, Larry at the same time making a profound bow and a scrape of his foot. The master’s mate who received us, when my uncle inquired for Captain Macnamara, pointed to the after-part of the deck, where my future commander, with several other well-dressed officers, was standing. My uncle at once moved towards him, and I and Larry followed in the same direction. The captain, a fine-looking man, seeing him approach came forward, and they exchanged cordial greetings.

“I have come expressly to introduce my nephew Terence to you, Macnamara,” said my uncle. “You were good enough, in a letter I received from you a few days ago, to say that you would receive him as a midshipman on board your ship. He’s a broth of a boy, and will be an ornament to the service, I hope.”

“Can’t say that he is much of an ornament at present,” I heard one of the officers remark to another. “Looks more like a mummer or stage-player than a midshipman.”

Looking up, I observed a smile on their countenances, as they eyed me from head to foot.

“Wishing to present the boy in a respectable way to you on the quarter-deck of His Majesty’s ship, we had a uniform made for him at Ballinahone, which is, I fancy, such as your officers are accustomed to wear on grand occasions,” said the major, taking me by the arm as if to exhibit me to more advantage.

“I thought rather that it was the fashionable dress worn by young gentlemen in the west of Ireland at wakes or weddings,” remarked the captain; “but I confess, my dear McMahon, that I do not recognise it as a naval uniform, except in the matter of the buttons, which I see are according to the right pattern. The young gentleman will have to dress differently, except when he has a fancy to go to a masquerade on shore.”

The major stepped back with a look of astonishment; then surveying the uniform of the officers standing around, and taking another look at my costume, he exclaimed, laughing, “Faith, I see there is a difference, but as no regulations or patterns were procurable at Ballinahone, we did the best we could.”

“Of that I have no doubt about, McMahon; you always did your best, and very well done it was,” said the captain; “but I would advise you to take your nephew on shore, and get him rigged out in a more proper costume as soon as possible.”

I was completely taken aback on hearing this, and finding that instead of making a favourable impression on the captain, my costume had produced a very contrary effect. In a short time, however, somewhat regaining my confidence and remembering Larry, I turned to my uncle and begged that, according to his promise, he would introduce him.

“To be shure I will,” he answered, and then addressing the captain, he said, “My nephew has a foster-brother, the boy standing there, who has made up his mind to go to sea. Will you receive him on board your ship? I own, however, that he will require a good deal of licking into shape before he becomes a sailor.”

“He appears to be a stout lad, and I have no doubt but that in course of time we shall succeed in making him one,” answered the captain. “Do you wish to go to sea, boy?”

Larry, who didn’t quite understand, I suspect, what licking into shape meant, answered notwithstanding, “Shure, yer honour, wherever Maisther Terence goes, I’m desirous of following, and as he’s to become a midshipman, I’d wish to go wherever I can be with him.”

“That cannot be so exactly,” answered the captain, laughing; “but if you become one of the crew, you’ll not be far from him, and I hope I may see you some day following your leader on board an enemy’s ship, and hauling down her flag.”

“Hurrah! shure that’s what I’ll be after doing, and anything else your honour plaises,” exclaimed Larry at the top of his voice, flourishing his hat at the same time above his head. “I’ll be after showing yer honour how the boys in Tipperary fight.”

That matter being settled much to my satisfaction, Larry was taken off to have his name entered on the ship’s books, for in those days a fish having been once caught in the net, it was not thought advisable to let him go again. In the meantime, my uncle having gone into the captain’s cabin to take luncheon, I was led by a person whom, though I thought he was an officer, I supposed, from his appearance, to be one of very subordinate rank, to be introduced to my new messmates, in the midshipmen’s berth.

“And so you think we wear silks and satins on board ship, I see, young gentleman, do you?” he said with a comical grin, eyeing my new coat and waistcoat. “You’ll have to send these back to your grandmother, or the old woman who made them for you.”

“Arrah, sir, d’ye intend to insult me?” I asked. “Were they not put together by Pat Cassidy, the family tailor, under the direction of my uncle, Major McMahon, and he shure knows what a young gentleman should wear on board ship.”

“No, my lad, I only intended to laugh at you; but do you know who I am?”

“No, but I’ll have you to understand that an O’Finnahan of Castle Ballinahone, County Tipperary, Ireland, is not to be insulted with impunity,” I answered, trying to look as dignified as I could.

“Then I’ll give you to understand, young sir, that I’m the first lieutenant of this ship, and that lieutenants don’t insult midshipmen, even if they think fit to send them to the masthead. It will be your business to obey, and to ask no questions.”

As I knew no more, at the time, of the rank and position of a first lieutenant on board ship than I did of the man in the moon, this announcement did not make much impression on my mind. I only thought that he was some old fellow who was fond of boasting, and had a fancy to try and make me believe that he was a personage of importance, or perhaps to frighten me. I soon discovered, however, that though he generally wore a shabby uniform, he was not a man to be trifled with. I may as well here say that his name was Saunders, that he was a thorough tar, who had come in at the hawse-hole, and had worked his way up to his present position. Old “Rough and Ready” I found he was called. His hands were continually in the tar-bucket, and he was never so happy as when, with a marline-spike hung round his neck by a rope-yarn, he was engaged in gammoning the bowsprit, or setting up the rigging. But that I found out afterwards.

“Now come along, youngster, for I don’t wish to be hard on you; I’m only laughing at the ridiculous figure you cut,” he said, giving way to a burst of rough merriment. By the time it was over we reached the door of the berth, where the midshipmen were assembled for dinner.

“Young gentlemen,” said Mr Saunders with perfect gravity, opening the door, “I have to tell you that this is Mr Terence O’Finnahan, of Castle Ballinahone, County Tipperary, Ireland, who is to become your messmate as soon as he is docked of his fine feathers; and you’ll be pleased to receive him as such.”

Saying this he took his departure, and two of my new messmates seized me by the fists, which they gripped with a force intended perhaps to show the ardour of their regard, but which was excessively painful to my feelings. I restrained them, however, and stood looking round at the numerous strange faces turned towards me.

“Make room for Mr Terence O’Finnahan, of Castle Ballinahone, County Tipperary, Ireland,” cried an old master’s mate from the further end of the table; “but let all understand that it’s the last time such a designation is to be applied to him. It’s much too long a name for any practical purpose, and from henceforth he’s to be known on board this ship as Paddy Finn, the Irish midshipman; and so, Paddy Finn, old boy, I’ll drink your health. Gentlemen, fill your glasses; here’s to the health of Paddy Finn.”

Every one in the berth filled up their mugs and cups with rum and water, in which they pledged me with mock gravity. Having in the meantime taken my seat, I rose and begged to return my thanks to them for the honour they had done me, assuring them that I should be happy to be known by the new name they had given me, or by any other which might sound as sweet.

“Only, gentlemen, there’s one point I must bargain for,” I added; “let me be called Paddy, whatever other designation you may in your judgment think fit to bestow on me, for let me tell you that I consider it an honour to be an Irishman, and I am as proud of my native land as you can be of yours.”

“Bravo, Paddy!” cried several. “You’re a trump,” observed the president.

“The chief has got pluck in him,” said the Scotch assistant surgeon, who sat opposite to the president, a man whose grizzled hair showed that he had been long in the service.

“Where did you get those clothes from?” asked a young gentleman, whom I afterwards found to be the purser’s clerk.

“He picked them up at a theatrical property shop as he passed through Cork,” remarked another.

“Haul in the slack of your impudence,” cried the president, whose favour I had won. “If his friends had never seen a naval uniform, how should they know how to rig him out?”

“I’m mightily obliged to you, sir,” I said, for I was by this time getting heartily ashamed of my gay feathers; “and as the ship won’t be sailing yet, I hope to get fitted out properly before I return on board.”

“All right, youngster,” said the president. “Now, I will have the pleasure of helping you to a slice of mutton. Hand the greens and potatoes up to Paddy Finn.”

The plate was passed round to me, and I was allowed, without being further bantered, to discuss the viands placed under my nose, which I did with a good appetite. I was not silent, however, but introducing my journey to Cork, amused my messmates with an account of the various incidents which had occurred. When, at length, one of the midshipmen who had being doing duty on deck appeared at the door to say that Major McMahon was about to return on shore, and wanted his nephew, my new friends shook me warmly by the hand, and the president again proposed three hearty cheers for their new messmate, Paddy Finn.

Chapter Five.

I make the acquaintance of one of my new messmates.

I was in much better spirits when I rejoined my uncle than when I had been led below by Mr Saunders. I found him standing with the captain on the main-deck, they having just come out of the cabin.

“I should like to take a turn round the ship before we leave her, in case I should be unable to pay you another visit,” said the major. “I wish to brush up my recollections of what a frigate is like.”

“Come along then,” answered the captain, and he led the way along the deck.

As we got forward, we heard loud roars of laughter and clapping of hands. The cause was very evident, for there was Larry in the midst of a group of seamen, dancing an Irish jig to the tune of one of his most rollicksome songs.

“Stop a bit, my boys, and I’ll show you what real music is like,” he exclaimed after he had finished the song. “Wait till I get my fiddle among yer, and I’ll make it squeak louder thin a score of peacocks or a dozen of sucking pigs;” and he then began again singing—

“A broth of a boy was young Daniel O’Shane,

As he danced with the maidens of fair Derrynane.”

Then he went on jigging away, to the great delight of his audience,—no one observing the captain or us.

It was very evident that Larry had without loss of time made himself at home among his new shipmates. They treated him much as they would have treated a young bear, or any other pet animal they might have obtained. I had expected to find him looking somewhat forlorn and downcast among so many strangers; but in reality, I ought to have trusted an Irish boy of his degree to make friends wherever he goes.

“I think we may leave your follower where he is, as, should you not require his services, he is much more likely to be kept out of mischief here than he would be ashore,” said the captain to the major.

To this my uncle agreed. We had got some way along the deck when I felt a touch on my shoulder, and turning round, saw Larry’s countenance grinning from ear to ear.

“Shure they’re broths of boys these sailor fellows, and I’m mighty plaised to be among them; but, Maisther Terence dear, I have a favour to ask you. Would you tell the captain that I’d be mightily obliged to him if he would let me go back to Cork for my fiddle. I left it at the inn, and if I had it now I’d set all the boys on board a-jigging, with the captain and officers into the bargain.”

I told him that as the captain thought it better he should remain on board, I could not ask leave for him to go on shore; but I promised that if I had an opportunity, I would send him his violin at once, or if not, would be careful to bring it myself.

“You’ll not be long then, Maisther Terence; for the boys here are mighty eager to hear me play.”

Assuring him how glad I was to find that he was happy, I advised him to go back to his new friends again, promising not to forget his violin.

We had come on board on the larboard side; we now went to the starboard. On each side of the gangway stood several officers and midshipmen, while on the accommodation-ladder were arranged two lines of boys. The captain’s own gig was waiting for us, manned by eight smart seamen, their oars in the air. The captain himself descended, returning the salutes of the officers and men. I followed my uncle, who was treated with a similar mark of respect; but as I thought a portion was intended for me, and wishing to act in the politest way possible, I took off my hat altogether, and made several most polite bows. I had a suspicion, however, from the expression on the countenances of the midshipmen, with the suppressed titter among them, together with the grin on the faces of the men and boys, that I was doing something not altogether according to custom. Perhaps, I thought to myself, I hadn’t bowed low enough, so I turned, now to my right, now to my left, and, not seeing where I was going to, should have pitched right down the ladder had not one of the men standing there caught my arm, bidding me as he did so to keep my hat on my head.

In my eagerness to get into the boat I made a spring, and should have leapt right over into the water had not another friendly hand caught me and forced me down by the side of the major.

The captain, taking the white yoke-lines, gave the order to shove off; the boat’s head swung away from the side of the frigate; the oars fell with their blades flat on the water; and we began to glide rapidly up the harbour, propelled by the sturdy arms of the crew. I felt very proud as I looked at the captain in his cocked hat and laced coat, and at the midshipman who accompanied him, in a bran new uniform, though, to be sure, there wasn’t much of him to look at, for he was a mere mite of a fellow.

Had I not discovered that my own costume was not according to rule, I should have considered it a much more elegant one than his. After some time, the captain observing, I fancy, that I looked rather dull, having no one to talk to, said something to the midshipman, who immediately came and sat by me.

“Well, Paddy, how do you like coming to sea?” he asked in a good-natured tone.

“I’ve not yet formed an opinion,” I answered.

“True, my boy; Cork harbour is not the Atlantic,” he remarked. “We may chance to see the waves running mountains high when we get there, and all the things tumbling about like shuttlecocks.”

“I’ll be content to wait until I see that same to form an opinion,” I answered. “As I’ve come to sea, I shall be glad to witness whatever takes place there.”

“You’re not to be caught, I perceive,” he said. “Well, Paddy, and how do you like your name?”

“Faith, I’m grateful to you and my other messmates for giving it,” I answered. “I’m not ashamed of the name, and I hope to have the opportunity of making it known far and wide some day or other; and now may I ask you what’s your name, for I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing it.”

“Thomas Pim,” he answered.

“Come, that’s short enough, anyhow,” I observed.

“Yes; but when I first came aboard, the mess declared it was too long, so they cut off the ‘h’ and the ‘as’ and ‘m’ and called me Tom Pi; but even then they were not content, for they further docked it of its fair proportions, and decided that I was to be named Topi, though generally I’m called simply Pi.”

“Do you mind it?” I asked.

“Not a bit,” he answered. “It suits my size, I confess; for, to tell you the truth, I’m older than I look, and have been three years at sea.”

“I thought you had only just joined,” I remarked, for my companion was, as I have just said, a very little fellow, scarcely reaching up to my shoulder. On examining his countenance more minutely, I observed that it had a somewhat old look.

“Though I’m little I’m good, and not ashamed of my size or my name either,” he said. “When bigger men are knocked over, I’ve a chance of escaping. I can stow myself away where others can’t get in their legs; and when I go aloft or take a run on shore, I’ve less weight to carry,—so has the steed I ride. When I go with others to hire horses, I generally manage to get the best from the stable-keeper.”

“Yes, I see that you have many advantages over bigger fellows,” I said.

“I’m perfectly contented with myself now I’ve found that out, but I confess that at first I didn’t like being laughed at and having remarks made about my name and my size. I have grown slightly since then, and no one observes now that I’m an especially little fellow.”

Tom spoke for some time on the same subject.

“I say, Paddy Finn, I hope you and I will be friends,” he continued. “I’ve heard that you Irishmen are frequently quarrelsome, but I hope you won’t quarrel with me, or, for your own sake, with any of the rest of the mess. You’ll gain nothing by it, as they would all turn against you to put you down.”

“No fear of that,” I replied, “always provided that they say nothing insulting of Ireland, or of my family or friends, or of the opinions I may hold, or take liberties which I don’t like, or do anything which I consider unbecoming gentlemen.”

“You leave a pretty wide door open,” remarked Tom; “but, as I said before, if you don’t keep the peace it will be the worse for you.”

We were all this time proceeding at a rapid rate up the stream, between its wooded and picturesque banks. On arriving at Cork, the captain wished the major good-bye, saying that I must be on board again within three days, which would allow me ample time to get a proper uniform made.

I asked Tom Pim what he was going to do with himself, and proposed that, after I had been measured by the tailor, we should take a stroll together.

“Do you think the captain brought me up here for my pleasure?” he said. “I have to stay by the boat while he’s on shore, to see that the men don’t run away. Why, if I didn’t keep my eye on them, they’d be off like shots, and drunk as fiddlers by the time the captain came back.”

“I’m sorry you can’t come,” I said. “By the bye, talking of fiddlers, will you mind taking a fiddle on board to the boy who came with me,—Larry Harrigan? I promised to send it to him, though I didn’t expect so soon to have the opportunity.”

“With the greatest pleasure in the world,” said Tom Pim. “Perhaps I may take a scrape on it myself. When I was a little fellow, I learned to play it.”

“You must have been a very little fellow,” I couldn’t help remarking, though Tom didn’t mind it.

As our inn was not far off, I asked my uncle to let me run on and get the fiddle, and take it down to the boat. As I carried it along, I heard people making various remarks, evidently showing that they took me for a musician or stage-player, which made me more than ever anxious to get out of a costume which I had once been so proud of wearing. Having delivered the violin in its case to Tom Pim, who promised to convey it to Larry, I rejoined my uncle.

We proceeded at once to the tailor recommended by Captain Macnamara, who, having a pattern, promised to finish my uniform in time, and to supply all the other articles I required. We spent the few days we were in Cork in visiting some old friends of the major’s.

I was very anxious about the non-appearance of my chest, but the night before I was to go on board, to my great satisfaction, it arrived.

“It’s a good big one, at all events,” I thought; “it will hold all the things I want, and some curiosities I hope to bring back from foreign parts.”

It was capable of doing so, for although it might have been somewhat smaller than the one in which the bride who never got out again hid away, it was of magnificent proportions, solid as oak and iron clamps could make it; it was big enough to hold half-a-dozen of my smaller brothers and sisters, who used to stow themselves away in it when playing hide-and-seek about the house.

Soon after the chest arrived the tailor brought my uniform.

It certainly was a contrast to the comical suit I had hitherto been wearing. I put it on with infinite satisfaction, and girded to my side a new dirk, which my uncle had given me, instead of my grandfather’s old sword. The latter, however, my uncle recommended me to take on board.

“You may want it, Terence, maybe on some cutting-out expedition,” he said; “and you’ll remember that it belonged to your ancestors, and make it do its duty.”

As the chest was already full, I had a difficulty in stowing away the things the tailor had brought. I therefore began to unpack it while he was waiting, and I observed that he cast a look of supreme contempt on most of the articles it contained. He even ventured to suggest that he should be allowed to replace them with others which he could supply.

“The boy has enough and to spare, and I should like to know how many of them will find their way back to Cork,” said my uncle.

Some of them I found, on consideration, that I should be as well without. Among other things were a pair of thick brogues, which Molly the cook had put in to keep my feet from the wet deck, and a huge cake; this, though, I guessed would not be sneered at in the mess, and would travel just as well outside. At length I found room for everything I required, and the chest was once more locked and corded.

I don’t believe I slept a wink that night with thinking of what I should do when I got on board the frigate. It was a satisfaction to remember that the ice had been broken, and that I should not appear as a perfect stranger amongst my messmates. I already knew Tom Pim, and he had told me the names of several others, among whom were those of Jack Nettleship the old mate and caterer of the mess, Dick Sinnet the senior midshipman, Sims the purser’s clerk, and Donald McPherson the assistant-surgeon. The others I could not remember. The lieutenants, he said, were very nice fellows, though they had their peculiarities. None of the officers were Irishmen, consequently I had been dubbed Paddy.

Chapter Six.

I commence my naval career.

The morning came. My chest and my other strat things had been carried down in a cart to the river, where they were shipped on board a shore-boat. As we walked along following it, my uncle, after being silent for a minute, as if considering how he should address me, said: “You have got a new life before you, away from friends, among all sorts of characters,—some good, it may be, many bad or indifferent, but no one probably on whom you may rely. You will be placed in difficult, often in dangerous situations, when you’ll have only yourself, or Him who orders all things, to trust to. Be self-reliant; ever strive to do your duty; and don’t be after troubling yourself about the consequences. You will be engaged in scenes of warfare and bloodshed. I have taken part in many such, and I know their horrors. War is a stern necessity. May you never love it for itself; but when fighting, comport yourself like a man fearless of danger, while you avoid running your head needlessly into it. Be courteous and polite, slow to take offence,—especially when no offence is intended, as is the case in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred where quarrels occur. Remember that it always takes two to make a quarrel, and that the man who never gives offence will seldom get into one. Never grumble; be cheerful and obliging. Never insist on your own rights when those rights are not worth insisting on. Sacrifice your own feelings to those of others, and be ever ready to help a companion out of a difficulty. You may be surprised to hear me—an old soldier and an Irishman—talking in this way; but I give you the advice, because I have seen so many act differently, and, wrapped up in intense selfishness, become utterly regardless of others,—reaping the consequences by being disliked and neglected, and finally deserted by all who were their friends. There’s another point I must speak to you about, and it’s a matter which weighs greatly on my mind. Example, they say, is better than precept. Now your father has set you a mighty bad example, and so have many others who have come to the castle. Don’t follow it. You see the effect which his potations of rum shrub and whisky-toddy have produced on him. When I was on duty, or going on it, I never touched liquor; and no man ever lost his life from my carelessness, as I have seen the lives of many poor soldiers thrown away when their officers, being drunk, have led them into useless danger. So I say, Terence, keep clear of liquor. The habit of drinking grows on a man, and in my time I have seen it the ruin of many as fine young fellows as ever smelt powder.”

I thanked my uncle, and promised as far as I could to follow his excellent advice.

As we reached the water-side, my uncle stopped, and putting one hand on my shoulder and taking mine with the other, looked me kindly in the face.

“Fare thee well, Terence, my boy,” he said; “we may not again meet on earth, but wherever you go, an old man’s warmest affection follows you. Be afraid of nothing but doing wrong. If your life is spared, you’ll rise in the profession you have chosen, second only in my opinion to that of the army.”

I stepped into the boat, and the men shoved off. My uncle stood watching me as we descended the stream. Again and again he waved his hand, and I returned his salute. He was still standing there when a bend of the river shut him out from my sight. I was too much engaged with my thoughts to listen to what the boatmen said, and I suspect they thought me either too dull or too proud to talk to them. As we pulled up on the larboard side, thinking that I was now somebody, I shouted to some men I saw looking through the ports to come down and lift my chest on board, though how that was to be done was more than I could tell. A chorus of laughs was the reply.

Presently I heard a gruff voice say, “Send a whip down there, and have that big lumber chest, or whatever it is, up on deck.” My chest was quickly hauled up, and as quickly transferred by the orders of the lieutenant in charge of the watch below, before Mr Saunders’ eyes had fallen on it. I mounted the side in as dignified a way as I could, saluting the flag on reaching the deck, as my uncle had told me to do.

I had recognised Tom Pim, who was ready to receive me. “You must go to the first lieutenant,—he’s in the gun-room,—and say, ‘Come aboard, sir,’ and then when you’re dismissed make your way into the berth,” he said.

“But how am I to be after finding the gun-room; is it where the guns are kept?” I asked.

Tom laughed at my simplicity. “No; it’s where the gun-room officers, the lieutenants and master, the doctor, and purser, and lieutenant of marines, mess. They all mess together, as do the mates, and we the midshipmen, the second master and master’s assistant, the clerks and the assistant-surgeon.”

“And have you no ensign?” I asked.

“No; there are none in the marines, and so we have no soldiers in our berth,” he answered; “but let’s come along, I’ll show you the way, and then you’ll be in time for dinner.” We descended to the gun-room door, where Tom left me, bidding me go in and ask for the first lieutenant. I didn’t see him, but one of the other officers, of whom I made inquiries, pointed me to the first lieutenant’s cabin.

I knocked at the door. “Come in,” answered a gruff voice. I found the lieutenant with his shirt-sleeves tucked up, he having just completed his morning ablutions, an old stocking on one fist and a needle and thread in the other, engaged in darning it.

“Come on board, sir,” I said.

“Very well, youngster,” he answered; “I should scarcely have known you in your present proper uniform. There’s nothing like being particular as to dress. I’ll see about placing you in a watch. You’ll understand that you’re to try and do your duty to the best of your abilities.”

“Shure it’s what I hope to do, sir,” I answered briskly; “and I’m mighty glad you like my uniform.”

“I didn’t say I liked it, youngster,—I said it was proper according to the regulations. Turn round, let me see. There is room for growing, which a midshipman’s uniform should have. You’ll remember always to be neat and clean, and follow the example I try to set you youngsters.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, my eyes falling on a huge patch which the lieutenant had on one of the knees of his trousers.

“Now you may go!” he said. “Understand that you’re not to quit the ship without my leave, and that you must master the rules and regulations of the service as soon as possible, for I can receive no excuse if you infringe them.”

Altogether I was pretty well satisfied with my interview with old Rough-and-Ready, and hurrying out of the gun-room I directed my course for the young gentlemen’s berth, as it was called, which was some way further forward on the starboard side. I intended, after making my appearance there, to go in search of Larry, but the mulatto steward and a boy came hurrying aft along the deck with steaming dishes, which they placed on the table, and I found that the dinner was about to commence.

“Glad to see you, Paddy,” said Jack Nettleship, who had already taken his place at the head of the table. “You look less like a play-actor’s apprentice and more like an embryo naval officer than you did when you first came on board. Now sit down and enjoy the good things of life while you can get them. Time will come when we shall have to luxuriate on salt junk as hard as a millstone and weevilly biscuits.”

Plenty of joking took place, and everybody seemed in good humour, so that I soon found myself fairly at my ease, and all I wanted to be perfectly so was to know the ways of the ship. I succeeded in producing several roars of laughter by the stories I told, not attempting to overcome my brogue, but rather the contrary, as I found it amused my auditors. When the rum was passed round, of which each person had a certain quantum, the doctor sang out to the youngsters, including Tom Pim and me, “Hold fast! it’s a vara bad thing for you laddies, and I shall be having you all on the sick list before long if I allow you to take it. Pass the pernicious liquor along here.”

Tom obeyed, and so did I, willingly enough, for I had tasted the stuff and thought it abominably nasty, but two or three of the other midshipmen hesitated, and some seemed inclined to revolt.

“I call on you, Nettleship, as president of the mess, to interfere,” exclaimed the doctor. “What do these youngsters suppose I’m sent here for, but to watch over their morals and their health; and as I find it difficult in the one case to do my duty with the exactitude I desire, I shall take care not to neglect it in the other. There’s young Chaffey there, who has stowed away enough duff to kill a bull, and now he’s going to increase the evil by pouring this burning fiery liquid down his throat. Do you want to be in your grave, Jack? if not, be wise, and let the grog alone.”

Chaffey, the fattest midshipman among us, looked somewhat alarmed, and quickly passed up the rum. I observed that the doctor kept it by his side, and having finished his own quantum, began to sip the portions he had forbidden the youngsters to drink. It was difficult to suppose that he was perfectly disinterested in his advice.

Being in harbour, we sat much longer than usual. At last I asked Tom if he thought I could venture to go and look out for Larry.

“Oh, yes; this is Liberty Hall,” he answered.

I was going forward, when I heard my name called, and going to the spot from whence the voice came, I saw the first lieutenant standing before my chest, at which he cast a look of mingled indignation and contempt. By his side was a warrant officer, whom I heard addressed as Mr Bradawl, with a saw and chisel and hammer in hand.

“Does this huge chest belong to you?” asked old Rough-and-Ready, as I came up.

“Yes, sir,” I answered; “I’m rather proud of it.”

“We shall see if you continue so,” he exclaimed. “Do you think we have room to stow away such a lumbering thing as this? Where’s the key?”

I produced it.

“Now tumble your things out.”

“But please, sir, I haven’t room to pack them away. I have got this bundle, and that case, and those other things are all mine.”

“Tumble them out!” cried the lieutenant, without attending to my expostulations.

I obeyed. And the carpenter began sawing away at a line which old Rough-and-Ready had chalked out not far from the keyhole. Mr Bradawl had a pretty tough job of it, for the oak was hard. The lieutenant stood by, watching the proceeding with evident satisfaction. He was showing me that a first lieutenant was all-powerful on board ship. I watched this cruel curtailment of my chest with feelings of dismay.

Having sawn it thus nearly in two, the carpenter knocked off the end of the part he had severed from the rest, and then hammered it on with several huge nails.

“Now, youngster, pick out the most requisite articles, and send the others ashore, or overboard, or anywhere, so that they’re out of the ship,” exclaimed the first lieutenant; saying which he turned away to attend to some other duty, leaving me wondering how I should stow the things away. Tom Pim, who had seen what was going forward, came up to my assistance; and by putting the things in carefully, and stamping them down, layer after layer, we managed to stow away more than I had conceived possible.

“I think I could find room for some of them in my chest, as we have been to sea for some time, and a good many of my own have been expended; and, I daresay, the other fellows will be equally ready to oblige you,” said Tom.

I was delighted at the proposal, and hastened to accept it,—but I didn’t find it quite so easy to get them back again! Tom, however, soon smelt out the cake. At first he suggested that it would be safe in his chest, but Chaffey coming by, also discovered it; and though he was most anxious to take charge of it for me, Tom, knowing very well what would be its fate, insisted on its being carried into the berth. I need hardly say that by the end of tea-time it had disappeared.

I had no difficulty in finding Larry, when I at length set forth in quest of him. The sound of his fiddle drew me to the spot, where, surrounded by a party of admiring shipmates, he was scraping away as happy as a prince. On catching sight of me, he sprang out of the circle.

“Och, Misther Terence, I’m mighty glad to see you; but shure I didn’t know you at first in your new clothes. I hope you like coming to sea as much as myself. Shure it’s rare fun we’re having in this big ship; and is his honour the major gone home again?”

I told him that I concluded such was the case, and how pleased I was to find that he liked his life on board,—though it didn’t occur to me at the time that not having as yet been put to perform any special duty, he fancied he was always to lead the idle life he had hitherto been enjoying. We were both of us doomed ere long to discover that things don’t always run smoothly at sea.

Chapter Seven.

Mastheaded.

The frigate was not yet ready for sea, and I had therefore time to pick up some scraps of nautical knowledge, to learn the ways of the ship, and to get a tolerable notion of my duties. I quickly mastered the rules and regulations of the service, a copy of which Jack Nettleship gave me.

“Stick by them, my lad, and you can’t go wrong; if you do, it’s their fault, not yours,” he observed.

“But suppose I don’t understand them?” I asked.

“Then you can plead in justification that they are not sufficiently clear for an ordinary comprehension,” he answered. “I do when I make a mistake, and old Rough-and-Ready is always willing to receive my excuses, as he can’t spell them out very easily himself, though they are his constant study day and night. Indeed, I doubt if he reads anything else, except Norie’s Navigation and the Nautical Almanack?”

Nettleship showed me a copy of the former work, and kindly undertook to instruct me in the science of navigation. All day long, however, he was employed in the duties of the ship, and in the evening I was generally sleepy when it was our watch below, so that I didn’t make much progress. Though I got on very well, I was guilty, I must own, of not a few blunders. I was continually going aft when I intended to be going forward, and vice versa.

The day after I came aboard I was skylarking with Tom Pim, Chaffey, and other midshipmites (as the oldsters called us), when I told them that I would hide, and that they might find me if they could. I ran up the after-ladder, when seeing a door open, I was going to bolt through it. Just then a marine, who was standing there, placed his musket to bar my way. Not wishing to be stopped, I dodged under it, turning round and saying—

“Arrah, boy! don’t be after telling where I’m gone to.”

The sentry, for such he was, not understanding me, seized hold of my collar.

“You mustn’t be going in there, whoever you are,” he said in a gruff tone.

“I’m a midshipman of this ship, and have a right to go wherever I like, I’m after thinking,” I said, trying to shake myself clear of his grasp. “Hush, now; be pleasant, will ye, and do as I order you!”

“I shouldn’t be finding it very pleasant if I was to break through the rules and regulations of the service,” he answered. “Now go forward, young gentleman, and don’t be attempting to playing any of your tricks on me.”

“I’m your officer, and I order you not to interfere with me, or say where I’m gone,” I exclaimed.

“I obey no orders except from my own lieutenant or the captain and the lieutenants of the ship,” answered the sturdy marine. “You can’t go into the captain’s cabin while I’m standing here as sentry;” and he proceeded to use more force than was agreeable to my dignity.

“Shure you’re an impudent fellow to behave so to an officer,” I exclaimed; at which the sentry laughed, and said—

“Off with you, Master Jackanapes, and consider yourself fortunate that worse hasn’t come of your larking.”

Trying to look dignified I answered—

“You’re an impudent fellow, and I shall make known your conduct to your superiors. I know your name, my fine fellow, so you’ll not get off.” I had observed his name, as I thought, on his musket.

Just then Tom Pim popped his head above the hatchway, and I, finding that I was discovered, made chase after him. He quickly distanced me; and as I was rushing blindly along, I ran my head right into the stomach of old Rough-and-Ready, who, as ill-luck would have it, was on his way round the lower deck. I nearly upset him, and completely upset myself.

“Shure, sir, I never intended to behave so rudely,” I said, as, picking myself up, I discovered whom I had encountered.

“Go to the masthead, and stay there till I call you down,” thundered the lieutenant, rubbing the part of his body I had assaulted.

“Please, sir, I had no intention in the world of running against you,” I said, trying to look humble, but feeling much inclined to laugh at the comical expression of his countenance.

“Look to the rules and regulations of the service, where all inferiors are ordered to pay implicit obedience to their superiors,” cried Mr Saunders. “To the masthead with you.”

“If you please, sir, I should be happy to do that same if I knew the way; but I haven’t been up there yet, as the men have been painting the rigging with some black stuff, and I should be after spoiling my new uniform,” I answered.

“Go to the masthead,” again shouted the first lieutenant; “and you, Pim, go and show him the way,” he exclaimed, catching sight of Tom Pim, who was grinning at me from the other side of the deck.

Tom well knew that it was against the rules and regulations of the service to expostulate; therefore, saying, “Come along, Paddy,” he led the way on deck.

“Do as I do,” he said, as he began to mount the rigging. “Just hold on with your hands and feet, and don’t let the rest of your body touch the rattlings or shrouds, and don’t be letting go with one hand till you have got fast hold with the other.”

Up he went, and I followed. He was nimble as a monkey, so I had difficulty in keeping pace with him. Looking up, I saw him with his back almost horizontal above me, going along the futtock shrouds to get into the top. These are the shrouds which run from the side of the mast to the outer side of the top, and consequently a person going along them has his face to the sky and his back to the deck. Tom was over them in a moment, and out of sight. I didn’t like the look of things, but did my best; and though he stood ready to give me a helping hand into the top, I got round without assistance. We now had to ascend the topmost rigging to the cross-trees, where we were to stay till called down. This was a comparatively easy matter, and as I didn’t once cast my eyes below I felt no giddiness. Tom seated himself as if perfectly at home, and bade me cross my legs on the other side of the mast.

“It’s lucky for you, Paddy, that you are able to gain your experience while the ship is in harbour and as steady as a church steeple. It would be a different matter if she were rolling away across the Bay of Biscay with a strong breeze right aft; so you ought to be duly thankful to old Saunders for mastheading you without waiting till we get there. And now I’d advise you to have a look at the rules and regulations of the service. It will please old Rough-and-Ready if you can tell him you have employed your time up here studying them, but don’t forget you are up here, and go tumbling down on deck.”

I was very well disposed to follow Tom’s advice, and I held tight on with one hand while I pulled the paper out of my pocket and read a page or two relating to obedience to superiors. Having thus relieved my conscience, I took a look round at the beautiful panorama in the midst of which the ship floated: the wooded banks, the magnificent harbour dotted over with numerous vessels; ships of war and merchantmen,—the latter waiting for convoy,—while among the former was the admiral’s flag-ship riding proudly, surrounded by the smaller fry. The pretty town of Cove, with neat houses and villas on the one side, and the mouth of the river Lee, running down from Cork, to the westward.

Sooner than we expected we heard old Rough-and-Ready’s voice summoning us down. He was not an ill-natured man. He knew well that my fault had been unintentional, and that Tom had certainly not deserved any punishment at all, for grinning at a brother midshipman in his presence could scarcely be considered disrespectful.

“You may go through the lubber’s hole,” said Tom, when we reached the top.

“No, no. If you go round, I’ll go to,” I answered. For being thus put on my mettle, I determined to do whatever he did. By holding fast with my feet and following him, I managed to put them on the rattlings underneath, and thus, though I didn’t like it at all, got down on to the main rigging.

“Next time you run along the deck, youngster, you’ll look where you’re going,” said the first lieutenant, when I reached the deck.

“Ay, ay, sir,” I said, touching my hat.

“Did you read the rules and regulations?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I answered; “though I hadn’t time to get through them all.”

He was pleased with the respect I paid him.

“Well, you’ll know them by heart soon; and to ensure that, remember to take them with you whenever you’re mastheaded.”

“Of course, sir, if you wish it,” I answered.

He gave a comical look at me under his bushy eyebrows, and turned on his heel.

After this I accompanied Tom into the berth. Old Nettleship was there. I told him of the way the marine had behaved, and said that for the sake of keeping up the dignity of the midshipmen, I considered it necessary to make his conduct known, though I had no ill-feeling towards the man himself.

At this remark the old mate burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Midshipmen generally find it necessary to carry their dignity in their pockets; and I’d advise you, Paddy, to put yours there, though I approve of your spirit. The man will have been relieved some time ago, and you’ll find it difficult to recognise him among others.”

“Oh! I know his name—it was Tower,” I said in a tone of confidence.

At this there was a general roar of laughter.

“According to your notion all the jollies are Towers,” cried Nettleship, when he regained his voice. “Why, Paddy, the muskets are all marked with the name of the Tower of London, where the arms are stored before they are served out.”

“Shure how should I know anything about the Tower of London?” I asked. “I’m after thinking it’s a poor place compared with Castle Ballinahone.”

This remark produced another roar of laughter from my messmates.

“What are you after laughing at? I exclaimed. If any of you will honour us with a visit at Castle Ballinahone, you’ll be able to compare the two places, and my father and mother, and brothers and sisters, will be mighty plaised to see you.”

The invitation was at once accepted by all hands, though for the present my family were pretty safe from the chances of an inundation of nautical heroes.

“And what sort of girls are your sisters?” asked Sims, who, I had discovered, was always ready for some impudence.

“Shure they’re Irish young ladies, and that’s all I intend to say about them,” I answered, giving him a look which made him hold his tongue.

Still, in spite of the bantering I received, I got on wonderfully well with my new messmates; and though I had a fight now and then, I generally, being older than many of them, and stronger than others who had been some time at sea, came off victorious; and as I was always ready to befriend, and never bullied, my weaker messmates, I was on very good terms with all of them.

Tom Pim took a liking to me from the first, and though he didn’t require my protection, I felt ready to afford it him on all occasions. He was sometimes quizzed by Sims and others for his small size. “I don’t mind it,” he answered. “Though I’m little, I’m good. If I’ve a chance, I’ll do something to show what’s in me.” The chance came sooner than he expected. There were a good many raw hands lately entered, Larry among others. From the first he showed no fear of going aloft, looking upon the business much as he would have done climbing a high tree; but how the ropes were rove, and what were their uses, he naturally had no conception. “Is it to the end of them long boughs there I’ve got to go, Misther Terence?” he asked the first time he was ordered aloft, looking up at the yards as he encountered me, I having been sent forward with an order to the third lieutenant.

“There’s no doubt about it, Larry,” I said; “but take care you catch hold of one rope before you let go of the other,” said I, giving him the same advice which I had myself received.

“Shure I’ll be after doing that same, Misther Terence,” he answered, as, following the example of the other men, he sprang into the rigging. I watched him going up as long as I could, and he seemed to be getting on capitally, exactly imitating the movements of the other men.

A day or two afterwards we were all on deck, the men exercising in reefing and furling sails. The new hands were ordered to lay out on the yards, and a few of the older ones to show them what to do. Larry obeyed with alacrity; no one would have supposed that he had been only a few times before aloft. I had to return to the quarter-deck, where I was standing with Tom Pim, and we were remarking the activity displayed by the men. I saw Larry on the starboard fore-topsail yard-arm, and had just left Tom, being sent with a message to the gun-room, when, as my head was flush with the hatchway, I saw an object drop from the yard-arm into the water. It looked more like a large ball falling than a human being, and it didn’t occur to me that it was the latter until I heard the cry of “Man overboard!” Hastening up again, I sprang into the mizzen rigging, from which, just before I got there, Tom Pim had plunged off into the water. It was ebb tide, and a strong current was running out of the river Lee past the ship. The man who had fallen had not sunk, but was fast drifting astern, and seemed unconscious, for he was not struggling, lying like a log on the water. Tom Pim, with rapid strokes, was swimming after him. I heard the order given to lower a boat. Though not a great swimmer, I was about to follow Tom to try and help him, when a strong arm held me back.

“Are you a good swimmer, youngster?” asked the first lieutenant, the person who had seized hold of me.

“Not very,” I answered.

“Then stay aboard, or we shall be having to pick you up instead of saving the man who fell overboard. I know Pim well; he’ll take care of himself.”

Saying this, the lieutenant stepped in on deck again, taking me with him. While he superintended the lowering of the boat, I ran aft, and watched Tom and the drowning man. Just then I caught sight of the countenance of the latter, and to my dismay, I saw that he was no other than Larry Harrigan. The boats usually employed were away, and the one now lowered was not in general use, and consequently had in her all sorts of things which should not have been there. It appeared a long time before she was in the water. I watched my poor foster-brother with intense anxiety, expecting to see him go down before Tom could reach him. He was on the point of sinking when my gallant little messmate got up to him, and throwing himself on his back, placed Larry’s head on his own breast, so as completely to keep it out of the water. My fear was that Larry might come to himself and begin to struggle or get hold of Tom, which might be fatal to both. They were drifting farther and farther away from the ship. Tom had not uttered one cry for help, evidently being confident that the boat would be sent to pick them up. Every movement of his showed that he was calm, and knew perfectly what he was about. At length the boat was got into the water, the first lieutenant and four hands jumped into her, and away the men pulled as fast as they could lay their backs to the oars. It was blowing fresh, and there was a good deal of ripple in the harbour, so that the wavelets every now and then washed over Tom. Suddenly Larry, coming to himself, did what I feared; he seized hold of Tom, and in another instant would have dragged him down had not Tom dexterously got clear and held him up by the collar of his shirt. The boat was quickly up to them, and they were, to my intense satisfaction, safely hauled on board. She then rapidly pulled back to the ship, and both greatly exhausted, Larry being scarcely conscious, were lifted up on deck. McPherson, the assistant-surgeon, who had been summoned at once, ordered Tom to be taken below.

“Never mind me,” said Tom. “I shall be all to rights presently, when I’ve changed and had a cup of grog. You’ll let me have that, won’t you, McPherson? And now you go and attend to the poor fellow who wants you more than I do.”

“Vara true; he ought, from the way he fell, to have broken every bone in his body; and it’s wonderful he did not do it. He seems, indeed, not to be much the worse for his fall, except a slight paralysis,” he remarked when he had finished his examination. “Take him down to the sick bay, and I’ll treat him as he requires.”

I first went below to thank Tom Pim for saving my follower, and to express my admiration of his courage and resolution.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he answered; “I can swim better than you, or you’d have done the same.”

I then went forward, where I found Larry—his wet clothes stripped off—between the blankets, in a hammock.

The doctor administered a stimulant, and directed that he should be rubbed on the side on which he had fallen.

“Shure that’s a brave young gentleman to save me from going to the bottom, Misther Terence dear; and I’ll be mighty grateful to him as long as I live,” he said to me.

Having spent some time with Larry, who was ordered to remain in his hammock, I returned to the midshipmen’s berth.

All were loud in their praises of Tom. Tom received them very modestly, and said that though he felt very glad at being able to save the poor fellow, he didn’t see anything to be especially proud of in what he had done.

By the next morning Larry was almost well, only complaining of a little stiffness in one side of the body.

“He may thank his stars for being an Irishman,” said McPherson; “no ordinary mortal could have fallen from aloft as he did, into the water, without breaking his bones, or being stunned.”

Larry could scarcely believe that it was little Tom Pim who had saved him from drowning.

“Shure, young gintleman, I’ll be after lovin’ ye, and fightin’ for ye, and seein’ that no harm comes to ye, all the days of my life!” he exclaimed, the first time he met Tom afterwards on deck. “I’m mighty grateful to ye, sir, that I am.”

I was very sure that Larry meant what he said, and, should opportunity offer, would carry out his intentions.

We were seated talking in the berth after tea, when old Nettleship was sent for into the cabin. There were many surmises as to what the captain wanted him for. After some time, to my surprise, I was summoned. I found it was only Nettleship that wanted to see me on deck.

“Paddy,” he said, “we are to have an expedition on shore, and you are wanted to take part in it, and so is your countryman, Larry Harrigan. The captain, Mr Saunders, and I have planned it. We want some more hands, and we hear that there are a goodish lot hiding away in the town. They are waiting till the men-of-war put to sea, when they think that they will be safe. They are in the hands of some cunning fellows, and it’ll be no easy matter to trap them unless we can manage to play them a trick. I can’t say that I like particularly doing what we propose, but we’re bound to sacrifice our own feelings for the good of the service.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Of course I should be proud to be employed in anything for the good of the service.”

“All right, Paddy; that’s the spirit which should animate you. Now listen. Mr Saunders and I are going on shore with a strong party of well-armed men, and we want you and the boy Harrigan—or rather, the captain wants you, for remember he gives the order—to go first and pretend that you have run away from a man-of-war, and want to be kept in hiding till she has sailed. You, of course, are to dress up as seamen in old clothes—the more disreputable and dirty you look the better. We know the houses where the men are stowed away, in the lowest slums of Cork, and we can direct you to them. You’re to get into the confidence of the men, and learn what they intend doing; when you’ve gained that, you’re to tell them that one of the lieutenants of your ship is going on shore with a small party of men, to try and press anybody he can find, and that you don’t think he knows much about the business, as he is a stupid Englishman, and advise them to lie snug where they are. Then either you or Harrigan can offer to creep out and try and ascertain in what direction the press-gang is going. There are several houses together, with passages leading from one to the other, so that if we get into one, the men are sure to bolt off into another; and it must be your business to see where they go, and Harrigan must shut the door to prevent their escape, or open it to let us in. I now only describe the outlines of our plan. I’ll give you more particulars as we pull up the river. We shall remain at Passage till after dark, and you and your companion in the meanwhile must make your way into the town.”

“But shure won’t I be after telling a lie if I say that Larry and I are runaway ship-boys?” I asked.

“Hush, that’s a strong expression. Remember that it’s all for the good of the service,” said Nettleship.

Still I was not altogether satisfied that the part I was about to play was altogether an honourable one.

He, however, argued the point with me, acknowledging that he himself didn’t think so, but that we were bound to put our private feelings into our pockets when the good of the service required it. He now told me to go and speak to Larry, but on no account to let any one hear me, lest the expedition might get wind among the bumboat women, who would be sure to convey it on shore.

To my surprise, Larry was perfectly prepared to undertake the duty imposed on him, feeling flattered at being employed, and taking rather a pleasure at the thoughts of having to entrap some of our countrymen.

“They may grumble a little at first, but they’ll be a mighty deal better off on board ship than digging praties, or sailing in one of those little craft out there,” he said, with a look of contempt at the merchant vessels.

Mr Saunders took me into his cabin, and made me rig out in a suit of clothes supplied by the purser. I had to rub my hair about till it was like a mop; then, with some charcoal and a mixture of some sort, he daubed my face over in such a way that I didn’t know myself when I looked in his shaving-glass.

“You’ll do, Paddy,” said Nettleship when he saw me. “We must be giving a touch or two to Harrigan. He seems a sharp fellow, and will play his part well, I have no doubt.”

In a short time the boats were ready. We went with Mr Saunders and Nettleship in the pinnace. She was accompanied by the jolly-boat, which it was intended should convey Larry and me into the neighbourhood of the town. We were, however, not to go on board her until we reached Passage. The crew gave way, and as the tide was in our favour we got along rapidly. I found that the expedition we were engaged in was a hazardous one, especially for Larry and me; for should the men we were in search of discover who we were, they might treat us as spies, and either knock our brains out, or stow us away in some place from which we should not be likely to make our escape. This, however, rather enhanced the interest I began to feel in it, and recompensed me for its doubtful character.

Neither Mr Saunders nor Nettleship looked in the slightest degree like officers of the Royal Navy. They were dressed in Flushing coats; the lieutenant in a battered old sou’-wester, with a red woollen comforter round his throat; Nettleship had on an equally ancient-looking tarpaulin, and both wore high-boots, long unacquainted with blacking. They carried stout cudgels in their hands, their hangers and pistols being concealed under their coats. In about an hour and a half we reached Passage, when Nettleship and Larry and I got into the jolly-boat.

“I’m going with you,” said Nettleship, “that I may direct you to the scene of operations, and am to wait for Mr Saunders at the ‘Fox and Goose,’—a small public-house, the master of which knows our object and can be trusted.”

Nettleship, as we pulled away, minutely described over and over again what Larry and I were to do, so that I thought there was no chance of our making any mistake, provided matters went as he expected. It was dark by the time we reached Cork. The boat pulled into the landing-place, and Larry and I, with two of the men, went ashore, and strolled lazily along a short distance, looking about us. This we did in case we should be observed; but on reaching the corner, Larry and I, as we had been directed, set off running, when the two men returned to the boat, which was to go to another landing-place a little way higher up, whence Nettleship and his party were to proceed to our rendezvous. When we had got a little distance we pulled up, and to be certain that we had made no mistake, we inquired the name of the street of a passer-by. We found that we were all right. We now proceeded stealthily along to the lane where Mother McCleary’s whisky-shop was situated. I had no difficulty in recognising the old woman, as she had been well described to me. Her stout slatternly figure, her bleared eyes, her grog-blossomed nose,—anything but a beauty to look at. Her proceedings were not beautiful either. Going to the end of the counter where she was standing, I tipped her a wink.

“Hist, mither! Can yer be after taking care of two poor boys for a night or so?” I asked.

“Where do yer come from?” she inquired, eyeing us.

“Shure it’s from the say,” answered Larry, who had undertaken to be chief spokesman. “We’ve just run away from a thundering big king’s ship, and don’t want to go back again.”

“Why for?” asked the old woman.

“For fear of a big baste of a cat which may chance to score our backs, if she doesn’t treat us worse than that.”

Chapter Eight.

The press-gang.

“That’s a big thundering lie,” I heard Larry whisper.

“Come in,” said the old woman, lifting up the flap of the counter. “I’ll house yer if yer can pay for yer board and lodging.”

“No fear of that, ma’am,” I replied, showing some silver which I had ready in my pocket for the purpose.

“Come along, my boys,” she answered, her eyes twinkling at the thought of being able to fleece us, as she led us into a small room at the back of the shop.

There was no one else in the place at the time, except a boy attending to the counter, so that there was little chance of our being observed. Having lit a small lantern, the old woman drew aside a curtain at the further end of the room, which had served to conceal a strong-looking door; then taking a big key out of her pocket, she opened it, and told us to go through. Carefully closing the door behind her, she led the way along a narrow dark passage. It seemed of considerable length. At last we reached another door, and emerged into a court or alley, crossing which she opened a third door, and told us to pass through. We obeyed, and followed her past a couple of rooms, in one of which several men were sitting, drinking and smoking. Unlocking another door, she showed us into a much larger apartment than any we had as yet seen. Though low, it was spacious enough to be called a hall I took in the appearance of the place at a glance. On one side was a recess with a counter before it, at which a couple of damsels were serving out liquors and various sorts of provisions. At the further end, four large casks supported some planks which served as a platform, and on this a chair was placed,—the seat being evidently for a musician. Three doors besides the one by which we had entered opened from the room, which was occupied by a dozen or more rough-looking men, mostly sailors. Some were standing at the counter, others lounging on benches round the walls, most of them having dhudeens in their mouths. The place was redolent with the fumes of whisky and tobacco. No one took notice of us as we entered, but, seeing Mother McCleary, seemed satisfied that all was right.

“You’ll find a stair through that doorway,” she said, pointing to one near the orchestra, if so it could be called; “it will lead you to the sleeping-room, where you’ll be after finding some beds. You’ll remember that first come first served, and if you don’t be tumbling into one it will be your own fault, and you’ll have to prick for the softest plank in the corner of the room. Now, boys, you’ll be after handing me out a couple of shillings each. I don’t give credit, except to those I happen to know better than I do you.”

I paid the money at once for Larry and myself. The old woman, bidding us make ourselves at home, returned by the way she had come, locking the door behind her. I soon found that we were among as ruffianly and disreputable a set of fellows as I had ever fallen in with, but none of them interfered with us, and I began to doubt whether we should obtain the information we were in search of. To try to get into conversation with some one, we walked up to the counter, took a pork pie apiece, and called for a glass of whisky, which we prudently mixed with plenty of water. “Don’t be drinking much of it,” I said to Larry, “it’s as hot as fire.”

Two seamen then came up, and I asked one of them when the fun was to begin. Arrah, then it’ll be before long, when Tim Curtin, the fiddler, has come to himself; but he’s been drunk all the blessed morning, since last night, and they’re dousing him outside with cold water to bring him to. My new acquaintance being evidently inclined to be communicative, I plied him with further questions, and I gained his confidence by calling for another glass of whisky, with which I insisted on treating him. I, however, let Larry carry on the chief part of the conversation.

“If you’ve run from a man-of-war, you’ll have to lie snug as mice in their holes till she sails, or there’s three dozen at least for each of you, if they don’t run you up at the yard-arm, as they did at Portsmouth the other day to a poor boy, just because he wanted to go home to his wife and family,” said the man.

This, though a fact as far as the hanging was concerned, I hadn’t heard of before. Larry didn’t show that he doubted the truth of the story, but pretended to be very frightened.

“Thin what should we be after doing?” he asked.

“Why, as I tell yer,” he said, keep close; “you’ll be wise not to show your noses out of doors for a week or two to come, if you’ve got money enough to pay old Mother McCleary, for she doesn’t keep us boys for nothing, you may stake yer davey.”

“What should we be after doing, then, supposing the press-gang were to come down upon us and find us out?” asked Larry.

“It will be at the end of a long day before the press-gang get in here; but see now, there’s a room overhead where you can sleep secure, either in bed or out of it. Then there’s that door in the middle of the room, that leads to a long passage, just like the one you passed through when you came in here. At the end of it there’s a court, and on the opposite side you’ll find a door. Go through that when it opens, which it will do when you have given three raps quick together, and you’ll be in a house with well-nigh as many rooms and cellars as there’s days in the month. It will be a hard matter if you don’t stow yourselves away out of sight in one of them. I’ll be after showing you the way by and by, when the dancing is over, and we’ve had a few more glasses of Mother McCleary’s whisky.”

While our friend, whose name we had not as yet learned, was speaking, I observed several more persons entering the room; and presently others came in, carrying among them a humpbacked little fellow, with a fiddle under his arm, who seemed scarcely able to walk by himself. They made their way to the platform I have described, and speedily lifted him into the chair.

“Strike up, Tim,” cried several voices. “Give us a tune to set our feet agoing. Be alive, man, if you know now where you are.”

Tim, though apparently half-asleep, put his fiddle to his chin, and began scraping away, nodding his head and stamping with his foot in time to the tune he was eliciting from his instrument. The effect was magical. The whole party, men and women,—there were not a few of the latter, not among the most refined of their sex,—began dancing jigs. Tim next played slower, but his speed increased again as he saw the dancers warming to their work, till his bow moved so rapidly over the strings of his fiddle, and his arm and his head gave such eccentric jerks, that I half expected at any moment to see the one fly off at a tangent and the other come bounding into the middle of the room. Larry and I kept on one side, trying to look greatly interested with the performance, while we managed to have a few words now and then with some of the men, who were either seated on the benches or standing against the wall. Among them were several who had not the appearance of seamen, and who, I surmised, were highwaymen or housebreakers. Two of them were especially ruffianly looking. As I examined the countenance of one of these, I felt convinced that I had seen it before, and not long ago either. I was careful, however, that he should not discover that I was observing him. I took an opportunity of asking Larry if he knew who the man was.

“Shure it’s no other than Dan Hoolan himself,” he answered. I fancied that at length his keen eyes were directed on Larry, whom he was more likely to recognise than me, seeing that I was the most completely disguised of the two.

At length, having gained all the information we could, I determined to try and get out of the place, so that I might make my way to Nettleship, and show him the best situation for posting his men to capture any who might attempt to escape. It had been arranged that Nettleship’s party was to enter the grog-shop one by one; then, at a signal, force their way along the passage through which Mother McCleary had led us.

“I’m mighty afraid the press-gang will be coming this way, and if this hullaballoo reaches their ears, they’ll be after putting their noses in to see what the fun is about. If they’re from our own ship, bedad, we shall be worse off than we would have been outside,” I said to our new acquaintance, who, by this time, was not quite steady on his pins. “I’d just like to slip away, and try and find out if they’re near this at all. My mate here is plaised to stay behind, as he’s mighty eager to dance himself.”

After further pressing the point with all necessary caution, our new friend, Barney Reillagan, as he called himself, offered to show me the way out, and to let me in again when I wished to return.

“You’re free of the place, I’m supposing; and shure I am that I may be after trusting you,” he observed as he accompanied me into the passage I spoke of.

I hoped that we were unobserved by Hoolan or any of the other men, who might have suspicions of my true character. Larry followed so noiselessly, that I do not think Barney was aware he was with us. Larry’s object was to see that no harm came to me; and besides which, he wanted to learn how to let me in again on my return. Barney himself was apparently an open-hearted seaman, who preferred serving on board a peaceable trader to a man-of-war, and I had no fear of his playing me false.

We had to grope our way to the end of the passage, which was as long as he had described. Unbolting a door, Barney led me out into a narrow court. I could hear even there the strains of the riddle, and the shouts and screams of the dancers. Barney told me that if I turned to the left I should come to a narrow archway, which led into the lane, and that by turning again to the left, I should come to the front of Mother McCleary’s whisky-shop.

This information was sufficient to enable me to find my way without difficulty. I was somewhat surprised at the ease with which I had made my escape. I had little doubt of being able to bring Nettleship and his men up to the right place. My only anxiety was about Larry, who, if recognised by Dan Hoolan, might be severely handled, if not killed,—for so determined a ruffian was not likely to hesitate in committing any act, however atrocious, should he suspect Larry of treachery.

I slipped out into the court, and Barney closed the door after me. The night was very dark; but I could see two or three shadowy forms flitting by, though no one stopped me. Now and then a ruffian voice, a wild shriek, or a child’s cry, came from the narrow windows looking into the court. I walked on as fast as I could venture to move, till I found the narrow archway which Barney had described, and emerged into a lane, which, however, was not much broader than the court. Here the sounds of wrangling voices, and shouts, and the drunkards’ wild songs, broke the stillness of night. A few men rolled by, who had come out of Mother McCleary’s whisky-shop, or other similar establishments; but I carefully kept out of their way till I arrived at the “Fox and Goose,” where I expected to find Nettleship. It hadn’t occurred to me, however, that I might have been followed, and our plan for trapping the seamen discovered. I at once entered, and found my messmate with his men ready to set out.

“You’ve been longer than I expected, Paddy; but I hope it’s all right,” he said.

“If we are quick about it, I expect we shall catch a good number,” I answered. “Where is Mr Saunders? We shall require a strong party to overpower the fellows, especially as there are some desperate ruffians among them;” and I told him how I had discovered the outlaw, Dan Hoolan.

“Mr Saunders is waiting just outside, round the corner,” he said. “I’ll go out and tell him that you have come back, and meanwhile you remain here.”

In a short time Nettleship returned.

“You are to accompany Mr Saunders,” he said, “and lead his party round to the court, while I and my men take charge of Mother McCleary, so that no one may escape on this side.”

Mr Saunders welcomed me in a good-natured voice.

“You have done well thus far, my lad. I’ve no doubt that we shall trap some of them,” he said, when I had given a description of the place and the characters it contained. “I have got hold of a man who knows the town, and will lead us round by a different way to the court to that by which you escaped, while Nettleship goes directly up the lane,” he added. “Come along!”

We set out at a rapid rate; the men being charged to make as little noise with their feet as possible. We must have gone a considerable way round, for it seemed a long while before we reached the archway, which I at once recognised. The lieutenant led, with a pistol in one hand and his hanger in the other, knowing that he was likely to be treated with scant ceremony should he encounter any of the residents of that neighbourhood.

“Now,” he said to me, stopping, “do you creep forward and learn if Harrigan is at the door ready to open it. If not, wait to get in yourself, and then take the first opportunity of admitting us. If you can’t get in we must try and force the door open, but it would be a great matter to get along the passage, so as to rush in upon the fellows while they are at their revels, and before they expect our approach.”

As he spoke we could hear the sound of Tim Curtin’s fiddle, and the hum of voices coming from the interior of the building. Our fear was that any of the inmates of the neighbouring dens might be awake, and, catching sight of us, might give the alarm, and allow the men time to escape. As far as I had learned, however, the door we were now watching and Mother McCleary’s whisky-shop were the only outlets, though there might be underground passages and cellars and holes, where, should they stow themselves away, we might find it difficult to discover them.

As I crept forward, I felt my heart beating more than it was wont to do,—not from fear, certainly, but from anxiety to succeed. I didn’t like the business; I considered it a dirty one; but I was acting according to my orders, and for the good of the service. I had been told to give three rapid knocks, followed by others at short intervals, at the opposite door, and I concluded that this would be opened should I make the same signal. Without loss of a moment I knocked, and presently I heard a bolt withdrawn, then another and another.

“Is that yourself?” asked a voice that I knew to be Larry’s.

“Yes, to be shure, and no other,” I answered in the same tone.

The door opened slightly.

“They’re suspecting me,” said Larry. Be quick.

Mr Saunders, who was on the watch, hearing this, dashed forward, followed by his men. They sprang, led by the lieutenant, one after the other, into the passage, nearly knocking Larry and me over. There was not a moment to be lost, we knew, for the door at the further end was closed with a loud slam before we reached it, but not being as strong as the one on the outside, it was quickly battered in, when we caught sight of a dozen or more fellows, some trying to escape up-stairs, others through the two passages I have mentioned. Three or four of the men, however, stood their ground in front of the passage leading to the whisky-shop, with hangers or pistols in their hands, which they apparently had just taken up from the corner of the room where they had deposited them. Among these I recognised Dan Hoolan. Bestowing a not very complimentary epithet on Larry and me, he flourished his hanger and dared any one to come on and touch him.

“I and my friends here are not seamen,” he exclaimed. “You’re after trying to press some of the poor fellows, I suppose; but if any man tries to lay hands on me, he’ll be wise to say his prayers before he begins.”

“I intend to lay hands on you, and every fellow I find here,” said Mr Saunders. “Drop your hanger, or you’ll have to repent the day you drew it.”

Hoolan answered with a scornful laugh, and made a blow at the lieutenant, who, however, parried it.

At that moment the door behind him was burst open, and in rushed Nettleship and his party, who threw themselves at once upon Hoolan. The outlaw fired his pistol at my head, but fortunately his arm was thrown up, and the ball struck the ceiling. His men, seeing their leader overpowered, made but little resistance. But we had not yet got the men whose capture was desired. Mr Saunders, leaving Nettleship to secure those below, followed Larry and me up the stairs.

In the meantime the female part of the assemblage, some of whom had retired to different parts of the room, were saluting us with the most fearful cries and execrations. The lieutenant, however, took no more notice of them than if they had been so many lambs bleating, and at once hurried up the stairs to the room above, where we found well-nigh a score of men, some trying to make their way out of the window, but which, having been closed, they had only just then succeeded in opening; others hiding inside the beds or under them. Three or four got away, but the remainder were knocked over by our men, or captured without resistance, scarcely any attempting to defend themselves. Our success had been as complete as could have been hoped for. Our captives were quickly dragged down the stairs, when Mr Saunders ordered the women to clear out of the house forthwith, and proceeded to lash the hands of the men behind their backs. It was very easy to give the order to the women, but not so easy to get it obeyed. They shrieked and abused us in a way in which few of the female sex can beat the lower orders of my countrywomen. At length, however, finding that their eloquence had no effect, they retreated through the door that we had left open. It turned out that the means of escape were not so elaborate as had been supposed, and, as far as we could learn, all the men in the neighbourhood had on this occasion collected at Mother McCleary’s. Most of those we had captured behaved quietly enough, but Hoolan and two or three others made violent efforts to escape, till a prog or two from a cutlass compelled them to be quiet.

“And what are you going to do with me, a landsman who never was to sea in his life?” exclaimed Hoolan.

“We shall turn you into a sailor before long, my fine fellow,” answered Mr Saunders. “You’ll be wiser to walk along, and quietly too, as we’ve no time for nonsense.”

Our prisoners were now marshalled, in most cases with a seaman to attend to each. Hoolan had two to look after him, though one guard sufficed for some of the more peaceably disposed. Nettleship led the way, and Mr Saunders and I brought up the rear, Larry being employed in guarding a fellow twice his size, with orders to cut him down if he made any resistance.

“We must be out of this as fast as we can,” said Mr Saunders to me, “for very likely those fellows who made their escape will rouse their friends, and we may have a mob of all the ruffians in the town upon us before we can reach the boats.”

What had become of Mother McCleary and her assistants we could not tell. She probably thought it wise to keep out of the way, lest any of her late guests might suspect her of betraying them, as she probably had done. We had not got more than half-way towards the boats, when our ears were saluted by a chorus of yells and shrieks, and we could distinguish through the gloom on either side of us a mass of human beings, apparently intending to attempt the rescue of our prisoners.

“I warn you, good people, that if you come nearer, I’ll give my men orders to fire on you,” shouted my lieutenant.

A volley of wild yells burst from the mob, sufficient to unnerve many who had not before heard such cries. Directly afterwards a brickbat flew past my head, aimed, no doubt, at the more prominent figure of the lieutenant. Fortunately, it missed us both.

“Remember, if any of you are killed, you’ll have brought the punishment on yourselves,” again shouted the lieutenant.

Though the people yelled as before, the warning had its effect, and we could see the dark moving mass retreating to a more respectful distance. They, apparently, only wanted a leader to make an onslaught. That leader, however, was not to be found. Had Hoolan been at liberty, I have no doubt but that we should have fared but ill. As it was, missiles from a distance came flying by us, though the prisoners suffered more than we did. Mr Saunders was naturally anxious to avoid bloodshed. At length the boats were reached. Again Hoolan made a desperate effort to get free, but he was hauled on board, and thrust down to the bottom of the pinnace, the rest of the men being disposed of, some in her, and others in the jolly-boat, of which Nettleship took charge. As we shoved off the people collected on the quay, saluting us with renewed yells and execrations, and brickbats, stones, mud, and filth were hurled at us. We speedily, however, got beyond their reach, no one receiving any serious damage.

“We’ve made a fine haul,” observed Mr Saunders as we pulled down the river. “We shall soon turn these fellows into good seamen, as obedient and quiet as lambs.”

“I’m thinking, sir, that you’ll not find Dan Hoolan as quiet as a lamb,” I observed; and I told him of the encounter my uncle and I had had with the outlaw and his followers.

“That’ll make no difference,” answered Mr Saunders. “When he finds that he can’t escape, if he’s got any sense in his brains he’ll bend to circumstances.”

I still, however, doubted whether my lieutenant’s opinion would prove right.

When the boats arrived alongside the frigate, our captives, being unable to help themselves, were hoisted up like bales of goods, and made to stand on the deck in a line. They all looked sulky enough as the lantern was held up to their faces; but Hoolan’s countenance wore a ferocious aspect, which made me think that it would have been as well to have left him on shore to be hanged, which in all probability would ultimately have been his fate. Mr Saunders had changed his rough dress for his proper uniform, and as he went round to inspect the prisoners Hoolan recognised him, and so savage did he look that I thought he would have sprung at his throat.

“Are you the captain of the ship?” he asked in a fierce tone.

“No, I’m not the captain, but an officer, who you’ll be compelled to obey,” answered Mr Saunders, interrupting him. “Keep down what was rising to your tongue, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

“I’m no seaman, and I don’t want to be after going to sea; and I beg you to tell me for what reason you knocked me down against the law?”

“You were found among seamen, and if you’re not one we’ll make you one before long, my fine fellow,” said the lieutenant.

“Arrah, it’ll be a hard matter to do that same,” cried Hoolan, but he spoke in a less savage tone than at first.

“We shall see to that,” said Mr Saunders as he passed on to the other men, most of whom appeared quiet enough. Even Hoolan’s followers didn’t venture to say anything, having a just conception of the stern discipline on board a man-of-war. The execution of one or more seamen for frequent desertion, of which I have before spoken, showed them that they could not venture to play tricks with impunity.

Having had their names,—or such as they chose to give,—ages, and other particulars entered, they were sent down to the main-deck under a strong guard, with a hint that should they exhibit the slightest degree of insubordination it would be the worse for them.

The light of a lantern happened to fall on my face while I was passing Hoolan, who, with the rest, were seated on the deck, where they were to pass the remainder of the night. He started up, and glaring savagely at me, with a fierce oath exclaimed, as he stretched out his arm—

“There’s one of the young traitors who brought us into this trouble. I wish we had strung you up to Saint Bridget’s oak when we had you and your uncle in our power.”

“Then, as I thought, you are Dan Hoolan,” I said. “You have now a chance of leading an honest life, and I’d advise you to take advantage of it.”

Hoolan, without replying, sank back on the deck.

I was glad enough to turn in, and slept soundly till the hammocks were piped up next morning.

On coming on deck I saw Blue Peter flying at the masthead of our own ship, and at those of the two other men-of-war, a frigate and a corvette, and of all the merchantmen. The admiral fired a signal-gun. We repeated it, and before the smoke had cleared away the merchantmen let fall their topsails, we setting them the example; the anchor was hove up to the merry sound of the fife, and, taking the lead, we stood out of the Cove of Cork with a fair breeze, the other frigate and corvette acting as whippers-in.

The sky was clear and the sea smooth. We hove-to outside to wait for the vessels we were to convoy. In half an hour or so they were all out of the harbour. Besides the men-of-war there were fully sixty merchantmen; and a beautiful sight they presented, dotting the blue ocean with their white sails.

We were bound out to Jamaica, where we were to leave the larger number of vessels, and proceed with the others to their several destinations, having then to return to Port Royal. Two line-of-battle ships came out afterwards to convoy the fleet till we were well away from the coast, that, should we be seen by an enemy, it might be supposed that we were too strong a force to be attacked.

I should have said that when we were getting under weigh I saw Hoolan, and the other pressed men, dressed as man-of-war’s men, working away at the capstan. He evidently didn’t like his task, but could not help himself, as he had to go round with the others pressing against the capstan bars. He and the other landsmen were set to perform such work as they were capable of, of course being compelled to pull and haul when sail was made or shortened.

“I’m after thinking, Mr Terence, that Dan Hoolan, though he’s mighty quiet just now, will be playing us some prank or other before long, if he can find a chance,” observed Larry to me.

“Well, then, Larry, just keep an eye on him, and let me know what he’s about. I don’t want to make you an eavesdropper, but for the man’s own sake he must not be allowed to attempt any mischief. He’d be sure to have the worst of it.”

“Arrah now, of course he would, Mr Terence. They’re honest boys aboard here, and they’d soon clap him in limbo,” observed Larry as I passed on along the deck.

He had already become thoroughly imbued with the right spirit of a British seaman.

I gave myself, however, little concern about Hoolan after this.

For some time we had a favourable breeze; the sea was calm, and everything went smoothly. We had plenty of work keeping the squadron together, compelling the fast vessels to shorten sail, and the laggards to make it. Some ran on with only their topsails set. Others had studding-sails set on either side. We were all day long sending the bunting up and down, and firing guns as signals.

“Why are all those bits of coloured stuff hoisted to the masthead?” asked Larry. “They tell me that the captain makes the young gentlemen run them up and down to keep their fingers warm.”

I explained to him that each flag represented a figure or number, and sometimes a word or a sentence, according to the distinguishing pennant hoisted over it. For which purpose every vessel was provided with a book of signals, and we could thus communicate with each other just as if we were speaking.

Chapter Nine.

A fight at sea.

The ocean continued so calm, that Larry was quite cock-a-hoop, thinking that he had become a perfect seaman. “I have heard tell, Maisther Terence, that the say runs mountains high, for all the world like the hills of Connemara, but I’m after thinking that these are all landsmen’s notions. We have been getting along for all the world like ducks in a pond.”

The very next day, Larry had a different tale to tell. In the morning the line-of-battle ships parted from us, and we, the Amethyst frigate, and the Piper corvette, had to continue our course alone, to protect our somewhat erratic convoy. Dark clouds were seen coming up from the north-west. The scud sped across the sky, the spin-drift flying over the fast-rising seas. In a short time the ship began to pitch into them as if determined to hammer them down, but they, not inclined to receive such treatment patiently, sent masses of spray flying over our bows, as if to show what they were capable of doing, should she persevere in her attempt. The merchantmen on all sides were bobbing away, and kicking up their sterns in the same comical fashion; and even the other frigate and corvette were playing similar pranks. The tacks were got aboard, however, and on we all went together, now heeling over when a stronger blast than usual struck us, till the water came hissing in at our main-deck ports. Sail after sail was taken off the ship. Now she rose almost on an even keel, and then again heeled over as before. The convoy followed our example, though not with the same rapidity. The sheets had been let go, and the sails of some were flying wildly in the breeze. Three or four lost their loftier masts and lighter spars, but they were still compelled to keep up by the signals which we or the Amethyst threw out. At length I had to go aloft. I could not say that I liked it. It seemed to me that with the eccentric rolls the ship was making, I might at any moment be jerked off into the seething ocean; but I recollected Tom Pim’s advice, and held on with teeth and eyelids. I got on, however, very well while I was aloft, and I managed somehow or other to reach the deck. Then—oh! how truly miserable I began to feel. Every moment I became worse and worse. As it happened, my watch was just over, and I descended to the berth. When I got there my head dropped on the table. I felt as I had never felt before; as utterly unlike as could be the brave Tipperary boy I fancied myself.

“Why, Paddy, what’s come over you?” exclaimed Nettleship, who had just then come below. “Why, you look as if you had heard the banshee howl, or dipped your face into a pot of white paint.”

“Oh! oh!” I exclaimed, my lip curling, and feeling the most miserable of human beings, so I fancied. I could utter no other articulate sound.

“Get up, youngster, and dance a hornpipe,” cried Nettleship; “or I’ll just send to the galley for a lump of fat pork, and if you’ll swallow an ounce or so, it will do you all the good in the world.”

The very mention of the fat pork finished me off. I bolted out of the berth, which was to windward, and went staggering away to the opposite side of the ship, having made a vain attempt to get to the main-deck, upsetting Tom Pim in my course, and not stopping till I pitched right against Doctor McCall, our surgeon, much after the manner that I had treated old Rough-and-Ready. Our good medico, not being so secure as the lieutenant on his pins, was unfortunately upset, and together we rolled into his dispensary, out of which he was at that moment coming. There we lay, amidst a quantity of phials, jars, and gallipots, which, having been improperly secured, came crashing down upon us. The doctor kicked and struggled, and endeavoured to rise, but I was too far gone to make any effort of the sort. Had he been inclined, he might have pounded me to death before I should have cried out for mercy. I was unable even to say that I could not help it, though he must have known that well enough. I need not describe what happened. Fortunately he had got to his feet before the occurrence to which I wish only delicately to allude took place. I felt wonderfully better.

“Why, Paddy, is it you, my boy?” he exclaimed, not a bit angry; for being a good-natured man, he was ready to make every allowance for the occurrence.

“I believe it’s myself, sir; though I’m not altogether clear about it,” I answered as I got up and tried to crawl out of the place.

“Stay, youngster, you shall have something before you go which will set you to rights,” he said in a kind tone.

As well as he could, with the ship pitching and rolling, he poured out a mixture, which he handed to me, and bade me drink off. It revived me considerably, though I still felt very shaky.

“If I should ever want to have a leg or an arm cut off, I hope, sir, that you’ll do it for me,” I said, for I could think of nothing else at the moment to express my gratitude.

The doctor laughed. “I wish you better luck than that, my boy,” he observed. “What makes you say that?”

“Because, sir, you didn’t find fault with me for tumbling you over; now, when I ran against Mr Saunders, he sent me to the masthead for a couple of hours.”

“You were skylarking then, my lad, and the ship was not pitching and tumbling about as she now is,” he said. “However, go and lie down in the berth, if you can find room there, and you’ll soon be all to rights.”

I willingly obeyed his injunctions, while he sent to have his dispensary cleaned, and the phials and gallipots which had escaped fracture picked up. I believe a good many were saved by tumbling upon us instead of upon the deck.

As Nettleship and the other midshipmen were merciful, I managed to have a good caulk on the locker. When I awoke I felt almost like myself again. I dreaded, however, having to go on deck to keep watch, and was much inclined to ask the doctor to put me on the sick list.

In my sufferings I had not forgotten my follower, Larry. As soon as I could, I hastened forward to see how he was getting on, as I had ascertained that it was his watch below.

As I got forward, a scene of human misery and wretchedness presented itself, such as I had never before witnessed. Half the marines were lying about the deck, unable to lift up their heads, while most of the boys were in the same condition. Among them I found Larry. He gazed at me with lack-lustre eyes as I approached.

“Shure, the say’s not at all at all the place I thought it was, Mr Terence,” he groaned forth. “I’ve been turned inside out entirely. I don’t even know whether the inside of me isn’t the outside.”

There was a general groan, as the ship at that moment pitched into a sea, and I had to hold on fast, or I should have been sent in among the mass of human misery. When she rose again and was steady for an instant, I was able to speak to Larry.

“I can’t say I feel very comfortable myself,” I said; “but rouse up and try to prevent your feelings from overcoming you.”

“Och, Master Terence, but my faylings are mighty powerful, and for the life of me I can’t master them,” he groaned out.

This was very evident; and what with the smells and the closeness of the air,—not to speak of the pitching and rolling of the ship,—I was again almost overpowered, when there came a cry of “All hands save ship!” and down sprang the boatswain’s mates, and began kicking away at the hapless marines and green hands. Larry in a moment leaped to his feet I heard a savage growl close to me, and just then caught sight of Dan Hoolan’s countenance. Though he was kicked and cuffed, nothing would make him get up, and I saw him still lying prostrate when I hurried off to gain the deck.

The ship, struck by a heavy squall, was lying over almost on her beam-ends; the officers were shouting out their orders through their speaking-trumpets; the men were hurrying here and there as directed, some going aloft, others letting fly tacks, and sheets clewing up and hauling down. Suddenly the buoyant frigate righted herself. It seemed a wonder that none of the men were jerked overboard. The canvas was further reduced, and on we went, pounding away into the seas.

Larry was as active as any one. He seemed to have forgotten all about his sickness. It was the last time, too, that I ever suffered from the malady, and from that day forward—blow high or blow low—I felt as easy in my inside as I should on shore. A few spars had been carried away on board the merchantmen, but, as far as we could see, no other damage had occurred.

In a couple of days more the gale had completely worn itself out, and everything went as smoothly as heretofore. We were then within about a week’s sail of the West Indies. The weather was now warm and pleasant,—sometimes, during a calm, a little too hot.

One morning, just at daybreak, the look-out from the masthead announced that he saw three sail to windward. The second lieutenant went aloft, and looked at them with his glass. When he came down he pronounced two of them to be frigates, and the other a smaller vessel. We threw out signals to the convoy to keep together, while we and the other two men-of-war, hauling our wind, stood closer to the strangers. At first it was supposed that they were English, but their manoeuvres made us doubt this, and at length they were pronounced decidedly French. That they intended to pick off some of the merchantmen there could be no doubt; and this it was our object to prevent.

“Paddy, my boy,” said Tom Pim, coming up to me as I stood looking at the enemy from the quarter-deck, “we shall have some righting before long, no doubt about that. How do you feel?”

“Mighty pleased, and very ready for it,” I answered.

“We’re fairly matched, I should think,” remarked Tom. “If we could count the guns of the enemy, I suspect there would not be found the difference of half a dozen between us. All depends on the way our ships are manoeuvred, and how we fight our guns,—though I’ve no fear on that score.”

It was soon evident that Captain Macnamara intended to fight, and the order was given to clear the ship for action. The drum beat to quarters. All hands went about their duties with alacrity. I was sent down into the cockpit with a message. There I found the surgeons making their preparations; with their tourniquets, saws, knives, and other instruments, arranged ready for the expected operations; and there were buckets, and bowls of water, and sponges, and various other things likely to be required. In the centre was the amputating table, on which, before long, some poor fellow would probably be stretched, to be deprived of a leg or an arm; while an odour of vinegar pervaded the place.

The powder magazine had been opened. The gunner and his mates were engaged in serving out the ammunition, which the powder-monkeys were carrying up on deck in their tubs. Cutlasses were girded on, and pistols stuck in belts. Boarding pikes were arranged so as to be easily seized if wanted. The men, hurrying to their respective guns, loaded and ran them out; and as I passed along the decks I remarked their countenances all exhibiting their eagerness for the fight.

Among them I observed Hoolan, who had been stationed at a gun. He was apparently as ready to fight as any one on board. His features were as stern and morose as ever, but there was a fire in his eye, which showed that he contemplated the approaching battle with more pleasure than fear. Judging from the look of the men captured with him, I couldn’t say the same of them. The crew generally were full of life and spirits, laughing and joking, as if they had forgotten altogether that in a short time they would be engaged in a fierce fight. I found Larry at his gun, looking as pleased as if he were at a wake or a wedding.

“Shure we’ll be after making this fellow bark, Maisther Terence,” he said, slapping the breach. “If the old chap doesn’t drill a hole in the side of one of those ships out there, or knock away one of their masts, say I’m not a Tipperary boy.”

His remark produced a laugh among the seamen within hearing,—indeed they evidently thought that whatever Larry said ought to be considered as a good joke. Larry seemed to have a notion that his especial gun was to win the battle. As a similar feeling seemed to animate the rest of the crew, it was likely to contribute to our success.

We were still some distance from the enemy, when Tom Pim, Chaffey, and I were summoned to the quarter-deck, to act as the captain’s aides-de-camp, so that I was enabled to see all that was going forward. The rest of the midshipmen were stationed mostly on the main-deck, each in command of a certain number of guns.

The Liffy leading, we were now standing close hauled towards the enemy, who approached us almost before the wind.

The Amethyst came next to us, and the corvette followed. We hoped that within another ten minutes we should get within range of the others guns, when suddenly the enemy’s leading frigate hauled her wind. Her consorts immediately afterwards followed her example. On seeing this, our captain ordered every stitch of canvas the Liffy could carry to be set, when, the breeze freshening, we rapidly came up with the enemy. I heard some of the officers say that they intended to make off. The men at the gun near which I was standing swore at their cowardice, and I began to think that there would be no fight after all.

Presently the French ships were seen to shorten sail, when our captain sent the hands again aloft to do the same. They had barely time to come down and return to their quarters, when a shot, fired by the leading French frigate, came flying across our deck. No one was hit, but a hammock and part of the hammock-nettings were knocked away. It showed what we had to expect.

I expected that the captain would return the compliment, but he waited calmly till we got nearer. We were to leeward, it must be understood; but although that would have been a disadvantage had there been any sea running, as the ocean was calm it didn’t make much difference, while we were thus better able to protect our convoy, and prevent the enemy from running among them and committing mischief.

Again the breeze freshened, and standing on, we passed the corvette, which fired a few shots at us without doing any damage. We then received a similar compliment from the second French frigate, several of her shots striking the Liffy. In a few minutes we were up to our largest antagonist. As our bow gun came abreast of her quarter, our captain shouted, “Fire!” and gun after gun was discharged in rapid succession, the enemy blazing away at us in return.

The Amethyst was meantime engaged with the second frigate, and the corvette with the French ship of the same size as herself.

Shot after shot came on board. First one man was struck down, then another and another, and several were carried below to be placed under the hands of the surgeons. Some were drawn aside, their fighting days over. What damage we were producing among the enemy could not at first be ascertained, for all the ships, from our rapid firing, were enveloped in clouds of smoke. Looking up, I could see that our sails were pierced in several places. Crash succeeded crash, as the enemy’s shot struck our sides or bulwarks, and sent the splinters flying about in all directions.

It was somewhat trying work for us, who had nothing to do except to keep our eyes upon the captain, in case he should have any orders to give us.

We had made sure of capturing one of the French ships, if not all.

Presently, looking astern, I saw the fore-yard of the Amethyst come down on deck, and shortly afterwards our fore-top mast was carried away. Our captain, hitherto so calm, stamped his foot on the deck with vexation. Our men, to make amends, tossed their guns in and out as if they had been playthings, firing away with wonderful rapidity; and I believe the gun at which Larry was stationed fully carried out his promise of drilling more than one hole in the side of our opponent. Her masts and spars were entire, as were those of the other frigate, but their bulwarks were shattered in several places, which was evident by the white streaks their sides exhibited.

“Blaze away, my lads,” cried the captain. “We’ll still have one of them, at least, for they’ll not long stand the pounding you’re giving them.”

Our crew cheered in reply; but just as we had delivered another broadside, signals having been made on board the leading French frigate, her crew were seen going aloft, and presently the courses, topgallant sails, and royals were set, and she stood away close hauled, the other frigate and corvette doing the same.

Neither the Amethyst nor we were in a condition to follow, and to our vexation, we saw the enemy escaping from us. That we had given them a good pounding was very evident; but whether or not after repairing damages they would renew the contest was doubtful.

The little Piper, being uninjured aloft, gallantly followed, and kept blazing away at the enemy, till the captain made a signal to her to return, fearing that she might be overpowered and cut off before we could sufficiently repair damages to go to her assistance. She obeyed the order, and the Frenchmen didn’t follow her. She had received less damage aloft than we had, though, as we afterwards found, she had lost several men killed and wounded. As she came within hail, she reported that the largest of the French frigates was pumping hard, and had evidently received much damage, while the second was not in a much better condition.

This accounted for their not wishing to continue the combat, and standing away, while it seemed doubtful whether they would venture to renew it.

We had plenty of work in repairing damages, clearing away the wreck of the fore-top mast, and getting a new one ready to send aloft. We could distinguish the convoy hull down to leeward, waiting the result of the fight.

I asked Nettleship whether he thought, as soon as we had got to rights, that we should follow the enemy.

“If our captain were to act as his feelings prompt him, I should have no doubt about it,” he answered. “Fighting Macnamara, as he is known in the service, would not let an enemy escape if he could help it; but duty before all other things, and our duty is to protect the convoy under our charge. If we were to go in chase of the enemy, we might lose sight of the merchantmen, and any rascally privateers might pounce down and carry off the whole lot of them. My belief therefore is, that we shall bear up and let the Frenchmen go their way. It is not likely, after the taste they have had of our quality, that they’ll again molest us.”

Nettleship was right. The captain ordered the corvette to run down to the convoy to direct them to stand on under easy sail till we should join them. The captain and Mr Saunders, and the other officers, were exerting themselves to the utmost to get the ships to rights. The former sent me down into the cockpit, to learn from the doctor how the wounded men were getting on, and how many had been killed. I turned almost sick as I entered the place. There was anything but a fresh smell there now. I can’t properly describe it,—perhaps it was more like the odour of a butcher’s shop in the dog days, when the blue-bottles are revelling in the abundance hung up for their inspection. One poor fellow lay stretched on the table. The doctor was just then too busy to speak to me. I saw a foot sticking out of a bucket. It belonged to a leg which had just been taken off the man, who was in a dead faint. The assistant-surgeon was endeavouring to restore him to consciousness, while the surgeon was engaged in taking up the arteries. Another, who had lost an arm, was lying on a locker, waiting to be carried to the sick bay; and several others sat round with their heads and shoulders bandaged up. At last the doctor looked up, and I then delivered my message. “Five killed and nine wounded, and I’m afraid one or two of the latter may slip through my fingers,” he said. I was thankful when I was able to hurry back on deck with my report. The captain was not addicted to the sentimental, but I heard him sigh, or rather groan, after I had delivered it. As soon as any of the men could be spared, the bodies of the killed were sewn up in canvas, with shot at their feet. As we had no chaplain on board, the captain read a portion of the burial service, and the sound of quick successive plunges told that they had sunk into their ocean grave. We and the Amethyst then stood away after the convoy.

“Our first action has not been a very glorious one,” I observed, when most of the mess was once more assembled in the berth. “I made sure we should have captured one of those frigates.”

“It has been a successful one, Paddy, and we should be content with that,” said Nettleship. “If we had taken one of the enemy, we should be probably more knocked about than we are, and should have delayed the merchantmen, or allowed them to run the risk of being captured. Depend upon it, our captain will get credit for what he has done, and the credit he gets will be reflected on us.”

The wind fortunately continued fair, the sea smooth, and by the time we sighted Jamaica we were again all ataunto. Having seen the greater part of our charge into Port Royal, and sent the wounded ashore to the hospital, we stood on with the remainder of the merchantmen to Barbadoes and other islands, where we left them in safety, and then made our way back to Port Royal. We saluted the forts, and the forts saluted us; flags were flying, the sea glittering, and everything looked gay and bright as we entered that magnificent harbour.

“Shure it’s a beautiful place this, Misther Terence,” said Larry to me, as, the anchor being dropped, and the sails furled, we lay floating calmly on the placid waters. “There’s only one place to my mind that beats this, and that’s Cork harbour, though, to be sure, the mountains there are not so high, or the sky so blue as out here.”

“Or the sun so hot, Larry,” I remarked, “or the people so black. Did you ever see Irishmen like that?” and I pointed to a boat manned by negroes just coming alongside. Larry had never before seen a blackamoor, for, as may be supposed, Africans seldom found their way into Tipperary.

“Shure, your honour, is them Irishmen?” he asked.

“Speak to them, and you’ll soon find out, and they’ll tell you how long it has taken the sun to blacken their faces.”

“Then, Misther Terence, shall we be after getting our faces painted of that colour if we stay out here?” he inquired with some trouble in the tone of his voice.

“Depend upon it, Larry, we shall if we stay long enough,” I answered. I left Larry to reflect on the matter. I remembered a story I had heard of an Irishman who had gone out intending to settle in Demerara, where a large proportion of the white population have come from the Emerald Isle. As soon as the ship had dropped her anchor a number of blacks came off to her. The first he spoke to answered in a rich Irish brogue. The new-comer looked at the negro with astonishment.

“What’s your name, my man?” he asked. “Pat Casey,” was the answer.

“And, Pat, say as you love me, how long have you been out here?”

“Little better than six years, your honour,” was the reply, such being the time that had elapsed since the negro had been imported, having in the meantime had an Irish name given him, and learned to speak Irish.

“Six years, and you have turned from a white-skinned Irishman into a blackamoor!” exclaimed the new-comer; and not waiting for an answer, he rushed down into the cabin, which he could not be induced to quit until the ship sailed again, and he returned home, satisfied that the West Indies was not a country in which he could wish to take up his abode.

Not long after the conversation I have mentioned, Larry came up to me.

“I’ve been after talking, Misther Terence, with some of those black gentlemen, and shure if they’re from the old country they’ve forgotten all about it, which no raal Irishman would ever do, I’ll stake my davey!” he exclaimed. “They’ve never heard of Limerick, or Cork, or Waterford, or the Shannon, or Ballinahone, and that proves to me that they couldn’t have been in the old country since they were born. And now, Misther Terence dear, you were joking shure,” he added, giving me one of his comical looks.

“Well, Larry,” I said, “it’s a satisfaction to know that it will take us a long time to turn into niggers, or to forget old Ireland.”

As no one was near, I asked him how Dan Hoolan and the other pressed men were behaving.

“That’s just what I wanted to be speaking to you about, Misther Terence,” he answered. “I’m after thinking that they’ll not be on board many days if they get a chance of slipping on shore. I heard them one day talking about it in Irish, forgetting that I understood what they were saying; and as we had a hand in the taking of them, says I to myself, we’ll not let you go so aisy, my boys, and I’ll be after telling Misther Terence about it.”

“You have acted rightly, Larry,” I answered. “It’s the duty of every seaman to prevent mutiny or desertion, and if you hadn’t told me the fellows might have got off, though, to be sure, the best of them are king’s hard bargains.”

I took an early opportunity of telling Mr Saunders.

“Thank you, my lad,” he answered; “I’ll take care that an eye is kept upon them.”

Soon afterwards, while looking over the side, I saw a dark, triangular object gliding by at no great distance from the ship. It went about when it got under the stern, and appeared again on the other side. Mr Saunders saw it also.

“Lads,” he said, “do you know what that is? You may have heard of Port Royal Jack. That’s him. He’s especially fond of seamen’s legs, and if any of you were to go overboard, he’d snap you up in a minute.”

The word was passed along the deck. Half the crew were now in the rigging, taking a look at their enemy, and among them were Dan Hoolan and his companions. I observed a flesh-coloured mass floating a short distance off. Presently the black fin sank; a white object appeared for a moment close to the surface, and a huge mouth gulped down the mass, and disappeared with it beneath the water. It was a lesson to any one who might have attempted taking a swim to the shore.

Chapter Ten.

A fight ashore.

I have not attempted to describe Port Royal Harbour. It is large enough to hold 1000 sail. The entrance is on the left side. A strip of sand, known as the Palisades, runs east and west with the town of Port Royal, surrounded with heavy batteries at the further end. Here are the dockyard and naval arsenal, and forts with heavy guns completely commanding the entrance.

At the eastern end stands Kingston, the commercial town, before which the merchantmen bring up, while the men-of-war ride at anchor nearer the mouth. A lofty range of hills, with valleys between them, rise beyond the northern shore. Altogether, it is a grand place, and especially grand it looked just now, filled with a fleet of ships and smaller men-of-war.

Our captain, with the second lieutenant, the captain of the Amethyst, and the commander of the corvette, went on shore, and were warmly welcomed by the merchants, who said that they had rendered them signal service in so gallantly protecting the convoy. They presented each of the commanders with a piece of plate and a sum of money, to show their gratitude.

“I told you so,” said Nettleship when we heard of it; “we did our duty on that occasion, though it was a hard trial to have to let the enemy escape,” As we were likely to be detained a week to replace our fore-top mast, to repair other damages, and to get stores and fresh provisions on board, most of our mess by turns got leave to go on shore, where, down to Tom Pim, we were all made a great deal of by the planters and merchants. We were invited to breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, and dances every night. Most of our fellows lost their hearts to the dark-eyed Creoles, and Tom Pim confided to me that a lovely little damsel of fifteen had captured his.

“I didn’t intend to strike to her, but I couldn’t help it, for she blazed away at me with her smiles, and glances of her dark eyes, and her musical laughter, till I could stand them no longer, and I promised that when I become a commander I will return and marry her forthwith, if she will remain faithful to me.”

“And what did she say?” I asked.

“She laughed more than ever, and inquired how long it was likely to be before I could get my promotion. When I said that it might be in five or six, or perhaps eight years, she remarked that that was a terrible long time to wait, and that though constancy was a very fine thing, it didn’t do to try it too much.”

Irishmen have susceptible hearts, I’ve heard, but I can’t say that I lost mine to any one in particular.

We had altogether a very jolly time of it, which we enjoyed all the more because we knew that it must soon come to an end.

Tom Pim and I, who were inseparable, were at a party one evening, when a good-natured looking gentleman came up to us. “I see that you have been dancing with my little daughter Lucy,” he said, addressing Tom. “May I ask your names, and the ship to which you belong?” We told him.

“She’s not likely, I understand, to sail for some days, and if you can obtain leave I shall be very happy to see you at my country house, some few miles away from this,” he said. “My name is Talboys, and as I’m well known to Captain Macnamara I’ll write a note, which you can take on board, asking him or his first lieutenant to give you leave for a couple or three days,—the longer the better,—and to allow any other midshipmen who can be spared to accompany you.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” I answered; “but we have to return on board to-morrow morning by daylight, and I’m afraid that Mr Saunders won’t be inclined to let us go ashore again.”

“There’s nothing like asking,” he observed; “and I think that he’ll not refuse my request, so you had better try.”

Taking us into an ante-room, he wrote the promised note, of which Tom Pim took charge. He told us, if we could obtain leave, to meet him at Mammy Custard’s boarding-house, an establishment much frequented by midshipmen and other junior officers of the service. We had hitherto not slept on shore, but we knew the house well.

The ball was kept up to a late hour. As soon as it was over we repaired to the quay, where several boats were waiting to take off those who had to return to their ships.

Tom and I agreed that we had very little chance of getting leave, but that we should not refuse it if we did. The sky was clear as Nora Creina’s eye; every star was reflected on the calm surface of the water in the harbour. We were all inclined to be jolly—officers and men. Our tongues went rattling merrily on. Now and then there came a peal of laughter, now snatches of songs. We had got more than half-way down the harbour when the officer in command sang out, “Mind your helm. Where are you coming to?”

At that instant we ran slap into a shore-boat pulled by negroes, and stove in her bows. Loud shrieks and cries arose from the black crew, who began to scramble into our boat,—the wisest thing they could do, considering that their own was sinking.

“Oh, we all drown! we all drown!” they cried in loud tones. “Jack shark catch me!”

The four blacks had saved themselves, but there were two passengers in the stern-sheets who appeared to be less in a hurry to get on board. Presently, however, finding the boat settling down, one of them made a spring and tumbled on board.

“Why, Tim Connor, where did you come from?” asked one of our men. At that moment the other man, instead of trying to save himself, plunged into the water, and began swimming towards the southern shore. Perhaps he thought that he might escape in the confusion unperceived, but our lieutenant caught sight of him.

“Never mind the boat,” he exclaimed. “Out oars. We must get hold of that fellow, whoever he is.”

We were not long in coming up with the bold swimmer, who, speedily caught by the hair of his head, was hauled on board, in spite of his struggles to get free. As he was hauled aft by the orders of the lieutenant, I recognised Dan Hoolan.

“Who gave you leave to go on shore, my men?” asked the lieutenant.

“Plaise yer honour,” answered Tim Connor, “we were only going for a spree, and intended being off again in the mornin’.”

Dan Hoolan sat sulkily, with his hands between his knees, not deigning to reply.

“You’ll find that you’ll have to pay somewhat heavily for your spree,” remarked the lieutenant.

“Seeing as we’ve not had it,” I heard Tim mutter.

By the time we had got back to the boat she had almost disappeared, and we could only pick up a few of the remaining articles she had contained.

A sharp look-out was kept on the two men, who had evidently intended to desert. No further words were exchanged with them. Both sat with downcast looks, probably well aware of the punishment they had brought on themselves.

On reaching the ship they were handcuffed, and placed under charge of a sentry. Tom and I had to keep our watch, and got but little sleep that night.

As soon as we could we presented our note to Mr Saunders.

“Why, you lads are always wanting to go on shore,” he observed dryly; “one would suppose you were born on shore. However, as you conduct yourselves well, you may have the leave your friend asks for, and may return by the first boat to Kingston.”

“Thank you, sir,” we answered, highly delighted. “And may Sinnet and Chaffey go too?” I asked.

“Were they invited?” he inquired.

“We were desired to bring two more of our mess, and we thought that they could be best spared, sir.”

“Yes, they may go,” said Mr Saunders.

Without delay we conveyed the pleasant intelligence to them. Before long we were again pulling up the harbour, and thus escaped seeing the punishment inflicted on my unfortunate countrymen. I knew that they deserved it, and therefore didn’t trouble my head much about the matter. We repaired at once to Mammy Custard’s, and had not been there long before Mr Talboys made his appearance.

“Glad you have got leave, my young friends,” he said, shaking us all by the hands, as we introduced Sinnet and Chaffey. “The carriages will soon be at the door; but you must take some refreshment before we start, to fortify the inner man for the fatigues of the journey.”

Having told Mammy Custard to place luncheon on the table, and desired us to commence operations without waiting for him, he went out, and left us to discuss the viands and refreshing beverages.

We had just finished when Mr Talboys returned, with his daughter, in one buggy, into which he invited me to mount, while he told Tom, Sinnet, and Chaffey to get into the other, which was driven by a black boy. As soon as we had taken our seats, the carriages dashed off, and away we went in a fine style out of Kingston. I’m no hand at describing scenery, nor can I remember the names of the tropical trees which grew in rich profusion on both sides of the road, the climbing plants, the gaily-coloured flowers, and other vegetable wonders. Miss Lucy and I chatted away right merrily. I couldn’t help thinking how jealous Tom would be, and I would very gladly for his sake have changed places with him.

“And what do you think of Jamaica?” asked her papa after we had gone some distance.

“It’s a wonderfully fine country, sir,” I answered. “And if it were not that I love Ballinahone more than any other place on earth, I shouldn’t be sorry to take up my abode here when I become a post-captain or an admiral, and wish to settle down for life, should peace be established, and my country not be requiring my services.”

“We have our little drawbacks, however,” observed Mr Talboys. “You have not been here in the hot season yet. We now and then have an outbreak of the blacks, for the rascals—strange to say—are not contented with their lot. Occasionally too, we are attacked by foreign foes, but we Jamaica men are right loyal, and are prepared to defend our shores against all comers.”

“I thought that the blacks were merry peaceable fellows, who never think of rebellion,” I observed.

“Nor would they, if they were not put up to it by designing knaves. But in different parts of the island we have had half a dozen outbreaks within my recollection, and not a few before it. Some have been instigated by the enemies of our country; others by newly imported slaves, who have been chiefs, or kings, as they call themselves, in Africa; and on some occasions the Maroons have taken it into their foolish heads to rebel. They are, as you’re doubtless aware, free blacks, who live an independent vagabond life on the mountains, and are too ignorant and savage to know that they have no chance of success.”

“But I hope, sir, that they’re quiet now, or it can’t be very pleasant for you to live so far away from the city.”

Mr Talboys laughed. “My negroes are quiet and obedient, and I should get information in good time were anything likely to happen,” he answered.

“No one would think of attacking our house,” put in Miss Lucy. “We are well prepared, and they would gain nothing by the attempt.”

We drove on through fine and wild romantic scenery, each turn of the road bringing us to some new point of view. We passed a beautiful waterfall, the bottom and sides of which appeared as if composed of glass or porcelain; it consisted of a number of steps rising up the sides of the hill. These, my friend told me, were incrustations which had formed themselves over the roots of trees growing on either side. The water came flowing down over them, transparent as crystal, and as the rays of sunlight played between the waving branches of the trees, the water glittered with a thousand variegated tints. We descended from our carriages to enjoy a more perfect view. Tom and Charley took it into their heads to attempt walking across some of the steps. Tom ran lightly over them; but Chaffey, while following in his wake, being twice as heavy, broke through the incrustation, and in he soused. He quickly managed, however, to scramble out again, though not until he was wet through nearly up to his middle.

“Why, I thought it was all hard stone,” he exclaimed as he reached dry ground.

We all had a hearty laugh at his expense. In that climate a ducking doesn’t much matter, and he was dry again before we had proceeded much further on our journey.

Late in the evening we caught sight of a long low building, with a broad verandah, surrounded with plantations, and a garden of fruit-trees on the gentle slope of a hill. As we got near, a shout from the master brought out several black boys, accompanied by a number of barking dogs, who welcomed us by leaping round the horses’ heads, and yelping and frisking about with delight.

Mr Talboys jumped out, and Lucy leapt into his arms, while I descended on the other side. A stout lady in a sky-blue dress, accompanied by three small damsels in low white frocks, and a little boy in scanty clothing, appeared at the top of the steps. Lucy, running up, kissed them all round, and then Mr Talboys introduced us in due form to his wife and younger daughters.

After a little conversation Madam Talboys led us into a handsome hall, with a table in the centre, on which ample preparations for supper were spread, the light from a dozen wax candles falling on the cut glass, the silver forks and glittering steel, and an épergne filled with fragrant flowers, surrounded by dishes containing salads, fruits of every description, and other cold viands.

“The young gentlemen would like to wash their hands before they commence operations,” said Mr Talboys; and he ushered us into a room off the great hall, in which were four snow-white beds, with muslin curtains closely drawn round them, and wash-hand basins filled with deliciously cool water.

We lost no time in plunging our faces into them, arranging our hair, and making ourselves neat and comfortable.

“I say, we have fallen into pleasant quarters,” exclaimed Chaffey. “We owe it all to you, Tom. If you hadn’t paid attention to Miss Lucy, we should not have been here.”

“Belay the slack of that,” cried Tom. “Our host might overhear you, and he wouldn’t be pleased; nor would Miss Lucy herself.”

We were quickly ready; and just as we returned to the hall several black boys entered, each carrying a steaming dish, on which we fell to, when helped, with keen appetites. Two other gentlemen came in,—an overseer and a head clerk on the estate. We all laughed and talked at a great rate. The overseer, Mr Rabbitts, at the request of our host, sang a good song. The clerk followed with another. Then Miss Lucy got her guitar, and warbled very sweetly. Altogether we were merry as crickets.

At length our host remarked that we must be tired, and led us to our sleeping-room. We soon had our heads upon the pillows, with the mosquito curtains drawn close around us.

Though midshipmen are rightly supposed to sleep soundly, I was awakened by fancying that the doctor was running his lancet into me, and was about to assure him that he was operating by mistake on me instead of on some other patient, when I heard a loud whizzing, buzzing sound. I hadn’t been careful enough in closing the curtains, and a big mosquito had got in, and was revelling in my fresh blood. I tried in vain to catch the active creature, who was soon joined by others of his abominable race. The humming concert was increased by countless other sounds, which came through the open window,—the croaking of frogs and tree-toads, the chirping and whistling of insects and reptiles, while I could see a party of fireflies glistening among the curtains of the bed. Now and then a huge beetle would make its way into the room, and go buzzing about round and round, till to my infinite relief it darted out of the window! But the noises and the stings of the mosquitoes drove sleep from my eyelids. Presently I heard some one talking outside; it was a nigger’s voice, deep and husky.

“If de picaroons cum, den dey cum soon, and cut all our troats.”

“Garramarcy, you don’t say so!” exclaimed another. “Better tell massa; he know what do.”

“Me tink better run away and hide,” said the first speaker. “Massa want to stop and fight, and den we hab to fight too, and get killed.”

“But if we run away and don’t tell massa, he get killed, and Missy Lucy, and missus, and de piccaninnies. Me tink tell massa fust and den run away.”

“But if um tell massa, he make um stop and fight. No, no, Cato; you one fool. Wiser to run away, and not say where um go.”

The arguments of the first speaker appeared to prevail with his companion. They probably were not aware that any one was sleeping in the room overhead.

As far as I could judge, the matter appeared serious. I recollected the conversation I had had in the morning about the Maroons and the rebel blacks.

Without further thought I jumped from my bed, and rushing to the window, sang out, “Stop, you cowardly rascals. If you move I’ll fire at you. Tell your master what you have heard, and he’ll act as he considers necessary.”

The sound of my voice awakened my companions, who fancied that the house was attacked by thieves.

As the blacks, notwithstanding my threats, seemed inclined to be off, I jumped out of the window, which was of no great height from the ground, followed by Sinnet and Tom. The niggers fancied, I believe, that we were spirits of another world, as we appeared in our night-shirts, which were fluttering in the breeze, and came back trembling and humble enough. We made them show us the window of Mr Talboys’ room, as we could not get into the house. Shouting loudly, we awoke him, and I then told him what I had heard.

“You have acted judiciously, young gentleman, whether there is anything in it or not; but I’ll be dressed directly, and come out to hear what account the black boys have to give. Take care they don’t run off in the meantime.”

Presently I heard a bolt withdraw; the door opened, and Mr Talboys made his appearance, a red night-cap on his head and wrapped in a flowered dressing-gown, a candle in one hand, and a thick whip in the other.

“I must examine these fellows,” he said as he came out. “They’re less liable to prevaricate if they see the whip. Come, now, young gentlemen, you may wish to put on your garments, and while you do so I’ll hear what my negroes have to say.”

As he was speaking, however, Chaffey came out of our room, bringing our breeches, having first got into his own, lest, as he said, the ladies might inconveniently make their appearance.

“What’s this you were talking about, Cato?” asked Mr Talboys, looking sternly at the blacks, who stood trembling before him.

“Caesar cum just now, and say dat Cudjoe, with great number ob niggers, just come down from de mountains, and dey march dis way with muskets, and bayonets, and big swords, and spears, and swear dey kill all de whites dey cum across.”

I saw Mr Talboys start.

“How did you hear this, Caesar?” he asked.

“Please, massa, I out last night, to help bury Mammy Quacca, who die in de morning, when my brother Sambo cum in and say he almost caught by Cudjoe’s fellows, and hear dem swear dat dey cum to kill all de white people, and before long he tink dey cum dis way to Belmont.” (That was the name of Mr Talboys’ place.)

“Cudjoe! Who are you talking about? The fellow has been dead these thirty years or more,” said our host.

“Dey say him Cudjoe. Perhaps him come to life again,” answered Caesar, as if he fully believed such an event probable. “Or maybe him ‘Tree Fingered Jack.’”

“Three Fingered Jack” was a negro leader who about that time made himself notorious.

“Possibly some fellow has assumed the name of the old Maroon leader,” I observed.

Mr Talboys, after further questioning the blacks, again turned to us, and remarked, “I’m afraid there’s some truth in what these negroes say. At all events, it would be wise to be prepared.” He spoke in a cool tone, not a bit flustered.

“I’m very sorry to have brought you into a position which may not prove to be very agreeable,” he continued; “but I know, young gentlemen, that I can rely on your assistance.”

Of course we could give but one answer.

“The first thing to be done is to barricade the house, and I’ll get you to do that, with Caesar to assist you,” he said. “Keep an eye on the boy, lest he should run away, while I send off Cato to give notice to my neighbours, who will probably assemble here, as this house can be more easily defended than theirs. I will myself summon my overseer and clerks. I, of course, shall also despatch messengers to Kingston for assistance, and we may hope to hold out till the troops arrive. The rebels expect to take us by surprise, and to murder us without resistance, as they have the whites in other districts. I must, however, tell my wife and daughters, or they may be alarmed should they suddenly discover what is going on.”

We heard a good deal of talking in Mrs Talboys’ room, and then the master of the house came out, with a brace of pistols in his belt, and a sword in his hand.

“The ladies are quite prepared, and will give you all the help they can,” he said. “They’ll show you where the arms and ammunition are kept.”

Having finished dressing, we set to work, under Caesar’s directions, to put up shutters, and to strengthen the doors with planks and stout pieces of timber, which we found in a yard, apparently prepared for the purpose. We were soon joined by Mrs Talboys and Miss Lucy, who both appeared equal to the emergency. Having shown us where the arms and ammunition were kept, they assisted to carry planks and to hold the boards up while we nailed them on. Miss Lucy had a hearty laugh at the grimaces made by Chaffey when he happened to hit his finger instead of the nail he was driving in. We worked away as busily as bees, and before Mr Talboys returned had already secured most of the doors and the lower windows. They were all loopholed, so that on whatever side our enemies might assault the house, a warm reception would be given them. We were still working away when Mr Talboys appeared.

“Our friends will soon be here,” he said. “We shall muster nearly a dozen muskets, and I hope that with them we may be able to keep the rebels at bay; though, if they’re disposed for mischief, they may ravage our plantations with impunity.”

The overseer and clerks, each armed to the teeth, soon afterwards came in, and our preparations for defence went on still more rapidly. It was now midnight, but as yet none of the neighbours had arrived; and we formed but a small garrison to defend so small a building from the host of foes who might attack it.

“Me go out and see whether niggers come?” said Caesar.

“No, no; you stay in the house, and help fight,” answered his master, who hadn’t forgot the black’s purpose of running away and leaving us to our fate.

“Cato, you go out towards Silver Springs, and learn, if you can, the whereabouts of the rebels. Call at Edghill on your way, and tell Mr Marchant and his family to hurry on here, and that we’ll do our best to protect them.”

“Yes, massa,” answered Cato, who, for a black, was a man of few words, and was evidently a trustworthy fellow.

Caesar looked somewhat disappointed. I suspect that if he had found the rebels approaching, we should not have seen his face again. We were kept fully employed improving the fortifications. Mr Talboys, who was full of resources, devised three platforms, which were run from the upper windows above the doorway, with holes in them through which hot water or stones, or other missiles, could be dropped on the heads of the assailants. We had also means of access to the roof, so that if it were set on fire, we might extinguish the flames.

Still the enemy didn’t appear, nor did Cato return to bring us information. Had we been idle, the suspense might have been more trying; but as we were actively engaged, we scarcely thought of what might possibly happen. At last Cato’s voice was heard shouting—

“Massa Marchant and de piccaninnies come, but de rebels cum too, and dis nigger not know which get in first.”

“We must go and help our friends then. Who’ll accompany me?” asked Mr Talboys.

“I will, sir,” said I.

“And I,” said Tom Pim. And our other two messmates said the same.

The overseer seemed inclined to stop and defend the house. We immediately set out, Mr Talboys leading the way, and we keeping close to him. The night was dark, and we might easily have missed our road. After going some distance he stopped for a moment to listen. There came through the night air the tramp of feet, and the hum of voices, though apparently a long way off.

“What can have become of Marchant?” exclaimed Mr Talboys, after we had gone some way further.

“Here I am,” said a person who stepped out into the middle of the road with a child in his arms. “My wife was tired, and our children declared they could go no further without resting, and except our two nurse girls, all the slaves have run away.”

“They might have rested too long,” said Mr Talboys. “Come, Mrs Marchant, I’ll help you; and these young gentlemen will assist the children.”

We discovered the family group seated on a bank; and each of us taking charge of one of the children, we followed Mr Talboys back towards Belmont as fast as our legs could move. He strode along at a great rate, for the sounds, which before had been indistinct, now grew louder and louder, and we knew that the enemy could not be far off. That they were marching towards Belmont there could be no doubt. Mrs Marchant gave a shriek of alarm every now and then, and the children cried with terror. We tried to soothe them, but it was no easy matter to do so as we ran along.

“Try and keep the children quiet,” said Mr Talboys in a suppressed tone, “or the blacks will hear us. Push on, young gentlemen; I’ll bring up the rear and defend you.”

“I’ll stay with you,” I said; for it struck me that Chaffey might easily carry the child I had charge of, and so I handed it to him.

“And I’ll stay also,” said Tom, giving his charge to Sinnet, who, with one of the black girls, was dragging another along. Mr Marchant had enough to do to support his wife and carry another of their progeny. The house was already in sight, but we could hear the tramp of the insurgents’ feet coming nearer and nearer, though we could not tell whether we ourselves were yet seen. Mr Marchant and his family hurried on, probably sorry that they had not made more speed at first. We had our pistols ready, a brace each, in our belts, and our swords by our sides, should we come to a close encounter; but the blacks had, we concluded, firearms, and might shoot us down, should they see us, at a distance. I could not but admire the cool gallantry of Mr Talboys, with so much at stake, yet willing to risk his own life in the defence of those he had promised to protect. He stood for nearly a minute to enable his friend’s family to get ahead. The ground rose gradually towards the house, and we could now distinguish a dark mass coming across the open space in the plain below.

“Now we’ll move on,” said Mr Talboys; and we proceeded deliberately towards the house.

“They must have got in now,” he added shortly afterwards, speaking as before in a suppressed tone.

It was time indeed for us to be hurrying on, for as we looked round, a party of blacks, forming the advance guard, and whom we had not previously seen, suddenly appeared, not fifty paces off. They saw us at the same time, and with loud yells came rushing up the slope.

“On, lads, as fast as your legs can carry you,” cried Mr Talboys, and, facing round, he fired his musket into the middle of them. Whether any one fell we did not stop to see, but ran towards the house. The blacks followed, hoping to overtake us, and fortunately not stopping to fire. Mr Marchant and his family were only just then entering the house. They had got safe in, and we were about to follow when a shower of bullets came whistling round our heads and rattling against the walls. We sprang in, Mr Talboys following. No time was lost in closing the door and putting up the barricades. We had scarcely finished when a second volley was fired, showing that the rebels were in earnest, and meant, if they could do so, to destroy the inmates of the house. Still, finding that we had escaped them, instead of dashing on, they kept at a respectful distance, under such cover as the hedges and palings afforded them. As the bullets pinged against the shutters and walls the children began to cry, and Mrs Marchant and her black damsels to shriek out. Mrs Talboys and Lucy remained perfectly quiet, doing their best to calm the fears of their guests.

“We have a strong house and brave defenders, and we need not be afraid of the rebels,” said the former in a quiet tone.

Meantime Mr Talboys, leaving us to defend the lower storey, mounted to the top of the house, where, keeping under shelter, he could take a look-out at whatever was going on below.

Presently we heard him shout, “Who are you, and what is it you want?”

“We free and independent people,” answered a voice from the crowd; “we want our rights. We no get dem, den we kill all de whites.”

“Much obliged for your kind intentions,” answered Mr Talboys. “There are two sides to that question, and you must look out not to be killed yourselves, which you will be, I promise you, if you attack us.”

“We see about dat,” one of the blacks shouted out.

Mr Talboys replied, and made what sounded to me so long a speech that I wondered the insurgents had patience to listen to it, till I discovered that his object was to prevent them as long as possible from recommencing hostilities. Like other brave men, being unwilling to shed blood, he would not allow any of us to fire until it should become absolutely necessary. He again asked the rebels what they wanted.

“We want our rights, dat’s what we want,” they shouted.

“That’s what all your friends in the island wish you to have, but you won’t get them by murdering the few white people in your power,” answered our host.

“Dat you say is true, Massa Talboys,” cried a black from the crowd.

“Hold your tongue, Quembo; take dat!” and the sound of a crushing blow, accompanied by a shriek, reached our ears, as if the last speaker had brained his wiser comrade.

“We no cum here to talk, we cum to fight,” shouted several together. There was a good deal of jabbering, and once more I saw, through a loophole out of which I was looking, the sable army approaching.

“Stand to your arms!” cried Mr Talboys. “We mustn’t let these fellows get too confident. Shade all the lights, but don’t fire until I give the word.”

It was pretty evident, from the bold way the blacks came on, that they supposed we were badly supplied with firearms, one shot only having been discharged. Mr Talboys waited till they got within thirty paces, when, just as two or three of them had hurriedly discharged their pieces, he gave us the order to fire, and we sent a shower of bullets among the sable mass. Without stopping to see what effect it had produced we all reloaded as rapidly as possible. A few bullets rattled against the house, but before we again fired the greater number of our assailants were scrambling off, in spite of the efforts of their leader to induce them to make a stand. As far as I could judge, looking through my loophole, none were killed, though several must have been wounded.

Chapter Eleven.

A narrow escape.

The overseer proposed dashing out, with a whip in one hand and a sword in the other.

“The rascals won’t stop running if they see us coming after them,” he said.

Mr Talboys, however, wisely ordered all of us to remain inside the walls.

“There are brave fellows among them, notwithstanding the cowardice of some, and they are very likely to turn round and cut us to pieces,” he observed.

This would certainly have been the case, for we heard the blacks shouting and shrieking at no great distance off, though beyond the range of our muskets. They had evidently halted.

“We must be ready for another attack, my friends,” cried Mr Talboys. “Keep at your posts.”

Miss Lucy came up to where Tom and I were standing.

“We’re so much obliged to you,” she said. “If those dreadful blacks had got in, we knew that we should all be killed. You have defended us bravely, and we’re so glad that no one has been hurt.”

“When we think that we have you to defend, we’ll fight as long as we have a charge of powder and a ball remaining, and after that, too, for we should make good use of our swords, depend on it,” answered Tom gallantly.

After this the blacks were quiet for some time, but we could not judge whether they intended again to come on. Mr Talboys assured us that they were still in the neighbourhood, and that we must be prepared at any moment for an attack. The time went slowly by. I heard Caesar and Cato talking; and as the danger appeared to lessen, the courage of the former increased.

“Dem niggers, how dey did run when we fired at dem! great cowards! Just dey cum on again, and see how we pepper der legs,” said Caesar.

“Better dey not cum,” observed Cato, like a true philosopher, probably doubting his companion’s resolution.

As there was no necessity to keep at our posts, I went up and asked Mr Talboys if he would allow me to take his place, while he joined the ladies.

“Thank you,” he said; “I was intending to summon you, for I wish to take a look round our fortifications, to be sure that we have no weak points, for I strongly suspect we have not done with those fellows yet.”

He was just about to descend, when I caught sight of a bright light away to the northward.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing it out to him.

“It comes from the direction of Marchant’s house,” he answered. “I very much fear the rebels have set fire to it. Yes, there is no doubt about it,” he added, as forked flames were observed to burst up round the first light, and to extend on either side. Presently another light was seen in the south-east.

“That must be from Peek’s estate. I hope they had warning, and made their escape in time, or the villains will have murdered them, to a certainty. Fortunately there are no women or children there.”

We stood watching the progress of the flames.

“We’ll not tell the Marchants of the disaster,” he continued. “It might drive them out of their wits; but they may consider themselves fortunate in having escaped with their lives.”

Loud shouts rising from the spot where we supposed the blacks to be showed the pleasure they felt at seeing the houses burning.

“They would be still more delighted could they destroy Belmont,” observed Mr Talboys. “They will, I fear, soon again attempt to carry out their design.”

He now begged me to remain where I was, and to give him immediate information, should I observe anything suspicious, and went down to carry out his intention of examining every assailable point in the house. I kept, my eyes turned, first to one side, then to the other, peering into the darkness, when I observed something moving, away to the right. It seemed like a black line; and after watching it for a few seconds, I felt sure that it was formed by a number of negroes creeping cautiously on to the right of the house, and endeavouring to conceal themselves. I was afraid that my voice might be heard should I shout out, so I went down the steps and soon found Mr Talboys. The moment I told him what I had seen, he sprang up with me, but we could see nothing, though we watched for some minutes.

“If they were really blacks you saw, they intend to take us by surprise,” he said. “We must keep a look-out, and be prepared for them.”

Just as he was speaking, there came a loud crashing sound, and the next instant cries and shouts rang through the house. Mr Talboys sprang down the steps, and I followed him. There was no difficulty in ascertaining in what direction to go. A door had evidently been burst open in the southern wing of the house. A piercing shriek was heard as we hurried on. The rest of the party, deserting their posts, had already gone to drive back our assailants. The overseer and clerk, Sinnet and Chaffey, were encountering them bravely. Two had already paid dearly for their temerity, when Mr Talboys, springing forward, attacked them furiously. I kept with him, and did my best with my hanger, cutting and slashing at the woolly pates of the fellows, who evidently were not prepared for so determined a resistance. Those in front gave way, and others who were about to enter hesitated to advance. Mrs Talboys was rendering us good service by holding up a lantern, by which we could see our assailants, while the light, falling on their eyes, prevented them from seeing us. Though I observed my other two messmates, I could nowhere see Tom Pim. What could have become of him? I thought. I was, however, sure that he would not have held back, for though he was but a little fellow, he knew how to use his hanger as well as any of us. The fight didn’t last long; another black was killed, two lay wounded on the ground, and the rest bolted out of the door, which, though shattered, was not off its hinges.

“Quick! Bring some planks,” cried Mr Talboys.

There were some near at hand, with which we had intended to secure that particular door. We were not long in putting them up, and placing a heavy chest of drawers against them. Just as this was done, Mrs Talboys exclaimed—

“Where is Lucy?”

“And where is Tom Pim?” I cried out.

Neither of them answered. Before any search could be made, Mr Marchant, who had been watching at the other side of the house, shouted out—

“The enemy are upon us I the enemy are upon us! Quick! quick!”

We hurried to our posts, and before many seconds had elapsed, a shower of bullets came rattling against the walls.

“Fire away, my friends,” cried Mr Talboys.

We obeyed the order with alacrity. I was thinking all the time, however, as to what could have become of Tom and Lucy. In vain I expected my messmate to hasten to his post. Again the blacks were checked. Had they been a minute sooner, the case would have been very different. They calculated, of course, on their friends getting in at the back of the house, and causing a diversion in their favour. For twenty minutes or more we kept loading and firing as fast as we could. Mr Talboys was everywhere, now at one window, now at another, while the clerk and Cato were guarding the back and wings of the house. How the hours had passed by I could not tell, when at length I saw a faint light in the eastern sky. It gradually increased in brightness, and in a wonderfully short time daylight burst upon the world. As the blacks had failed to get into the house during the night, it was less likely that they would succeed during the day. They fired a parting volley, and then, to our great satisfaction, beat a rapid retreat. The search for Lucy and Tom was now renewed.

“Oh, my dear husband, what can have become of her?” cried Mrs Talboy in accents of despair.

That they were not in the house was very certain. I proposed to sally forth and search for them.

“I’ll go myself,” said Mr Talboys. “The rebels will be on the look-out, and you very probably will be captured if you go alone.”

He consented, however, to my accompanying him. We went out at the back door, which Mr Talboys ordered to be closed after us. We had not gone far when we discovered a ribbon, which I knew Miss Lucy had worn on her shoulder.

“She must have been carried off by the blacks when they first burst into the house,” cried Mr Talboys.

“The wretches cannot have had the barbarity to injure her,” I said.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” answered her father in an agonised tone of voice.

We followed the track of the blacks, which was distinctly marked by the plants and canes being trampled down where they had gone across the garden and plantation, and continued on for some distance. No other trace of Tom or Lucy could we discover. We had to proceed cautiously, as at any time we might come suddenly upon a party of them, when we might find it very difficult to escape. We were, however, both well-armed, with muskets in our hands, braces of pistols in our belts, and swords by our sides, so that we hoped, should we fall in with any enemies, to keep them at bay while we retreated. We looked round on either side, in the expectation of seeing something else that either Lucy or Tom might have dropped; but sometimes I could not help fearing that they might have been killed, and that we should come upon their dead bodies. Still I tried to put away the thought from me, as it was too dreadful I suspect the same idea occurred to Mr Talboys, who looked stern and determined, and seldom spoke, while his eye was ranging round, far and near. We were going in the direction we fancied the blacks had taken. Mr Talboys was of opinion that, finding they could not succeed in destroying Belmont, they had gone off to attack some other house and ravage the plantations. We were making our way across the country instead of along the high road, where the blacks might have discovered us at a distance; but sometimes the foliage was so thick that we could not see a dozen yards ahead. This had its advantages and its disadvantages. It was evidently the line which the party of blacks who had nearly surprised us had followed. Now and then we got close to the high road, and we were able, while still keeping under shelter ourselves, to look along it either way.

“The rebels have not, I suspect, gone off altogether, and we may not be far from them now,” whispered Mr Talboys. “Be very cautious; keep under cover as much as you can, and avoid making any rustling among the branches.”

We had moved on scarcely a dozen paces after this, when suddenly a number of black heads appeared above the bushes close in front of us. The white eyes of the negroes, as they caught sight of us, showed that they were more astonished than we were at the sudden encounter. Exclamations of surprise escaped from their lips.

“On, lads,” shouted Mr Talboys at the top of his voice, as, drawing his sword, he sprang forward. “Send those rascals to the right about.”

Uttering a shout, I imitated his example.

The blacks, evidently supposing that a strong body of whites was upon them, turned, and endeavoured to make their way through the brushwood, without looking back to see who was pursuing them. As they had no other encumbrances than their muskets, they soon distanced us. Not one of them fell, for Mr Talboys refrained from firing, as did I, waiting until he told me to do so.

“Now, my young friend, it will be well to beat a retreat before these rascals discover that we are alone,” he said.

We were about to do as he proposed, when, unfortunately, one of the blacks, who was nearer to us than the rest, looked round, and seeing no one besides us, shouted to his companions. Now one stopped, now another, till the whole party came to a stand-still, turned round, and faced us.

“Spring back and try to get under cover,” said Mr Talboys in a low voice. “If the fellows advance, fire; but not till then. I’ll speak to them.” He then shouted, “You have carried off two young people from my house. Give them up at once unhurt, and we will not punish you as you deserve; but if they’re injured, not one of you shall escape hanging.”

“We not got de young white folks here,” sang out a voice from among the negroes. “You talk ob hanging, massa; take care we not hang you. What we stop here for?” continued the speaker to his companions; “dere not many dere, or dey cum on.”

From the way the blacks were looking, I guessed that they were trying to discover how many persons were opposed to them; but as yet they fancied that there were others behind us.

“Do you quietly retreat, my young friend,” said Mr Talboys in a low voice. “Make your way back to the house as fast as you can, and tell them to be on their guard. I can manage these fellows as well alone, and your life would be needlessly risked by remaining.”

“I will do as you wish, sir; but if there’s to be fighting, I should prefer to stay by you,” I answered.

“I’ll try to avoid it, then,” said my friend, and once more he spoke to the blacks.

“If the young folks are not with you, tell me where they are.”

“We know nothin’,” answered the black. “Maybe by dis time dey hang from de branch ob one tree.”

“I don’t believe that any of you would have had the cruelty to kill them,” he cried out. “Do as I wish you,” he continued, in a low voice, to me.

Still I could not bring myself, for the sake of saving my own life, to leave him to be taken by the blacks; for it seemed to me that he would have but a small chance of escaping from them. I was hesitating, when I heard a shout from beyond where they were standing, and presently a number more rushed up, who by their furious gestures, as soon as they saw us, seemed to threaten our immediate destruction.

“I’ll kill the first who comes on,” cried Mr Talboys.

They answered with derisive cries, and several of them levelled their muskets. Mr Talboys and I kept ours pointed at them, sheltering ourselves as we could behind the trunks of two trees which stood close together.

Our chance of escaping appeared very small.

While we thus kept the blacks in check, a sound in the rear struck my ears. It was the tramp of many feet. It became louder and louder. The blacks, jabbering away as they were to each other, did not apparently hear it. Mr Talboys did, however, and he knew that it was more important than ever to refrain from firing. He again shouted to them—

“Do any of you who have just come know where my daughter and young friend are gone to?”

They didn’t reply, but we heard them talking to one another. This further put off the time. The sound of tramping feet grew louder.

“You make fool ob us, Massa Talboys,” at last said one of the blacks, who, probably from his understanding English, had been chosen as spokesman.

Gesticulating violently, the whole body now gave vent to loud shouts and cries, and dashed forward, with the intention of overwhelming us. We both fired, in the hopes of delaying their advance, and then sprang back to the shelter of some other trees we had noted behind us. The blacks, as they rushed on, fired, but their bullets passed high above our heads, stripping off the bark and branches, which came rattling down upon us.

We had but a small chance of again escaping, should we attempt the same proceeding; but, as the blacks were within twenty paces of us, a party of redcoats dashed through the brushwood, one of their leaders being a small naval officer whom, to my joy, I recognised as Tom Pim. The blacks saw the soldiers, and, without waiting to encounter the sharp points of their bayonets, turned, and scampered off as fast as they could manage to get through the bushes, the speed of most of them being increased by the bullets poured in on them, while several bit the ground.

The soldiers continued the pursuit till the blacks, scattering in all directions, got out of range of their muskets. Mr Talboys and I accompanied them; but not till the halt was called had we an opportunity of speaking to Tom.

“And where is Lucy, my dear fellow?” asked Mr Talboys, grasping Tom by the hand.

“All right, sir,” answered Tom. “She’s safe in the house. When the blacks broke in last night, she was close to the door, and a piece of wood striking her, she fell to the ground. The blacks, rushing in, seized her before I was able to lift her up, and while I was shouting out for assistance, and trying to defend her, they got hold of me, and carried us both off. It was only a short time ago that I knew you were safe; for I was dreadfully afraid that they had got into the house, and murdered you all. Fortunately, the blacks allowed Miss Lucy and me to remain together; so I told her to keep up her spirits, and that I would try and help her to run away. Most of the blacks who at first had charge of us hurried back, expecting to pillage the house, and only two remained. We heard the shots you fired, but I still did not know that you had driven them out. Meantime our two black guards were so occupied in trying to find out what was going on, that I took the opportunity of drawing my hanger, which had not been taken from me, and giving one a slash across the eyes, and another a blow which nearly cut off his arm. I seized Miss Lucy’s hand, and we ran off as fast as we could. Neither of our guards were in a condition to follow us, and we ran and ran, scarcely knowing in what direction we were going. Miss Lucy said that she thought we were on the high road to Kingston; but she became at last so tired that she could go no further, and we had to rest. It soon became daylight; and just as we were going on again, we met with the soldiers, who were being brought up by Captain Ryan to your assistance.”

“You behaved most bravely, and I am deeply indebted to you, my young friend,” said Mr Talboys, grasping Tom’s hand. “Had you not offered so determined a resistance, I believe that the blacks would have got into the house, and we should all have been destroyed.”

As the men had had a long and rapid march, their commander was glad to accept Mr Talboys’ invitation to return at once to Belmont, to partake of the refreshments they so much needed.

Miss Lucy on our arrival rushed into her father’s arms, and was warm in her praises of the gallant way in which Tom had rescued her.

Everybody was engaged either in cooking or carrying provisions to the soldiers, who had assembled under the shade of the trees in front of the house. Sentries were of course placed, to give due notice should the blacks rally and attempt another attack, though Mr Talboys considered it very improbable that such would be made.

As our leave was to expire the day after these events took place, having enjoyed a sound sleep, early in the morning we started in the carriages that had brought us, Cato driving Tom and me. We were glad to think that our kind friends were well protected, as Captain Ryan said that his orders were to remain there until reinforcements arrived.

I won’t describe our parting, or what Tom said to Miss Lucy; if not affecting, it was cordial.

On our way we met more troops moving towards Belmont. We got back to Kingston, and thence on board the frigate, within the time Mr Saunders had given us leave to be absent.

The account of our adventures created great interest on board. When I told Larry of our narrow escape with Mr Talboys—

“Thin, Maisther Terence dear, don’t be after going on shore again without me,” he exclaimed. “If you had been killed I’d never have lifted up my head, nor shown my face at Ballinahone again; for they would be saying that I ought to have been by your side, and died with you if I could not save you.”

I promised Larry not to go anywhere, if I could help it, without him. We expected soon to have sailed, but we were detained by Sir Peter Parker, then the admiral at Jamaica. There were also several other frigates and three line-of-battle ships in the harbour. Tom and I especially wanted to be off, as we could not expect to obtain leave again to go on shore, though we determined if the ship was detained to ask for it.

“Not much chance of that,” observed Nettleship, who had just come from the shore. “The people are expecting an attack from the French and Spaniards, who have large fleets out here under the Count De Grasse, and the Governor has just got a letter, it is said, taken on board a prize, in which the whole plan for the capture of the island is detailed. The inhabitants are everywhere up in arms, and vow that they will fight to the last sooner than yield. More troops are expected, and every preparation is being made for the defence of the island.”

We had seen the Triton frigate go out that morning, though we were not aware of her destination. She carried despatches from Sir Peter Parker, giving Lord Howe the information which had been received, and requesting that reinforcements might immediately be sent to the island. The people on shore were actively engaged in strengthening Fort George, Fort Augusta, and the Apostles’ Battery, and throwing up new forts in various directions. While the blacks were labouring at the fortifications, all the white men were being drilled to serve in the militia, which was numerous and enthusiastic; so we hoped that even should the French and Spaniards land, they would be soundly thrashed.

Some days passed before we received any news of our friends at Belmont. No leave was granted, as the captain could not tell at what moment we should be ordered to sea. Tom and I were therefore unable to go to Kingston to make inquiries about them. At length a shore-boat came off with letters, and one, which I knew by the superscription to be from Mr Talboys, was handed to me. As I opened it, a small delicate note—addressed, Tom Pim, Esquire, H.M.S. Liffy—fell out. As Tom was standing close to me at the time, he eagerly snatched it up. I was right in my surmises with regard to my letter. Mr Talboys having again expressed his thanks for the services my messmates and I had rendered him, after saying that his family were all well, went on to inform me that the outbreak of the blacks had been quickly suppressed, the ringleaders having been caught and hanged. Mr Marchant’s house and three others had alone been destroyed, and with the exception of an overseer and two clerks, the remainder of the inhabitants had managed to escape. “I hope,” he added, “that we shall see you and your messmates again, and I shall be especially pleased to welcome that brave young fellow who so gallantly rescued my daughter.”

“What does your letter say, Tom?” I asked, when I had finished mine.

“Well, I shouldn’t like to show it to any one else,” he said; “but as you know how I regard Miss Lucy, I will to you. I can’t say that I am quite satisfied with it. It’s a little too patronising, as if she thought herself a great deal older than I am. You shall have it,” and he handed me the note.

“My dear Tom,”—it began,—“you are such a dear little fellow that I feel I must write to you to say how grateful I am to you for having saved me from those dreadful blacks. I should not have supposed that you would have been able to do it, but I shall never forget your bravery. I long to come back to Kingston, to see you again, and tell you so. But papa says that you are not likely to obtain leave, so I must wait patiently till we have beaten the French and Spaniards who threaten to invade our island, and peace is restored. I wish I could promise to do as you ask me, but mamma says I should be very foolish if I did. Do you know, I think so likewise; because it may be years and years before you are a commander, or even a lieutenant; but I want you to understand, notwithstanding, that I like you very much, and am very grateful, and shall always be so, as long as I live. So, my dear Tom, believe me, your sincere friend,—Lucy Talboys.”

“It’s very clear, Tom, that Miss Lucy will not commit herself, and it’s fortunate for you probably that she is so hardhearted,” I observed. “I’d advise you not to be downcast about the matter, and be content with the friendship and gratitude of her family.”

Tom, however, looked very melancholy, and some time afterwards Chaffey observed to me that he was sure something was amiss with Tom, as he was completely off his feed.

While we were allowed to go on shore our life was pleasant enough, but when confined on board it was somewhat dreary work, and we all longed for a change of some sort. A climate with the thermometer at ninety doesn’t conduce to high spirits.

We were aroused one evening as most of us were below, by Sinnet rushing into the berth, and exclaiming—

“The Glasgow is on fire, and the boats are ordered away to her assistance.”

The Glasgow was a frigate, lying at no great distance from us, and was to have sailed with the land breeze with a company of troops to the westward. We hurried on deck. Our boats were being lowered, as were those of the other ships in the harbour. Smoke in dense volumes was rising from the hatchways of the Glasgow, and more was pouring out of her ports. Her crew were at their stations, hauling up buckets of water, and labouring like brave men to quench the rising flames; but all their efforts, as far as I could see, were ineffectual. Nettleship and some of the older midshipmen went off in the boats.

“I hope that they’ll draw the charges of their guns, or we shall have some of their shot rattling on board us,” said Tom. “There are plenty of boats, so I don’t suppose any of the crew will be lost.”

“I should think not, unless the magazine catches fire,” I answered.

“They’ll drown that the first thing, if they can,” remarked Tom. “I wish we could have gone in one of the boats. I don’t like to see people in danger and be unable to try and help them.”

Chapter Twelve.

The hurricane.

In spite of all the exertions being made on board, with the assistance of the men from the other ships who had now arrived alongside, the smoke increased in denseness, and presently burst up above the hatchway, while we could see the red glare through the ports. The ship having been in the West Indies for some time, her woodwork was like tinder, and the flames rapidly gained the mastery. Now forked tongues of fire burst out from the midship ports, gradually working their way forward and aft. At length all attempts to save the ship were abandoned. The crew were seen descending into the boats, some collected forward, others under the quarter. Down they came by ladders and ropes, the midshipmen and the boys first, the men following, looking like strings of sausages surrounding the ship. Rapidly as every one moved, there was no confusion. As the boats were loaded they pulled off, others taking their places. So quickly had the fire spread that it seemed as if the officers had scarcely space left them to stand on before descending. Shouts were raised when the glitter of the gold lace on their coats was seen as they came over the quarter. The last man to quit was the brave captain of the ship. Almost in an instant afterwards she was in a fierce blaze fore and aft, the flames rushing out of the cabin windows as well as through the bow ports. We in the meantime had got springs on our cables, as had all the other ships, in case she should drift from her moorings.

“I suspect the shot were withdrawn,” I observed to Tom Pim.

“I hope so,” he answered; but just then—crash! there came a couple of round shot against our side, while more guns were heard going off in the opposite direction.

We immediately hauled away on one of our springs, just in time to escape several more iron missiles, which went bounding across the harbour. Three or four other ships were struck, but no one on board ours was hurt. Presently there came a loud roar, the mizen-mast shot up, followed by the after-part of the deck, and then came hissing down into the water. The flames surrounding the other masts formed a fiery pinnacle rising into the dark sky, and immediately afterwards down they came with loud crashes, the ship looking like a huge roaring and raging cauldron of flame, while crash succeeded crash as the heated guns fell into the hold. Several of the people brought on us were severely scorched, showing the desperate efforts they had made to try and save their ship. Dr McCall and the assistant-surgeons had work enough in attending to them. Fortunately the soldiers had not arrived alongside the Glasgow before she caught fire, and when they came down the harbour they were put on board our frigate, and we received orders to carry them to their destination.

Everything was done as rapidly as possible for their accommodation. The men were berthed on the main-deck. The captain received the commanding officer, the lieutenants messed in the gun-room, and we had the pleasure of entertaining the ensigns. The land breeze began blowing about eight o’clock, the time the Glasgow was to have sailed. We were detained some time in getting off provisions from the shore, but by dint of hard work all was ready by ten o’clock, and the night being bright, the anchor was hove up. With every sail that we could carry set, we glided out of the harbour. It was important to get a good offing, so that we might weather Portland Point, the southernmost part of the island, before the sea-breeze should again begin to blow. We hoped that the land breeze, which generally begins to drop about midnight, would last longer than usual, so as to carry us well out to sea. There are ugly rocks off Portland which it is not pleasant to have under the lee at any time.

“Shure it would be hard to bate these nights out here, Mr Terence,” said Larry, whom I met on deck, and who seemed to enjoy as much as I did the calm beauty of the scene, the stars like specks of glittering gold shining out of the heavens of the deepest blue, each one reflected in the tranquil ocean. The line of coast, seen astern and on our starboard quarter, rose into various-shaped mountains, their outlines clearly marked against the sky; while every now and then a mass of silver light was spread over the water, as some inhabitant of the deep leaped upwards, to fall again with a splash into its liquid home.

I asked Larry how Hoolan was going on after his flogging.

“He doesn’t talk much, Mr Terence, but he looks as sulky as ever, and I wouldn’t trust him more than before,” was the reply.

“He can harm no one, at all events,” I observed; “and I don’t think he has much chance of making his escape, even if he still thinks of attempting it.”

“Faith, I don’t fancy he could hide himself among the black fellows; and no merchant skipper would like to have him aboard his craft,” said Larry.

Going aft, I met Tom Pim, for he and I were in the first watch. We were pacing the deck together, when we were joined by one of our passengers, Ensign Duffy.

“Can’t sleep, my dear fellows,” he said in a melancholy tone, which made Tom and me laugh. “My thoughts are running on a charming little girl I met at Kingston. I was making prodigious way with her when we were ordered off to the out-of-the-way corner of the world to which you are carrying us, and the chances are we shall not meet again.”

“What’s her name, Duffy?” I asked.

“Lucy Talboys,” he answered promptly. “I don’t mind telling you young fellows, as you are not likely to prove rivals; but I say, if either of you meet her I wish you’d put in a word about me. Say how miserable I looked, and that you are sure I had left my heart at Kingston.”

“I will gladly say anything you wish; but perhaps she will think you left it with some other lady,” I observed.

“Say I was always sighing and uttering ‘Lucy! Lucy!’ in my sleep.”

“I’ll not say anything of the sort,” exclaimed Tom. “I never heard you utter her name till now, and I don’t believe she cares the snuff of a candle for you.”

Just as we were about to go below, at eight bells, we made out Portland Point broad on our starboard beam, so that we hoped, should the wind not fail us before morning, to be well to the westward of it. We were just turning into our hammocks, the other watch having been called, when we heard the canvas flap loudly against the masts, and were summoned on deck again to take in studding-sails. Still the land wind favoured us, the sails once more bulged out, and before we went below we had brought Portland Point on the quarter. When we went on deck again in the morning the frigate lay nearly becalmed off Carlisle Bay, thence we had a westerly course to Pedro Bluff. The sun, as it rose higher and higher in the cloudless sky, beat down hot and strong upon our heads, while officers and men, as they paced the deck, whistled perseveringly for a breeze. At length a dark blue line was seen extending in the south-east across the shining waters. It approached rapidly. Presently the canvas blew out, and with tacks on board we stood along the coast. Our speed increased with the rising breeze. We were not long in getting round Pedro Bluff, when we stood directly for Savannah-le-Mer, then a pretty flourishing little town at the south-west end of the island. Here we were to land some of the redcoats, and were to take the rest round to Montego Bay, at the north-west end of Jamaica. We came off it on the following morning.

As the harbour is intricate, we hove-to outside, while the soldiers were landed in the boats. I went in one, and Tom Pim in another, the second lieutenant having the command of the whole. We had a long and a hot pull, and Ensign Duffy, who was in my boat, declared that if it was proportionately hot on shore to what it was on the water, he should expect to be turned into baked meat before he had been there long. Larry was pulling bow-oar, and very well he pulled by this time, for though he was a perfect greenhorn when he came to sea, he had been accustomed to row on the Shannon.

The frigate, I should have said, was to call on her way back for some of the soldiers whom those we took out had come to relieve. Our approach had been seen by the officers at the barracks, which were situated about a mile from the town; and they came down to welcome their comrades in arms. Leaping on shore, the rocks which formed the landing-place being slippery, I fell, and came down on my knees with great force. I felt that I was severely hurt, and on attempting to rise, found it impossible to do so, even with the assistance of Larry, who sprang to my side, uttering an exclamation of sorrow. On this, one of the officers, whom I perceived by his dress to be a surgeon, came up to me, and at once examined my hurt.

“It requires to be instantly attended to,” he said, “or inflammation may set in, and in this climate the consequences may be serious.”

My friend Duffy proposed that I should be carried to the barracks, though my lieutenant at first objected to letting me go, declaring that he should not be long in getting back to the ship.

“Long enough to allow of the young gentleman losing his leg, or perhaps his life,” remarked the surgeon. “I’ll have him at once taken to a house in the town, and when your frigate comes back, I hope he’ll be in a condition to embark.”

Hearing this, the lieutenant not only gave me leave to remain, but allowed Larry to stay and attend on me. Tom Pim took my hand as Duffy and some of his men were placing me upon a door, which had been procured to carry me into the town.

“I wish that I was going to stay with you, Paddy,” he said; “but it’s of no use to ask leave, though I’d give a great deal if I could. We shall be very dull without you.”

“Thank you, Tom,” I answered. “If I had my will I’d rather go off. I suppose the doctor is right; and it’s safer to let him attend to me at once.”

I was carried immediately to a house which I found belonged to a Mr Hans Ringer, an attorney, who had charge of several plantations in that flourishing neighbourhood. The doctor and he, it was evident, were on most intimate terms, for on our arrival, without any circumlocution, the latter at once said—

“I have brought a young midshipman who requires to be looked after, and I’d be obliged to you if you’d order your people to get a room ready for him immediately.”

I could scarcely have supposed that so serious an injury could have been so easily inflicted. Soon after my arrival I nearly fainted with the pain, but the doctor’s treatment at length soothed it, and he was able to set the injured bones.

I must make a long story short, however.

Mr Ringer and his family treated me with the greatest kindness; indeed, nothing could surpass the hospitality of the inhabitants of Jamaica; and it was with the utmost difficulty, when I got better, that the doctor could get him to allow me to be carried to the barracks, where the fresher air would assist me in regaining my strength. Larry, of course, spent most of his time with me; indeed, had I not insisted on his going out, he never would have left my bedside.

I was now every day expecting the return of the frigate, when I believed that, well or ill, I should have to go on board her.

“That must depend on circumstances, my lad,” said Dr McManus. “For if you can’t go, you can’t. The captain must find another opportunity of getting you on board.”

“But suppose the frigate has to fight an action, I would not be absent on any account,” I exclaimed.

“With a fractured tibia, and the inflammation which would be sure to supervene, you would not render much service to your country,” observed the doctor. “When you have sufficiently recovered you can get back to Port Royal, and rejoin your ship; she’s not likely to be sent to a distance while the enemy’s fleet threaten the island. Indeed, we require all the forces on shore and afloat we can collect. I don’t quite understand what we shall do if we are attacked here, though I’m very sure we shall fight to the last before we let the French and Spanish land.”

I saw that there was no use in arguing the point, but I was determined, if I could, to go off and rejoin my ship. Larry did his best to console me.

“It’s not a bad place to be in, if you only had the use of your legs, Mr Terence. Them nager boys and girls are mighty funny creatures. What bothers me most is that I didn’t bring my fiddle on shore, for sure if I had, it would have been after setting them all dancing, till they danced out of their black skins. It’s rare fun to see them laughing as if they’d split their sides, when I sing to them. They bate us Irishmen hollow at that fun, I’ll allow. I find it a hard matter to contain myself when I see them rolling their eyes and showing their white teeth as they stretch their mouths from ear to ear.”

I happened to tell Dr McManus of Larry’s talent.

“I’ll try and get a fiddle for the boy, and put it to the test,” he said good-naturedly.

In the evening I was aroused from a nap into which I had fallen, by the sound of an Irish jig played on a violin, followed by shouts of laughter, clapping of hands, shrieks, and merriment, while the noise of feet from the courtyard below told me that Larry had been as good as his word. I thanked the doctor, who came in while the revels were at their height.

“I sent into the town and borrowed a fiddle, for I was sure that your follower’s music would do as much good to the men as the fresh air of the hills. They and the black boys and girls are all toeing and heeling it together. The niggers, I confess, beat them hollow in agility and endurance.”

I asked the doctor to wheel me to the window, that I might look out and see the fun. He good-naturedly complied, and assisted me to sit up. There were forty or fifty white men, and almost double the number of blacks of both sexes,—the women dressed in gay-coloured petticoats, with handkerchiefs round their heads; the men in white or striped cotton—the light colour contrasting with their dark skins,—one and all clapping their hands, snapping their fingers, and moving here and there in figures it was difficult to follow, but all evidently enjoying themselves immensely, judging by their grinning countenances and rolling eyes.

After this Larry became an immense favourite with the soldiers, as he found not a few of our countrymen among them. The officers of the little garrison were very kind to me, and I was never in want of society, as one or other was constantly by my bedside.

Notwithstanding this, as I got better I became more and more anxious to receive news of the frigate, and began to wonder what had become of her. Though I could not walk, I saw no reason why I should not return on board. The doctor, however, was still of a different opinion; and I was greatly disappointed when, on returning from the town one day, he told me that she had come off the harbour, and that he had sent on board to say that I was not yet fit to be moved, but would rejoin my ship by the first opportunity after I was convalescent. I could only thank him for his kindness, keeping my feelings to myself.

At length I was able to get out of bed, and walk with the assistance of a crutch. Had the doctor and Larry not held me up, however, the first time I made the attempt, I should have fallen down again. I felt just as, I suppose, an infant does on his first trying to toddle. After this I got rapidly better, and was soon able to join the officers in the mess-room, and in a short time to throw away my crutches.

The first walk I proposed to take was into Savannah-le-Mer to inquire about vessels proceeding to Port Royal. I was accompanied by Ensign Duffy and Larry. With their help I got on better than I expected; and though I didn’t feel inclined to take a leap, I fancied that if put to it I could run as well as ever.

We repaired to the house of Mr Ringer, who received us cordially, and from him I learnt that a fine vessel, the Princess Royal, would sail for Kingston the next day. He insisted on my remaining at his house, promising to drive me back to the barracks in the evening, that I might wish the kind doctor and my other friends there good-bye. We accordingly returned as he proposed. It was a difficult matter to get Larry away from his late companions, who seemed inclined to detain him vi et armis, the men grasping his hands, and the black girls hanging round him, many of them blubbering outright at the thoughts of parting from the “lubly Irish boy dat play de fiddle,”—as for pronouncing his name, that they found beyond their power.

The officers drank my health in overflowing bumpers, and had I not remembered my uncle’s advice, and prevented my own glass from being filled, I should not have been in a fit state to present myself at Mr Ringer’s hospitable mansion. I remember thinking the night oppressively hot, and was thankful that Mr Ringer was good enough to drive me from the barracks into the town.

“I don’t know what to make of the weather,” said my host the next morning, when we met at breakfast.

Not a breath of wind stirred the atmosphere, and it seemed as if all nature was asleep; while the sky, instead of being of a cerulean blue, was suffused, as the sun rose, with a fiery red tinge.

The hour—about noon—at which it was arranged that I should go on board was approaching. My host offered to accompany me down to the harbour, but before we reached it we encountered a violent squall, which almost took us off our legs, and sent Larry’s hat flying up the street. He made chase after it, and we stopped to let him overtake us, while a number of other people, caught by the wind, passed us running off in the same direction. At length his hat, driven into a doorway, was recovered, and Larry came battling against the wind to rejoin us.

“You’ll not put to sea to-day,” said my friend; “nor for many a day to come, if I mistake not; but we’ll make our way to the harbour, and see how things are going on there.”

On reaching it we found the sea already lashed into a mass of seething foam. The larger vessels strained at their anchors, some tossing and tumbling about, others already overwhelmed by the waves. It was with difficulty we could stand our ground.

“Unless the hurricane passes by, for hurricane it is, not one of those vessels will escape destruction,” said Mr Ringer. As he spoke, one of them parted from her cables and drove towards the shore.

“We must beat a rapid retreat if we wish to save our lives,” he continued; “the tempest is down upon us!”

The wind, which had previously blown from the south-east, suddenly shifted to the southward.

Grasping my arm, he hurried me off from the spot on which we were standing. At the same time down came a deluge of rain—not in mere drops, but in regular sheets of water. It wetted us to the skin in a few moments. Larry, now seizing my other arm, dragged me forward. As we looked back for a moment, we observed the sea rising in a mountain billow, hissing and foaming, and approaching the shore. It was but the first, however, of others still larger which were to follow. It broke with a thundering roar,—the water rushed on, flowing by the spot we had already reached; but even though we were nearly up to our knees, I couldn’t resist taking another glance behind. The whole ocean was covered with wreck; and one of the larger vessels I had seen just before, had disappeared beneath the surface.

As we hurried on, crash succeeded crash. First one house fell, then another, and another, and from some bright flames burst forth, which even the descending rain failed to quench. It was useless to attempt saving the lives of our fellow-creatures, for the same destruction would have overtaken us. Our great object was to reach the higher country in the direction of the barracks. Had Larry and I been alone, we should in all probability have lost our lives; but Mr Ringer, knowing the town, led us quickly through it by the shortest route. As we dashed through the streets, scarcely looking to the right hand or to the left, piercing cries of agony and despair struck on our ears. The smaller and more lightly built houses were levelled in a moment, and many even of the larger were crumbling away.

“Don’t you wish to go to your own house? if so, we must not stop you; we will go with you,” I said to Mr Ringer.

“We should only be crushed by the falling ruins if we made the attempt,” he answered at the top of his voice, and even then I could scarcely hear what he said. “I’ll try and get to it from the rear when I have seen you out of the town.”

Not far off from where we then were was a fine house, that had hitherto withstood the hurricane. Presently a blast struck us which, had we not clung together, would have blown us down. At the same time, looking up, I saw the house literally rocking. Down came one wall, and then another, the roof fell in, and in one instant it was a heap of shapeless ruins.

“I trust the inmates have escaped,” cried Mr Ringer.

Just then loud shrieks and cries for help struck on our ears. They came, it seemed, from beneath the ruins. We could not withstand the appeal for assistance, and calculating as well as we could in what direction the still standing walls would fall, we sprang forward, taking a course to avoid them across the mass of ruins. An arch, which had apparently formed the centre of a passage, was yet uninjured, though blocked up. The cries seemed to us to come from thence. We should find, we knew, great difficulty in removing the débris which encumbered it, and the walls might at any moment fall down and crush us. Still Larry and I, having climbed to the top of the heap, began pulling away the beams and planks and rubbish which stopped up the entrance. Mr Ringer joined us, though evidently considering our occupation a very dangerous one. However, we persevered, and at length had made an opening sufficiently large to look in. We could see two ladies, an old gentleman, and a mulatto servant.

“We have come to help you,” I cried out. “If you’ll climb up here you’ll be free, and there may yet be time, Mr Ringer thinks, to reach the open country.”

Mr Ringer joining us, the two gentlemen recognised each other.

“What, Martin! Glad to see you safe,” said the former. “Come, get out of that place as fast as possible.”

Encouraged by us, the youngest of the ladies first made the attempt, and succeeded in getting high enough to reach our hands. The old lady followed, though unless Mr Martin and the mulatto girl had shoved behind, we should have found it impossible to have got her through. Mr Martin and the girl followed.

As may be supposed, we didn’t stop longer on the ruins than was necessary, but scrambling over them, again reached the open street. Scarcely were we there before down came the remaining wall, with a crash which broke in the arch. It would certainly have destroyed Mr Martin and his family had they been there. The event showed us clearly the importance of getting out of the town. It seemed scarcely possible that any one passing through the narrow streets could escape being killed. Even in the broader ones the danger of being crushed was fearful. Mr Ringer assisted Mrs Martin, I offered my aid to the young lady, and Larry took charge of the old gentleman, who required helping as much as his wife and daughter. I had forgotten all about my lameness. We of course were somewhat delayed in our progress. Now we had to scramble over fallen walls—now we narrowly escaped being killed by masses of masonry and timber falling around us.

At length the open was reached, and we made our way to some higher ground overlooking the bay. We had reason to be thankful that we were out of the town. Providentially we reached a small stone building, which afforded us some shelter from the driving rain and furious wind, against which it was impossible to stand alone. The bay, as we looked down upon it, presented a fearful scene. The whole shore was strewn with masses of wreck. Not a small craft had escaped, and the largest, with all anchors down, were tossing about, and seemed every moment likely to be engulfed. The town itself was a heap of ruins, scarcely a house was standing, and none had escaped injury. In some places flames were raging, which would have set fire to other houses had it not been for the mass of water descending on them, while even amid the uproar of the elements we could hear the shrieks and cries of the inhabitants who still survived. Presently another immense wave rolled into sight, out of the dense mist which now shrouded the ocean. On it came with a tremendous roar. The first vessel it reached was in a moment buried beneath it. We thought the others would share the same fate, but the cables parted, and they were borne on the summit of the wave high up above the beach. On, on it came. Mr Ringer shouted out to us to escape; and he had reason to do so, for it seemed as if the wave would overwhelm the spot where we stood. Though the water swept up a portion of the height, the wave broke before it reached it, leaving the Princess Royal high and dry on the shore, while it receded, roaring and hissing, carrying off everything in its course. The crew of the stranded ship had good cause to be thankful for their escape. On again looking towards the town, we saw that the sea had swept away many of the houses in the lower part, while the water rushed through the streets, extinguishing some of the fires, and must have overwhelmed all caught in its embrace. Mr Ringer proposed that we should make our way to the barracks, but the ladies were unwilling to encounter the storm, and begged to remain where they were. Evening was now approaching, but the hurricane gave no signs of abating. In whatever direction we looked we could see its dire effects. Not a shrub, not a cane, remained standing. Every tree had been blown down. It seemed as if a vast scythe had passed over the land. The uproar continued as loud as before.

“This is a mighty curious country,” shouted Larry to me. “It beats a faction fight in Tipperary hollow. I was after thinking it was the most peaceable disposed part of the world, seeing how quiet it has been since we came out here. Hullo! what’s that?”

There was a loud rumbling sound. The earth shook beneath our feet.

“It’s an earthquake,” cried Mr Ringer. “Heaven forbid that it should increase.”

The ladies clung to Mr Martin with looks of terror. Again there came that fearful shaking of the earth; many of the remaining buildings toppled over. Flashes of lightning, brighter than I had ever before beheld, darted from the sky and lighted up the sea. Even the night scarcely added to the horrors of those moments, as far as we were concerned, though it must have done so to the miserable people still within the precincts of the town. At one time the water seemed to recede altogether out of the bay, but presently, as if gathered up in a heap, it once more rolled over the land.

Hour after hour went by, till about midnight, almost as suddenly as it had commenced, the hurricane passed away from us on its devastating course; and in a short time, excepting the roar of the surf upon the shore, scarcely a sound was heard. On this we set out for the barracks, hoping that they had withstood the tempest. Although they had suffered considerably, the larger portion had escaped.

Mr Martin and his wife and daughter warmly expressed their gratitude to us for having rescued them from their perilous position, saying that they must have perished had we not come to their assistance.

“I wish that I had a home to which to invite you, said Mr Martin, with a melancholy smile; but I trust that my house may ere long be rebuilt, and that I may have the means of showing my gratitude better than I can now.”

“I shall be very happy to stay with you if I have the chance,” I answered; “but I suspect it will be a long time before I again get leave.”

The officers, as might have been expected, received us in the kindest way possible. Duffy was delighted to see us. He fancied I might have gone on board, and sailed before the hurricane came on.

Next morning the commanding officer marched the whole of the men down, to render such assistance as they could to the survivors among the suffering inhabitants. I have never since witnessed a more fearful scene of destruction than the town presented. Numbers were lying about in the streets, where they had been crushed to death by the falling masses, many among them being the principal people in the place. In all directions the survivors were rushing about in quest of relatives or friends; while the larger number of the dead lay concealed beneath the ruins.

The appearance of the Princess Royal was extraordinary. We had seen her cast on shore and left on her beam-ends. At present she was perfectly upright, the ground beneath her keel, during the earthquake, having given way: and there she lay, securely embedded, without the possibility of ever being set afloat again, about a quarter of a mile from the beach. Two other vessels had been driven higher on shore, but lay on their beam-ends. It was at once proposed to utilise the vessel, by making her the home of the houseless inhabitants; and forthwith the women and children, and men unable to labour, were collected on board her. As I surveyed the effects of the hurricane, I naturally felt very anxious about my ship, fearing that she might have been at sea, and been lost. I afterwards learned that it was only the eastern wing of the hurricane that had swept by the western end of Jamaica, but that its influence in a less degree had been felt over the whole island. As soon as the news reached Kingston, vessels were despatched with provisions, and such relief as could be afforded, for the sufferers. As I was anxious to get back, I took my passage with Larry on board the Rose schooner. The captain promised to land us at Port Royal in a couple of days; “always providing that we are not snapped up by the enemy, or that another hurricane doesn’t come on,” he observed.

As we sailed out of the harbour, I could see at one glance, more clearly than before, the destruction worked by the hurricane and earthquake. The whole town appeared to be reduced to heaps of ruins, with here and there a few shattered walls standing up in their midst. The skipper of the Rose could give me no information about the Liffy, There were a considerable number of men-of-war in the harbour, and he had not taken especial note of any of them.

“If she was at sea during the hurricane, it is a hundred to one that she escaped,” he observed.

We made all sail, and kept in shore as much as we could, lest the enemy’s privateers might spy us out, and carry us off to Saint Domingo, or elsewhere. We, however, escaped all dangers; and, to my great joy, on entering Port Royal I made out the Liffy among the other men-of-war at anchor. The Rose’s boat took me alongside. Mr Saunders was on deck, so I went up to him.

“Come aboard, sir,” I said, touching my hat.

“What, my lad! is it you?” he exclaimed. “I’m glad to see you. There was a report that you had perished during the hurricane at Savannah. How is your leg? Able to return to your duty, I hope?”

“As able and willing as ever, sir,” I answered.

“That’s all right; there’ll be work for us all, ere long.”

As I entered the berth there was a regular shout, “Hurrah, Paddy Finn!”

“Glad to have you back, youngster,” cried Nettleship.

Tom Pim grasped my hand, and seemed unwilling to let it go, though he didn’t say as much as many of the others. I had to answer whole volleys of questions from my messmates, who were all eager to know what had happened to me. I described our narrow escape from the town, and modestly touched on the part I had taken in rescuing Mr Martin and his wife and daughter.

“Glad to see you uphold the honour of the cloth,” said Nettleship; “we should never see anybody in danger, and not try to help them at the risk of our lives.”

I was amply repaid by the praises my messmates bestowed upon me, for they knew that I had only told them the truth without exaggeration. I asked what they expected we should do next.

“Look out for the French and Spanish fleets, which have long been threatening to pay the island a visit, and take possession of it, if they can,” answered Nettleship. “Why they have not come before now I don’t know; but there’s some reason for it, I suppose.”

The sound of music, and the stamp of feet, as I went forward in the evening, showed me that Larry’s fiddle had been taken care of; and there he was, scraping away in high glee, setting his messmates dancing merrily to his music, they not troubling their heads about the fierce work which was in store for them. He had received, he afterwards told me, a hearty welcome from all hands, who were delighted to get him back among them.

The next morning Nettleship went on shore. We were most of us in the berth when he returned.

“I have grand news, boys; not so much for us, though, as for the people of Jamaica. The governor has received information that the Spanish and French fleets were caught in the late hurricane, as they were cruising off Cape François. Two Spanish ships foundered, two more were driven no one knows where, and four were dismasted. Two Frenchmen were dismasted, one went to the bottom, and another was driven on shore, while the rest, considerably battered, had to bear away to Havanna.”

“How do you know that it’s all true?” asked several of the mess.

“I heard it from the captain himself, and, what’s more, we’re to sail forthwith to carry the information to Sir Samuel Hood, who is supposed to be at Barbadoes. He sent me on to direct Mr Saunders to get the ship ready for sea, so that we may sail the moment he comes on board.”

The boatswain’s call, summoning all hands on deck, prevented us from asking any further questions. It not being known at what moment the ship might be sent to sea, she was kept well provided with water and fresh provisions, so that we had nothing to wait for from the shore, except a few of the officers, who had gone to Port Royal.

Blue Peter was hoisted and a gun fired, as a signal for them to come off. The topsails were loosed, the cable hove short, and we were ready to start at the first puff of the land breeze that might come off the mountains. We were all anxiously looking out for the appearance of the captain. The moment his gig came alongside, she was hoisted up, the anchor hove in, the sails let fall, and we glided out of the harbour. Under the influence of the land breeze, with studding-sails set below and aloft, we ran on at a rapid rate, expecting that we should reach Barbadoes in about a week at the furthest. When once away from the land, the wind dropped, and for hours we lay becalmed. The next morning we got a light breeze, which enabled us to steer our course. A constant look-out was kept for the enemy, for though the main body of the French fleet was said to be in harbour, it was likely that their cruisers would be met with.

Nettleship, Tom Pim, and I were in the morning watch. The first ruddy streaks, harbingers of the rising sun, had appeared in the eastern sky, when the look-out who had been sent aloft shouted, “A sail on the lee-bow.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Fresh captures.

There had been a stark calm since the commencement of the middle watch. The sails still hung up and down against the masts.

“What does she look like?” inquired Mr Bramston, the lieutenant of the watch.

“A ship, sir,” was the answer.

Nettleship, with his glass at his back, sprang up the rigging to take a look at the stranger.

“She’s a ship, sir, but appears to me to be a small one,” he observed as he came down. The chances are that it’s all we shall know about her. If she gets a breeze before us she’ll soon be out of sight.

Soon after, some catspaws began to play across the water.

“Hurrah! we shall get the breeze before the stranger feels it,” cried Nettleship.

Now the canvas began to bulge out; now it again dropped. The royals and topgallant sails filled, and the frigate moved slowly through the water. Her speed soon increased, however, as the breeze freshened. At length we could see the stranger from the decks, for, as she still lay becalmed, we were quickly coming up with her. Nettleship again went aloft, and I followed him.

“What do you think of her?” I asked.

“She’s Spanish or French; I’m pretty certain of that. A flush-decked ship, probably carrying twenty to six-and-twenty guns.”

“If she can’t escape, will she fight, do you think?” I inquired.

“If her captain has any pluck in him, he may hope to knock away some of our spars, though he can’t expect to take us,” he said.

When we again came below, and Nettleship made his report, the drum beat to quarters. Every stitch of canvas we could carry had been set, below and aloft. We were carrying down the breeze as we glided on towards the stranger. She also made all sail, though she still lay becalmed; but every moment we expected to see her canvas blow out, when, if she was a fast vessel, she might lead us a long chase before we could come up to her. As our object was to get down to Barbadoes with all speed, the captain might consider it his duty to let her go, rather than be led out of his course. As we approached, our bow-chasers were got ready, to send her an unmistakeable message that she must strike, or run for it. Hitherto she had shown no colours. Presently the French ensign was run up at her peak. Immediately afterwards a flash issued from her stern, and a shot came bounding over the water towards us; but we were not yet within range.

“That’s a long gun,” observed Nettleship. “If she keeps ahead, she may do us some damage with it before we get alongside of her.”

“Give her the starboard bow gun, Mr Saunders,” cried the captain.

The gun being trained as far forward as possible, we yawed slightly to port. We watched the shot as it flew across the water. It was well aimed, for it struck the counter of the chase; but its force must have been nearly expended, for it fell back into the sea.

All the sails of the chase were now drawing, and away she went before the wind.

“She may still lead us a long dance, unless we can knock away some of her spars,” observed Nettleship. “She’s evidently a fast craft, or her commander would not attempt to escape. We are, however, as yet gaining on her; and, if we can once get her under our broadside, we shall soon bring down her colours.”

While he was speaking, another shot was fired from the Frenchman’s stern. Ricochetting over the surface, it passed close to our side. After this she continued firing shot after shot. Two went through our canvas, others missed us. At last one came on board, and carried off a man’s head.

Captain Macnamara, anxious to get up to her, would not lose way by again yawing to fire; and we had to receive her shot without returning the compliment.

“It’s very annoying to be bothered by a small craft like that,” said Tom. “However, we’ll pay her off when we do get up with her.”

Fast as she was, our wider spread of canvas enabled us before long to bring our foremost guns to bear. They were fired in rapid succession. The first discharge produced no apparent damage; but at the second, down came her mizen-yard. On seeing this, our crew cheered lustily, and our guns were quickly run in and reloaded. The enemy, however, showed no intention of striking.

Just as we were again about to fire, putting her helm to starboard, she brought the whole of her larboard broadside to bear on us, and a dozen round shot came crashing aboard the frigate.

Three of our men fell, and several others were wounded, mostly by the splinters which flew about the deck. None of our spars, however, were shot away.

Before she could again keep before the wind the whole of our starboard broadside was poured into her. It was better aimed even than hers. The sound of the shrieks and cries rising from her deck told us of its fearful effects. Still her colours were flying.

Again keeping before the wind, she stood on, blazing away at us from two long guns in her stern. The loss of her mizen told on her sailing. Slowly but surely we got nearer and nearer.

“Shall we not soon be up with her?” I asked Nettleship; for it was trying work to be peppered at without being able to return more than a single shot occasionally.

“As surely as the sun sets and rises again, unless she knocks away one of our masts, or brings down our main or fore-yard; and then it’s possible that she may get off after all.”

“I made sure we should have her before many minutes were over,” I observed.

I remarked the eager countenances of the men as they stood at their guns, expecting every moment the order to fire. It came at last. Once more we kept away.

“Give it them now!” cried the captain, and every gun sent forth a sheet of flame.

Our shot told with fearful effect on the enemy’s deck. There seemed to be confusion on board, and then a man was seen to spring aft, and down came the colours.

A cheer rose from our men at the sight. We stood on, however, till we were close enough to hail, when the captain ordered through the speaking-trumpet the Frenchman to heave to, threatening to fire another broadside if he failed to do so. The order was obeyed; and we also having hove-to, a boat was lowered to send on board and take possession. Mr Bramston went in her, and I accompanied him.

On reaching the deck of the prize, a glance showed me the fearful damage our guns had produced. In all directions lay numbers of dead seamen, the deck slippery with gore. The bulwarks were shattered, two of the boats knocked to pieces, and the ship was otherwise severely damaged.

A lieutenant stepped up to us.

“My captain lies there,” he said, and he pointed to a body concealed beneath a flag; “another of my brother officers is killed, the rest are wounded, and I alone am unhurt.”

Mr Bramston complimented him on his bravery, and told him to prepare for going on board the frigate.

Meantime other boats came alongside and removed the crew of the prize, which proved to be the Soleil carrying eighteen guns and six carronades, with a crew of one hundred and eighty men, upwards of thirty of whom were killed or wounded.

Mr Bramston sent me back with this information. The captain at once decided to remove the prisoners, and send the prize to Port Royal.

As no time was to be lost, the boats were lowered, and the prisoners soon brought on board.

The captain at once sent for Nettleship, Tom, and me.

“I intend to send you in charge of the prize, Mr Nettleship,” he said, “and these two youngsters can accompany you. Fifteen men are all I can spare you, so you must make the most of them. All the prisoners will be removed, with the exception of about a dozen, who may volunteer to assist in working the ship, so that you’ll easily look after them.”

“Thank you, sir, for the confidence you place in me,” said Nettleship, who would gladly have accepted the command, even if he had had but half a dozen men.

Tom and I promised to do our best, and hurried below to get our traps ready.

I took care to apply for Larry, and to remind him to bring his riddle with him, but I didn’t hear what other men were selected to form the prize crew. Ten of the Frenchmen only could be induced to promise their assistance. Tom and I, without loss of time, accompanied Nettleship on board. As soon as the dead were put overboard, the decks washed down, and the damages the prize had received were repaired, the men who had come from the frigate to assist us returned to her. She stood to the southward, and we made sail for Port Royal. Among the first men on whom my eyes fell was Dan Hoolan, looking as sulky and morose as ever, though he was going about his work with more activity than he generally displayed. As I caught sight of the rest of the crew, I found that three more of the Irishmen pressed with him were among them.

“I hope that by this time they are content with their lot, and will do their duty like men,” I thought to myself; “still I would rather have had any others.”

“We are terribly short-handed, I must confess,” said Nettleship, as he and I were seated at dinner in the captain’s cabin, while Tom Pim was acting as officer of the watch. “I know I can trust you two fellows, however, and we must make the most of the men we’ve got. There are many of them about the worst on board; but if we have fine weather, they won’t have much to do, and we may hope not to catch a Tartar on the way. We must take to our heels if we see a suspicious stranger, and the Soleil appears to have a fast pair, at all events, so we may hope to escape. Though I would rather be in a condition to fight than have to run away.”

“The Frenchmen only promised to assist in navigating the ship. We mustn’t trust them to man the guns,” I said.

“We’ll see what our own men can do without them, then,” said Nettleship in a cheery tone.

We hurried over our dinner to let Tom come down and take his, while Nettleship and I went on deck. The weather looked favourable, and Nettleship was in high spirits at finding himself in command of a fine ship. Should he take her to Port Royal in safety, he might reasonably expect to obtain his long waited-for promotion. Although the majority of the men sent with us were the least reliable of the crew, we had an old quartermaster, Ben Nash, and three other seamen, who were first-rate hands, and we took care to put two of them into each watch. Of course there was plenty of work to do in getting the ship to rights. As soon as the men knocked off we heard Larry’s riddle going. Stepping forward, I found that he had set all the Frenchmen dancing, and some of our own men, too, who were enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content. “Larry will take good care to keep the people in good temper,” I thought to myself, as I turned aft.

When night came on, Nettleship thought it prudent to shorten sail, as is the custom of careful merchant skippers, who can’t perform that operation in a hurry. We lost nothing by so doing, as for some hours it was a stark calm. Tom and Ben Nash were in one watch, Nettleship and I in another. Night passed quickly away. Towards morning we got a breeze, and were once more standing on our course. We kept a bright look-out, not, as we should have liked, to watch for a prize, but to run away should a suspicious sail be sighted. We kept no colours flying, for should a Frenchman see us, we might have a better chance of avoiding an encounter. At daylight, as we had a fair breeze, all sail was again set, and we stood gaily on our course.

“If this weather holds, we shall be safe at anchor in a couple of days in Port Royal,” said Nettleship.

“A sail ahead!” shouted the look-out, from aloft.

“We must continue on our course till we see what she is,” said Nettleship.

Tom Pim, who went aloft to have a look at her, on his return said that she was a brig, standing to the westward, but too far off at the time to judge of her size. She appeared to be almost becalmed, while we, carrying the breeze along with us, rapidly neared her. At length we could see her clearly from the deck.

“She has hoisted her colours,” observed Nettleship. “Though from the cut of her canvas she’s English, as far as I can make out, her flag is French.”

We had not yet hoisted our colours; indeed, as we were standing, the Frenchman could not have seen them even if we had.

“There’s no doubt about the flag,” observed Tom, who had taken the glass; “that is French, though she’s an English merchantman, if I ever saw one. The people on board her recognise this ship as one of their own cruisers, and take us for a friend.”

“I believe you’re right, Tom,” said Nettleship, “and we’ll not undeceive them.”

The stranger, having now got a breeze, hove-to, apparently wishing to speak us. We had to luff up a little to reach her.

“Hoist the French ensign,” said Nettleship to me; and I ran it up to the peak.

As we got nearer it became necessary to shorten sail, that we might lower a boat to send on board and take possession, should it be found that the brig had been captured by the French. Whether or not it was from the slow way in which we performed the operation, the suspicions of the Frenchmen were aroused, and putting up their helm, they filled their sails and ran off before the wind. We immediately let fall our courses, and hauling down the French flag and hoisting the English, stood away in chase.

“Give her a shot, Tom,” said Nettleship. “We mustn’t let her lead us out of our course.”

Tom and I hurried forward, and, training the gun ourselves, fired. The chase took no notice of the first shot, but we quickly again loaded, and managed to send a second plump on board her. To our satisfaction, she immediately rounded to, when we were soon up to her, we also heaving to to windward.

“You shall board her, Paddy,” said Nettleship. “Take care to let the Frenchmen understand that it was fortunate for them we didn’t sink the brig.”

Larry, Hoolan, and four other men, formed my boat’s crew, all of us of course being armed to the teeth. We found only ten men on board, three of whom were blacks, the rest French, under the command of a young French midshipman. He at once handed me his sword, with a polite bow. As I understood French,—I forget if I before said so,—I learnt from him that the brig was, as we supposed, English; that she had been captured a week before by a French corvette; and that he was on his way to Saint Domingo. He looked a little downcast on losing his command, but shrugged his shoulders, and observed that it was “la fortune de la guerre.” I requested him and five of his white crew to accompany me on board my ship. He replied that he was ready, and begged that he might be allowed to carry his traps with him.

“Certainly, monsieur,” I replied; and he dived down below, as he said, to pack them up. As he was much longer in the cabin than I considered necessary, I grew impatient, and followed him. I found him talking to a person in bed in one of the side-berths.

“I ought, monsieur, to have told you that I have a brother aspirant, who is very ill; and I fear that it might cause his death were he to be removed. Your captain would be conferring a great favour on us both, were he to allow me to remain with him, as no one else is so well able to nurse him as I am.”

“I’ll ask him,” I said, looking at the sick youth, who certainly appeared very ill. I regret, however, that I cannot delay longer, so you must come with me.

“I’ll obey you, monsieur,” said the midshipman; and exchanging a few more words with his sick companion, he followed me on deck.

Leaving Larry and two other men on board, I made three of the Frenchmen take their places in the boat, and returned to the Soleil with the young Frenchman. I told Nettleship of the request he had made.

“I don’t like to refuse him, as what he says is no doubt true,” said Nettleship; “but we must take care that he plays us no tricks.”

“Then am I to tell him that he may return on board the brig?” I asked.

“Yes, you may take him with you, for I intend to send you in charge of the prize, as I can’t spare Tom; but Nash shall go with you,—you couldn’t have a better man;—and so with five hands, and the help of the blacks you speak of, and a couple of the Frenchmen, you’ll be able to work the vessel, and by keeping in our wake you’ll easily find your way to Port Royal.” I was highly pleased at the confidence Nettleship placed in me, especially as Tom was not a bit jealous.

“Nettleship thinks that as I’m a little chap I shouldn’t inspire the same respect among the Frenchmen that you will,” he said, as we shook hands before I went down the side.

The brig was the Good Luck, bound from Barbadoes to Halifax when she had been captured. The French midshipman, who was profuse in his expressions of gratitude for being allowed to return to look after his sick messmate, told me that his name was La Touche.

As soon as the boat which had brought me on board had gone back to the Soleil she made sail, and I followed in her wake. I at once mustered my crew. The two Frenchmen said that they were perfectly ready to do as their officer wished.

“I desire you, then, to obey monsieur, who is in command of this vessel,” said La Touche.

“Certainly we will obey him,” answered the Frenchmen, making flourishing bows.

The blacks, two of whom spoke English, said also that they were ready to obey me.

On looking at the men, I saw that not only Dan Hoolan, but two of the men who had been pressed with him, had also been sent; but then I had Ben and Larry, on whom I could thoroughly rely; and the others, while we kept close to the Soleil, would not venture to attempt any treachery.

In less than an hour the wind fell very light. I saw, notwithstanding this, by the way in which the brig slipped through the water, that she was remarkably fast for an English merchant vessel. This was satisfactory, as I felt sure that during the night I was not likely to fall behind the Soleil.

As the day drew on the wind fell altogether, and we lay becalmed at a short distance from each other. I divided my crew into two watches. I took one with Larry, two of our own crew, a Frenchman, and a black. Ben had charge of the other, with the remainder. I did not think it prudent to let La Touche take a watch, though he politely offered to do so. The night was excessively hot, and I felt more inclined to remain on deck than below. After La Touche and I had had supper, he said he would remain in the cabin to look after his sick friend. One of the Frenchmen acted as steward, and the other as cook. The former frequently came into the cabin to bring us our meals, and to take food to the sick midshipman.

I kept the first watch, and Ben relieved me at midnight, when I lay down on deck, on a mattress I had brought up from the cabin, under a small awning rigged near the after-part of the vessel. I had been asleep for a couple of hours or more, when I was awakened by feeling the vessel heel suddenly over.

“All hands on deck! Shorten sail!” shouted Ben in a lusty voice.

I sprang to my feet. There was not a moment to lose. La Touche, who had been awakened at the same time, rushed up on deck, followed by another person, who appeared to be as active as any one. As rapidly as we could, we let fly the topgallant sheets, lowered the peak, and brailed up the foresail, while the helm was put up. The brig righted, fortunately not carrying away the masts, and off we flew before the wind. The Frenchmen and blacks behaved remarkably well, and ran aloft to reef the topsails, and stow the lighter sails, which were flapping loudly as they blew out with the wind.

The sky had become overcast; the scud flew rapidly along, just above our heads, as it seemed, while the spoon-drift, blown off from rising seas, covered the ocean with a sheet of white.

When all immediate danger was over, the stranger who had so mysteriously shown himself slipped down the companion ladder, and I was too busy to ask La Touche who he was. I naturally concluded that he was the sick midshipman La Touche had been so tenderly nursing.

As soon as we had got the brig to rights, I looked out for the Soleil but could nowhere distinguish her. Had she borne up? or having shortened sail in time, was she still keeping her course? I hoped that the latter was the case, and resolved to attempt hauling to the wind, and steering for Port Royal. I told Ben of my intention, as he, I considered, was the best seaman among my crew.

“It will be as much as we can do, sir, if we could do it at all,” he answered. “The brig is not particularly stiff, or she would not have heeled over as sharply as she did just now.”

“The French officer knows better than we can what sail the brig will bear. I might ask his opinion,” I remarked.

“Beg pardon, sir, but I would not ask him if I were you,” said Ben. “He’ll of course say, ‘Keep before the wind; but he won’t say that if we do we shall chance to run right into the midst of a Spanish or French fleet, or up to one of their cruisers, if so be this is only a passing gale.”

“I fear that it is not merely a passing gale; but still, if we can keep the brig on a wind, we’ll try and do it,” I said.

I gave the order to man the braces, waiting for an opportunity to put the helm down and bring the brig up to the wind. Scarcely was the order given, however, than a blast more furious than before struck the brig, and which, had I not delayed carrying out my intention, would either have hove her on her beam-ends or carried away the masts. On we flew before the wind, which was every moment increasing; while the seas rose higher and higher, and came roaring up around us. Even now we had more sail set than we could safely carry, and I at once ordered the hands aloft to furl the main-topsail, and to closely reef the fore-topsail. Yet even when this was done, the brig flew on at a tremendous pace.

“To my mind, we’ve got old Harry Cane on board, sir,” said Ben; “and the sooner we get our fore-topsail stowed the better, to save it from being blown out of the bolt ropes, and the less likely we shall be to lose the masts. If the foremast goes, the mainmast will be pretty sure to follow.”

“You’re right, Ben,” I answered, and I gave the order to furl the fore-topsail.

Ben and Larry led the way aloft, and most of our own men followed; but the two Frenchmen didn’t seem to like the look of things, and remained on deck. I ordered them up, but they stood holding on to the bulwarks without moving, and I had no power to compel them. My own men, however, were able to perform the operation without their aid, and at length, having stowed the sail, they came down on deck.

Even now the brig dashed on at a furious rate, while the sea, roaring up astern, threatened constantly to poop her. Fortunately, we had plenty of sea-room, and unless the wind should suddenly shift round to the opposite quarter, as I knew it might do, I hoped that we should keep afloat till the hurricane had abated.

Consulting with Ben, I did everything he advised to secure the masts and spars.

When La Touche saw how we were employed, he went to the Frenchmen and blacks, and induced them to assist; indeed, without their help we could scarcely have done what was necessary.

As soon as we had finished all that was required, I went into the cabin, and asked La Touche to find me a chart, and calculating where we had been when the hurricane first struck us, I marked down as well as I could the course we had since run, that I might better be able to find my way back to Port Royal. I was not a very experienced navigator, still, having the exercise of my wits, I hoped to succeed, and I felt not a little proud at the thought that I must trust to my own resources. I could not expect assistance from La Touche, and no one else on board, except the sick midshipman knew anything about navigation.

Expecting to follow close in the wake of the Soleil I had not brought a quadrant with me, but I found one in the cabin, as well as a French nautical almanack; and I hoped, when the hurricane was over and the sky had cleared, to be able to use them.

La Touche had hitherto occupied the state-room, but supposing that I should turn him out, he had removed his things to a berth on the opposite side, close to that of his messmate.

Having placed the chart and quadrant with the almanack in what was now my cabin, I locked the door, and returned on deck.

The hurricane showed no signs of abating; but the brig, which was fortunately not fully laden, behaved beautifully, and literally bounded over the waves as she ran before the wind. The crew continued on deck, holding fast on to the stanchions, belaying-pins, and the rigging, to save themselves from being washed away; for every now and then a sea tumbled on board, and swept along the deck, sometimes over one quarter, sometimes over another, and frequently over the bows; but the hatches had been battened down, and no water got below.

“We shall do well, I hope, and carry the brig safely into Port Royal,” I observed to La Touche.

He shrugged his shoulders, and answered—

“For your sake I may wish it, though I shall not be sorry if we fall in with one of our own cruisers before the voyage is ended.”

“Very naturally; but should she appear, we will try our best to get away from her,” I said, laughing.

At length daylight broke. A wild scene the ocean presented; the foaming seas dancing up on all sides, through which the brig was struggling onwards. It seemed to me that the wind was blowing stronger than ever, and I began to fear that we should be driven over towards the reefs and shoals upon the American coast before it had ceased. If so, shipwreck was almost certain, and the chance of saving our lives would be small indeed. Still I kept up my spirits, and took care not to express my fears to my shipmates.

Suddenly about noon the wind dropped, but whether or not it was gaining strength for a fresh blow I was not certain. I asked La Touche. He replied that he could not tell, but that it might be so, and that it would be wise to be prepared for it. The seas tumbled about so much that I could not bring the brig to the wind. I, however, first set the fore, and then the main-topsail, and kept her before it to avoid the risk of the seas pooping us. The clouds at length began to disperse, and in a short time the sea itself went down.

I lost no time in bringing the brig to the wind, making more sail, and shaping a course for Jamaica. Before nightfall the clouds had entirely disappeared; and the setting sun cast a radiant glow over the sky and sea, as the brig, heeling over to the breeze, sped on her way.

“I congratulate you, monsieur, on the change of weather, for I should have been grieved as much as you would, had the brig been lost,” said La Touche, coming up to me. “Still there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip,”—he gave an equivalent proverb in French. “If one of our cruisers appears, you’ll have to congratulate me, though I hope you’ll receive the same courteous treatment that I have enjoyed from you, and for which I have to thank you.”

“I have no fear of that,” I replied. “Your cruiser has not yet appeared. The Good Luck is fortunately a fast craft, and we’ll do all we can to put her at her best speed.”

We had been unable to sit down to table during the hurricane, and had had no time to take a regular meal since; but me of the French seamen, who acted as steward, now placed a very substantial one on the table. I played the part of host, and La Touche that of guest. His messmate was too ill to get up, he said, but notwithstanding, though a sick man, he managed to consume a fair quantity of the viands La Touche took to him.

“There ought to be some good wine in this locker, if the bottles were not broken during the hurricane,” said La Touche, rising and lifting up the lid. Groping about, he produced a couple of bottles of claret, and another of cognac.

“There are several more here, so that we need not stint ourselves,” he said, laughing.

A corkscrew was soon found. I took a couple of glasses. The wine was excellent, there was no doubt about that. La Touche pressed me to take a third. “Come, we must pledge each other,” he said, replenishing my glass, and filling up his own. “Here’s to the continuance of our friendship.”

I felt pretty well tired, as I had been up the whole of the last night, and a good portion of the previous one, so I was not sorry to have something to set me up. We struck our glasses together, and wished each other health, prosperity, and promotion.

“You like the wine,” said La Touche. “Come—another glass; now we must finish the bottle, and I don’t wish to take a larger share than you have.”

“No, no, my friend,” I answered, thinking there was something peculiar in his manner. “I command this craft, and must keep a cool head on my shoulders, but I have no objection to your finishing the bottle, and taking a second, if you like.”

In vain he pressed me, for the more he pressed, the more determined I became not to take another drop. I found the wine indeed stronger than I had supposed it was. Besides which, I recollected the major’s advice, which strengthened me in my resolution.

Chapter Fourteen.

Treachery.

After supper we rose to go on deck. I observed as we did so, that La Touche replaced the bottle in the locker. I felt more inclined to go to sleep than to pace the deck, but I resolved to take the first watch, that Nash might have the middle one. The wind had fallen still more, the moonbeams cast a silvery light over the ocean. La Touche, who had followed me out of the cabin, joined me, and we walked up and down for some time. At length, giving a yawn, he said—

“If monsieur does not wish me to keep watch, which I shall be happy to do, I shall turn in, for I can scarcely keep my eyes open.”

“Thank you,” I said; “but I cannot disobey my orders, though I should place perfect confidence in your honour.”

“I am much obliged to you for the compliment,” he replied in a hesitating tone; and wishing me good-night, and a pleasant watch, he dived below.

I continued walking up and down the deck, doing my utmost to keep myself awake. Seeing Larry, I called to him to come to me. One of our men was at the helm. I asked Larry how the people were getting on forward.

“We’re all as friendly as bees, Mr Terence. Shure the Frenchmen are mighty pleasant fellows, though I wouldn’t be after trusting to them too much. The steward has got some bottles of the crathur, and he’s been serving it out pretty freely. I have been afraid that Dan Hoolan and Mat would be after taking more than is good for them, though Dan’s head, to be sure, could stand lashins of liquor, and be none the worse for it.”

“Take care, and not be tempted yourself, Larry,” I said.

“No, no, Mr Terence, I know my duty too well for that, though the Frenchmen in their love of me tried to force it down my throat.”

“I wish you could manage to find the bottles of liquor, and bring them aft, or heave them overboard; it would be putting temptation out of the men’s way,” I said.

“Shure, Mr Terence, I’ll obey your orders, though the Frenchmen won’t be loving me so much, if they find out it was myself that did it.”

While Larry went forward to carry out my directions, I continued my solitary walk. I was afraid even to rest against the bulwarks for a moment, or I should have been off to sleep like a shot. Even as it was, as I stood on deck watching the canvas, to see that the man at the helm was steering properly, I more than once became unconscious of where I was. Though my eyes might not have closed, I lost the power of seeing, now fancying myself on the deck of the frigate, now on board the Soleil, and I heard the voices of Nettleship and Tom Pim talking to each other, though except that they were speaking about me, I could not make out what they said. Now I opened my eyes. “No higher!” I sang out, as I saw the head-sails almost aback. The helmsman turned the spokes of the wheel, and the sails filled I continued my walk, but soon again stopped. I went to the binnacle lamp to look at my watch. It still wanted half an hour to midnight. I would have given much to have had that half hour over; and it was with the greatest difficulty that I managed to stand upright. Once more as I stood, now looking out forward, now at the sails, strange voices sounded in my ears, and my senses wandered.

“Faith, Mr Terence, the spalpeens have been too sharp for me; I could only find one bottle of spirits, and that was empty. The blacks are as drunk as fiddlers, and the Frenchmen seem to have lost their senses, while Dan Hoolan and the rest of our men are much the same, barrin’ Tim Logan here, at the helm, and Ben Nash, and he’s fast asleep, waiting for me to call him, and relieve you.”

“Well, then, Larry, go and rouse him up at once, for if he doesn’t come down soon there’ll be only you and Logan to look after the ship, as I’m pretty well done up.”

“Hush, Mr Terence! I’d like to see Logan kept at the helm,” said Larry, putting his hand to his mouth; “for when he goes forward I am after thinking that the Frenchmen will be tempting him with the liquor, and he’s not the boy to refuse a glass of the crathur when it’s put before his nose.”

“I’ll speak to Nash when he comes,” I said. “Take a look-out ahead before you go below.”

In a short time Ben Nash came aft, hitching up his trousers and rubbing his eyes as if just awakened out of sleep. I gave him my directions, and inquired about the rest of the crew.

“Why, sir, the watch below don’t seem inclined to turn out and the men forward seem more asleep than awake,” he answered. “It seems to me that they have been having a drop too much; I only hope we shan’t have to shorten sail, or there won’t be many of them fit to go aloft.”

Ben’s reply confirmed what Larry told me. It made me very unwilling to turn in, but so overpowerful was my sleepiness, that I knew it would be impossible for me to keep awake much longer.

“I must lie down for half an hour or so,” I said, “and if you observe anything unusual, send Larry down to call me. Let him stay by you if he can manage to keep awake, while Logan remains at the helm a short while longer.”

“Never fear, sir,” answered Nash. “I’ll do as you order me.”

Under other circumstances I should have myself gone forward and roused up the watch, but from the reports Nash and Larry had given me, I knew that it would be useless, as I had no power to enforce obedience. I therefore very unwillingly went below, and threw myself on the bed all standing, and in half a minute was fast asleep.

I didn’t dream; not a thought passed through my brain till I was at length partly awakened by a noise overhead. What it was I couldn’t make out. Presently I heard some one come down, as I supposed, to call me. Now fully awake, I was on the point of jumping up to hurry on deck, when I became aware that two persons were standing close to my berth.

“Soyez tranquille, monsieur,” said the voice of La Touche. “The brig is no longer under your command; most of your people have joined my men, and they insist on carrying her into the Havanna.”

“Impossible!” I exclaimed. “My men would not have turned traitors. I’ll go on deck and see how matters stand.”

“That we cannot allow. I did not instigate my men to recapture the vessel, they managed it themselves; but now that they have possession, I dare not order them to give her up.”

“I know that two of my people would have fought to the death rather than have turned traitors,” I exclaimed.

“Those two you speak of—the old man and the Irish lad—were overpowered, and are stowed safely below, with handcuffs on their wrists,” he answered. “Have I your word that you’ll not interfere? You treated me with courtesy, and I wish you to be allowed to remain at liberty; but if you decline to give me your word, I cannot prevent you being treated as they are.”

While he was speaking, I felt for my pistols, which I had placed at the head of the berth, intending to spring up suddenly, knock him and his companion over, and gain the deck, but they were gone. My sword had also been taken away.

I observed by the light of the lantern that his companion held, that both of them were fully armed, and prepared to resist any attack I might make on them. The countenance of the other person, who wore the uniform of a lieutenant, I did not recognise, but I guessed he must be the sick messmate to whom La Touche had been so attentive. I could not help thinking also that La Touche was not so ignorant altogether of the intentions of his crew as he asserted.

“I’ll consider the subject, and let you know in the course of a few minutes, if you’ll give me that time for reflection,” I answered.

I was anxious to gain time, for I still had a lingering hope that Nash and Larry had managed to retain their liberty, and that if I could once get on deck, we might recover possession of the brig.

“I’ll not hurry you, monsieur, but shall be very much grieved if you will not give me your word, as I shall be under the painful necessity of subjecting you to an indignity such as I would willingly avoid,” observed the lieutenant.

I spent the time in considering what I would do, and finally came to the conclusion that it would be useless to refuse the freedom offered me, as, were I handcuffed and imprisoned below, I could not assist my two faithful men, or make any attempt to recover the brig.

I therefore said, with as good a grace as I could command, “I accept your offer, Monsieur La Touche.”

“You must give your word to this gentleman, who is my superior officer,” said La Touche, turning to the supposed sick man.

I said nothing; but I had a shrewd suspicion that he had remained on board for the purpose of carrying out the plan which had been so completely successful. I felt, however, very much downcast, and very foolish at being outwitted, and indignant at the treacherous conduct of my own men. Yet what more could I have expected from Hoolan and his associates?

“Monsieur, I promise not to interfere with the discipline of the brig, provided I am allowed to retain my liberty,” I at length said, addressing the lieutenant.

“That is well,” he replied. “I would advise you to lie down again and finish your sleep. You will be in better heart to-morrow to bear your misfortune, and we wish to return the courtesy which we have received at your hands. It is the fortune of war, and we have acted fairly.”

I was not so clear about that, but there was no use in complaining, so I at once threw myself into the berth, and in a minute was in happy forgetfulness of all that had occurred.

Next morning, when I went on deck, I found the brig was steering to the north-west. How different I felt to the day before; then I was in command, now I was a prisoner. As I cast my eye along the deck, I caught sight of Hoolan and the other mutineers. He scowled at me maliciously, but did not approach, and the others continued the work on which they were engaged. La Touche had charge of the deck. I had my misgivings as to how it had fared with Larry and Nash.

I turned to the French midshipman, and said—

“I should like to see my people who did not mutiny. Where are they?”

“Two are in the hold, and the one who was at the wheel was struck down and killed with an axe, and is overboard. It was a case of necessity, and the fortune of war.”

I made no answer, for I was too indignant to speak. At last I said—

“Will you give me permission to go down and see my poor men? It will be a consolation to them to know that I am safe, for one who is my foster-brother is much attached to me, and the other is a faithful fellow.”

The midshipman seemed struck at hearing this, and at once said that he would obtain permission from his lieutenant. He went into the cabin, and quickly returned, saying that I might go and see the men. Taking a lantern which he ordered one of the crew to bring me, I went down into the hold, and there, in a small space on some planks placed on the cargo, and surrounded by casks, I found Larry and Ben Nash, with handcuffs on their wrists, and their legs tied, seated side by side.

“Is it yourself, Mr Terence?” exclaimed Larry, as I appeared. “Have you come to set us free? Have you got the brig again?”

“I wish that I had,” I answered, “but there’s no such good luck for us. I’m a prisoner at large, and I have obtained permission to come and see you, as I wanted to know how you’re getting on, and how it all happened.”

“Shure it’s bad enough for myself, Mr Terence, but it’s worse for poor Ben here, for just look at him,—he’s got a mighty ugly prong in his side, another in his shoulder, and a knock in his head, which was enough to do for him. Tim Logan was killed entirely; but don’t mind me, just look to Ben, he can scarcely speak.”

Ben’s face was pale as death.

“Where are you hurt, Nash?” I asked.

He groaned as he told me.

“But it’s water I want, sir; the fellows haven’t brought us any since we were down here. Once Dan Hoolan came to look at us, and when I asked him for some, he turned away with a growl, swearing I might die of thirst before he would bring me any.”

Immediately on hearing this I sprang on deck, and begged La Touche to let me have a jug of water. He ordered one of the Frenchmen to bring it to me, and I returned with it. I first gave some to Nash, who, though he eagerly bent forward his head as I lifted the jug to his lips, seemed to have a difficulty in swallowing. I next put it to Larry’s mouth, and he quickly gulped down the contents.

“Shure, that does a boy good,” he exclaimed, drawing breath. “I wouldn’t have taken it all, if I had been after thinking that Ben would have been wanting it.”

“I hope easily to get some more if he requires it,” I said; but on looking at poor Ben it appeared to me that neither water nor food would restore him. He was leaning back, gasping violently. His eyes, as I held the lantern to them, appeared to have lost all animation. I put the lantern down on the deck, and supported him in my arms.

“It’s cruel in those fellows to keep the manacles on him while he’s suffering thus,” I exclaimed. “I’ll ask La Touche to have them taken off. He could no longer, even if he had a will, interfere with them.”

Springing on deck, I made my request to La Touche; he replied that he would go below and consult his commanding officer. He soon returned.

“If you think that the man is really dying, Lieutenant Dubois will give you leave to do as you desire,” he said, “but you must be answerable for him.”

“I feel certain that he will die unless he is properly cared for,” I answered.

He called to one of the blacks who belonged to the armourer’s crew on board the French frigate, and told him to go below and knock off the Englishman’s irons. I thought I might put in a word for Larry.

“May they release my foster-brother?” I asked. “Poor fellow, he did but his duty in defending the brig, and I’ll be responsible for his good conduct.”

“Yes. Lieutenant Dubois fancied that I spoke of both of them, and for my part, I am very willing to do as you wish,” he answered.

I hurried below, accompanied by the black. Nash was still breathing hard, and scarcely had the armourer commenced operations, when the poor fellow fell back in my arms, his spirit set free before his body was liberated from the irons. The black continued knocking away, quite indifferent to what had occurred.

“It’s all over with poor Ben,” exclaimed Larry, who was eagerly watching the operation.

“Yes, he’s gone,” I answered, as I felt the honest seaman’s wrist.

The black finished his work, and then stretched the body out on the deck.

“And now, my friend, I’ll beg of you to release this young fellow,” I said. “You wouldn’t like to have irons on your wrists longer than you could help.”

“Not de first time I hab dem on, and big chain too; but dis nuttin’,” said the black, and a few blows sufficed to set Larry free.

He sprang to his feet, knocking his head against the deck above him with a force which brought him down again, but fortunately the crown of an Irishman’s head is thicker than that of most people, and he quickly recovered himself.

Telling him to sit quiet till I got leave for him to appear, I went on deck to report the death of Nash.

“Ah, they told me the man was badly hurt,” said La Touche. “He was a brave fellow, for he fought desperately. We will bury him forthwith.”

“And my follower, may he return on deck?” I asked. “Both of us will be glad to assist in navigating the ship, if our services are required.”

“Yes, you can do so; but I do not think that you will return the compliment we paid you, by attempting to retake the brig from us,” he answered, laughing.

“You are right, monsieur,” I answered. “I have given you my word to that effect, and the word of an English officer is never broken.”

La Touche winced. “I took no part,” he observed, “in capturing the brig; you’ll understand that.”

I made no reply, though I was convinced that all along he was cognisant of the plot and plans of his lieutenant. The treachery of Hoolan and his companions enabled him to succeed with greater ease than he could otherwise have expected.

With the assistance of the black armourer, Larry and I sewed Ben up in a piece of canvas which he obtained for us, with a shot at the feet. We then together carried the body to a port, and launched it overboard, no one offering to render assistance, but at the same time not interfering with our proceedings. When Lieutenant Dubois came on deck, he bowed politely to me, and we exchanged a few words, but he didn’t appear inclined to enter into conversation. Perhaps he felt conscious that he was guilty of treachery in allowing his men to mutiny, even if he had not instigated them to do so, after the kind way in which he had been treated. Of course Nettleship made a great mistake in allowing him and the midshipman to remain on board; but judging them by his own sense of honour, he could not suppose it possible they would take advantage of his generosity, and even dream of attempting to recapture the brig.

Larry, when I was on deck, always kept close to me, and he asked whether I could obtain permission for him to sleep under the companion ladder, or anywhere aft, so that he might be within call.

“In truth, Mr Terence, I’m not fond of the looks Dan Hoolan casts at me when I go forward,” he said. “I shouldn’t be surprised on waking some night to find him after cutting my throat or giving me a knock on the head, for he knows that if it hadn’t been for poor Ben and Tim Logan and me, he would have tried to kill you, Mr Terence, that you might not appear against him; but we fought as long as we could, till the French lieutenant came on deck, and there was only myself remaining unhurt.”

I felt very certain that what Larry said was true, and La Touche afterwards corroborated the account. How Larry had escaped seemed a wonder, till I heard that he had seized a handspike, and using it as a shillelah, or rather as a singlestick, had kept his enemies at bay, and defended himself. Whenever I saw Hoolan on deck, I observed that he cast sinister looks at Larry and me, and I felt very sure that if he had an opportunity he would carry out his threat of putting an end to us. When I told La Touche of Larry’s wish, and his reason for it, after speaking to the lieutenant, he said it should be complied with. At meal-time the officers invited me into the cabin, and, to do them justice, treated me with as much courtesy as if I had been a willing guest.

“We have changed places, but we hope that you don’t bear us any ill-will,” said La Touche, filling up my glass with claret. “Here’s to your health, and may our friendship endure as long as our lives. When peace is established between our two countries which I suppose will be some day or other, I shall be enchanted if you will pay me a visit at my father’s château in Normandy.”

“With the greatest pleasure in the world,” I answered; “though I confess I didn’t think you would play me so cruel a trick.” I didn’t wish to use a harsher expression.

“Believe me, monsieur, that it was from no design of mine. I but performed my duty. Until the vessel was in the hands of the mutineers, I was not aware myself of what was going to happen. Monsieur Dubois will corroborate what I state.”

“La Touche speaks but the truth,” said the lieutenant. “He acted under my orders, for, knowing his sense of honour, I didn’t confide my plan to him.”

I was very glad to hear this, as I was much inclined to like La Touche, and was grieved to suppose that I had been disappointed in him.

The weather, after the hurricane which had been the chief cause of my misfortune, rapidly moderated, and became very fine; and though the wind was generally light, the brig made good way to the south-westward. During the day one of the Frenchmen, or La Touche himself, was constantly at the masthead, on the look-out for vessels, either to avoid suspicious strangers, or hoping to fall in with one of their cruisers. The lieutenant had at first intended to steer for Havanna, on the northern coast of Cuba; but just as we passed the latitude of Jamaica the wind shifted to the westward, and he determined to run for Port-au-Prince, at the westward end of Saint Domingo. He didn’t conceal his intentions from me; indeed there was no object in his doing so. He asked me whether we were likely to fall in with English cruisers between Jamaica and Cuba. I told him what I believed to be the case, that they would most probably be found on the south or west side of the island, looking out for the French and Spanish fleets expected to be coming from Havanna.

“I am surprised, indeed, that we have not fallen in with one of our cruisers already,” I said.

“There is a reason for that,” he remarked. “The hurricane, of which we only felt the edge, will have driven them into port, or have sent them ashore, or to the bottom. I thought of that before I ventured here, and calculated that it must have been some days before they could put to sea again.”

I believed that the lieutenant was right, and it lessened my hopes of the brig being retaken; still I did not abandon them altogether, and the thought contributed to keep up my spirits.

Supper over, after a few turns on deck I begged leave to turn in and finish out the sleep which had been so disagreeably interrupted the previous morning. Both the officers begged I would return to the berth I had previously occupied. I thought it best to accept their courtesy. When Larry saw me go below, he came down the companion ladder, and after attending on me, as I told him he might do, he stowed himself away under it. When I awoke next morning, finding myself in my old berth, for a few seconds I forgot all that had occurred, and fancied myself still in command of the brig, but the reality soon came back to me. With anything but pleasant feelings I turned out, and having dressed, went on deck. Larry, who had slept undisturbed, followed me up.

“I’m after thinking, Mr Terence, that Dan was looking for me, but, as good fortune would have it, I found an empty biscuit cask, so what did I do but poke my head into it, and cover my neck up with a thick handkerchief,” said Larry, as he stood by my side. “Thinks I to myself, if Master Dan wants to be after giving me a whack on the skull, I shall have had time to jump up before he has done for me; but the spalpeen did not find me out, I’ve a notion, and I’ll be on the watch for him if he does, another night.”

I found La Touche on deck, and we exchanged salutations. The brig was under all sail, standing to the eastward. I cast my eye eagerly astern, half hoping to see a British man-of-war in chase of us; but I found that the Frenchmen were carrying all sail, as was but natural, to reach their destination as fast as possible. I could just distinguish to the southward the distant mountains of Jamaica, rising like a blue irregular line above the horizon. Nothing could be more beautiful than the weather. The sky was bright; the ocean glittered in the rays of the rising sun.

In spite of this, I could not keep my spirits up, and put away the thoughts of the fate in store for me. Instead of serving my country, gaining honour and promotion, and passing my time in the society of shipmates to whom I was much attached, I was doomed to be imprisoned in some out-of-the-way part of Saint Domingo, or sent across the Atlantic to be shut up in a French fortress, as I knew that other officers had been.

Now that their hopes of escaping increased, the Frenchmen became still more courteous, and did their best to make my stay on board pleasant. I should have been glad to have regained my liberty, but certainly should have pitied them if we had been captured.

At length we made the west side of Saint Domingo, and, entering the Bay of Gonavez, ran up to the harbour at its eastern extremity. Here we found a considerable number of men-of-war at anchor. We were at once visited by several officers, who seemed surprised to hear that we had been at sea and escaped being wrecked, every ship in the harbour having lost masts or spars, or received other serious damage.

Lieutenant Dubois had promised that he would keep us on board as long as possible, as we should, on being landed, have been moved away into the interior. I was, of course, very glad to take advantage of his kind offer.

We had not been long at anchor before an officer came off from the shore with an official-looking packet. I was in the cabin when he delivered it to Lieutenant Dubois.

“The governor has heard of your arrival, and of the undamaged condition of your vessel,” said the officer. “He is desirous of sending important information to Admiral the Count de Grasse, who will probably be found at the island of Guadaloupe, and he desires that you will sail forthwith, and convey these despatches. There is no vessel in harbour fit to go, and he considers your arrival a fortunate circumstance.”

Dubois at once expressed his satisfaction, and promised to sail without a moment’s delay. I was afraid that he might consider it necessary to send Larry and me on shore; but I thought it prudent to say nothing, and continued seated as if I belonged to the vessel. The French officer from the shore made no remark, and having performed his commission, speedily took his departure.

“All right,” said Dubois to me; “I’m not compelled to land you, and if you like we can continue our voyage together. It will give you a better chance of escape if the fortune of war should throw me into the hands of one of your ships; but I have no intention of being caught if I can help it.”

I thanked him very much, and assured him that nothing would give me greater pleasure than being once more able to play the host to him.

Before we sailed, however, six more hands, whom he had asked for, were sent on board to strengthen his crew; but Hoolan and the other mutineers were allowed to remain, for which I was sorry. Perhaps they would rather have gone on shore, for if the brig were recaptured, they would, to a certainty, have to grace her yard-arms before many days had passed over their heads.

We had to beat out of the harbour, but rounding Cape Tiburon we got a fair wind, and stood away for Guadaloupe.

We had a long passage before us, and I was continually thinking of what the fortune of war might bring about. My fear was that we might fall in with a French cruiser, to which Lieutenant Dubois might consider it his duty to deliver up his despatches, that they might be conveyed more speedily to their destination, and that we might have to return to Saint Domingo. Still I did my utmost to look at the bright side of the picture; and I fancied how pleasant it would be to find the brig under the guns of an English frigate,—perhaps the Liffy herself.

I had another secret source of satisfaction: I had given my word to La Touche simply not to interfere with the discipline of the ship, and I had made myself answerable that Larry would not; although I had said nothing about not attempting to make my escape, should an opportunity occur, though that was very remote indeed. In a French port it would be useless, as I should only tumble out of the frying-pan into the fire, or find myself among enemies. I could not speak French well enough to pass for a Frenchmen, and Larry’s tongue would at once have betrayed him. Still hope kept me up, although what to hope for was indistinct and uncertain.

Larry, having somewhat got over his unpleasant suspicions of Hoolan’s intentions, was as merry as usual, and in the evening kept his fiddle going, and the Frenchman and blacks dancing to their heart’s content. He, however, was disinclined to remain forward after dark, and came back to his hiding-place under the companion ladder, where he was allowed to sleep under the supposition that he was there to attend on me.

I should have said that when the officer from the shore had delivered his despatches to Lieutenant Dubois, the latter, instead of locking them up in his own berth, put them into a drawer in the cabin table. Of their contents I, of course, was kept in ignorance,—indeed, I was not certain that Lieutenant Dubois himself knew their purport.

I do not even now like to speak of the thoughts which passed through my mind about these despatches. I was greatly troubled by them. Sometimes the idea occurred to me that when no one was in the cabin, I might throw them out of the stern port, and take the consequences of my act; but then I should be making an ungrateful return to the young French officers who had treated me so courteously. I dreaded to commit an act which might be dishonourable; at the same time, it was evident that by destroying the despatches I should be benefiting my country. From the eagerness which the officer who brought the packet had shown to get it off, I was convinced that it was of great importance, and that perhaps the fate of some of our islands might depend on its delivery. I was surprised at Dubois’ carelessness at leaving it exposed, though less at La Touche, who, though a good-natured fellow, was harum-scarum and thoughtless in the extreme. Perhaps he might have returned me the compliment.

The wind was light; and there seemed every probability that we should make a long passage. So much the better, I thought. While we were at sea I was in good spirits, for I knew that there was a good chance of the brig being recaptured. Larry kept the crew alive with his fiddle forward, and even Dan Hoolan looked somewhat less surly than usual; at the same time Larry kept out of his way, and never trusted himself at night on deck when I was not there. Whether he was right in his suspicions or not was uncertain, but at all events Hoolan was a ruffian, and a traitor to his country.

I treated Larry as, of course, an officer does not usually treat an ordinary seaman. He was one night walking the deck with me, and we were talking of Ballinahone and our early days, when he suddenly said, “Shure, Mr Terence, there’s something on your mind. I’ve thought so more than once. Just say now what it is.”

“You are clever, Larry, to find that out,” I answered. “It’s your love for me enables you to do it. It’s nothing you would think much about. I’m troubled with the thoughts that we are carrying despatches to the French admiral, which, if delivered, may cause some serious injury to our country. They are kept in the drawer of the cabin table, and I might at any moment throw them overboard, and defeat the Frenchmen’s object.”

The moment I said this I regretted it, as it struck me that it was like instigating Larry to do what I would not do myself. The effect on him was what I supposed my words would produce, for he at once replied, “Thin, shure, overboard they go before the world’s many hours older.”

“No, no, Larry! you mistake me,” I exclaimed. “That’s just what I don’t want you to do. If it has to be done, I’ll do it myself, and I forbid you to touch the packet I insist on your promising me that you will not.”

Very unwillingly Larry gave the promise, and I knew that I could trust him. I then let the subject drop, regretting that I had broached it to my faithful follower.

“If the Frenchman choose to hang me, I will not bring the same fate on him,” I thought.

Chapter Fifteen.

Liffy ahoy!

Day after day went by. Though we occasionally saw a sail, we kept out of her way.

At length, one morning the look-out shouted, “A sail on the starboard quarter!”

We were just then setting royals, which we did not carry at night. We watched the stranger. “She has borne up in chase,” cried La Touche, who had gone aloft.

Dubois immediately ordered the brig to be kept before the wind, and studding-sails to be set on either side. The wind freshened, and away we flew before it. The brig being lightly laden, it was her best point of sailing, as I had observed. It took us out of our course, however. I sincerely hoped that the wind would increase, and that it should carry away some of our spars, and thus enable our pursuer to come up with us, for I took it for granted that she was English. The Frenchmen watched her eagerly, for we could see her topsails from the deck.

“Do you think we shall get away from her?” I asked La Touche in an indifferent tone, as if it were a matter of no consequence to me.

“I hope so,” he replied. “This brig is a regular little fly-away, and your frigates are not generally fast sailers.”

“But why do you think she is one of our frigates?” I asked. “She may be French after all, and you may be running away from a friend.”

“I think she is English, because none of our cruisers are likely to be hereabouts at present,” he answered; and then, as if he had said something without thought, correcting himself, he added, “Of course she may be French; but we think it safest to keep out of the way of all men-of-war.”

The topsails of the stranger rose gradually above the horizon; she was evidently a large vessel—a frigate, if not a line-of-battle ship. The little brig flew on gaily, as if feeling as eager to get away as were those on board.

“Ah, my friend! a stern chase is a long chase,” observed Dubois, who saw me watching the stranger. “You are not going to rejoin your ship just yet.”

“I have made up my mind to be content with whatever happens,” I said.

“You are wise,” answered Dubois. “It is the best thing under all circumstances.”

Still I did not despair of being overtaken. Perhaps she might be the Liffy herself, which had gone back to Jamaica, and was now returning to the south. We had a brisk breeze, though it did not increase, and the brig continued running on at her utmost speed. When I looked again, some time afterwards, it did not appear to me that the stranger had gained on us. The hours passed slowly on; evening, however, at length approached, and I was afraid that during the night Dubois would alter the brig’s course, and that we should manage to escape. When I went below for our meals, I endeavoured to maintain as calm a countenance as I could, and to appear as cheerful as usual.

“You are a brave garçon,” said Dubois, as we sat at supper. “We should be very sorry to lose your society, and I’ll endeavour to keep you on board as long as I can.”

I thanked him, and said that I hoped to have the satisfaction of returning his courtesy, should the tables once more be turned. At last darkness came on, and our pursuer was lost to sight. As it was useless to remain on deck, I turned in, and Larry as usual followed me below. Whether it was from the excitement I had gone through, or from having remained on deck all day, I cannot say; but I fell asleep immediately my head touched the pillow, and slept as soundly as a top. When I awoke, I saw by the dim light coming through the bull’s-eye that the day had broken, and I hurried on deck, anxious to know if our pursuer was still in sight Dubois and La Touche were there. I saluted them as usual. They did not appear quite as cheerful as they did on the previous day. The brig was still before the wind, with every stitch of canvas she could carry set. On looking astern, there was our pursuer, though hull down, but considerably nearer than before.

“Do not be too sanguine that she will come up with us. When the breeze freshens, we shall again get away from her,” said Dubois.

“It is of course what you wish, monsieur,” I observed.

“I’ve been after dreaming, Mr Terence, that that craft is the Liffy, and that we were again on board her, as merry as crickets,” said Larry, coming to my side.

“But dreams, they say, go by contraries,” I answered. “It would have been better not to have dreamed that.”

“Shure, thin, I wish that I had dreamed that we had run her out of sight,” he answered.

Soon after the wind got up, and was soon blowing as freshly as on the day before. The Frenchmen’s spirits once more rose. Larry’s and mine fell. The big ship, however, continued about the same distance off; but as long as she did not gain on us, our captors did not mind. At length it seemed to me that we were actually drawing ahead. Perhaps we might be leading our pursuer further out of her course than she wished to go, and she would give up the chase. The Frenchmen, from their remarks, seemed to think so.

Mid-day arrived; an observation was taken. I found that we were in the latitude of the Virgin Islands, still a long way from Guadaloupe. When once among the islands, we should very easily escape during the night. Dubois and La Touche were congratulating themselves, when the look-out aloft shouted, “Several sail in sight to the south-east!”

La Touche, immediately on hearing this, went to the masthead. I should have liked to have followed him, eager to know what they were. He said nothing till he came down. I then saw by the way he spoke to Dubois that he considered them to be enemies. After a short consultation the helm was put to starboard, and the brig headed more to the north; the yards were braced up, though the studding-sails were still set. In my eagerness to ascertain what the strangers were, I sprang aloft without waiting to ask leave of Dubois. He did not, however, call me down. As I got to the topgallant masthead I looked eagerly to the southward, and I made out what I took to be a large fleet standing to the eastward, while here and there ships were scattered about, which I took to be frigates. I had no doubt that Dubois concluded they were English, and had therefore no wish to run in among them. We had heard before we left Jamaica that Sir George Rodney was expected out to join Sir Samuel Hood, and I had little doubt but that the fleet in sight was that of either the one or the other of those admirals. Whether the brig would escape them or not was doubtful, and I expected every instant to see either a frigate or corvette coming in chase of us. Our other pursuer could not have seen the ships visible from our masthead, and would therefore not understand the reason for our change of course. Had it been earlier in the day, our capture by either one or the other would have been certain; but Dubois might now manage, by good seamanship, to slip between the two. The wind increased, and our starboard studding-sails were taken in; we carried those on our larboard side to the last. Having satisfied myself, I returned on deck.

“Do you know what those ships are away to the southward?” asked Dubois.

“Yes, monsieur, I believe them to be English,” I answered. “And you expect them to catch us, do you?” he said.

“That depends on circumstances,” I replied; “but I know your determination, and believe that you will make every effort to escape.”

“You may be sure of that,” he said, laughing. “See how I’m carrying on. Many would have shortened sail before this.”

I made no reply, but looked aloft. The brig was literally tearing through the water; the breeze was increasing; the sails were bulging out, every rope stretched out to its utmost tension; the studding-sails pulled and tugged as if eager to fly away. Presently there came a loud crack, and both studding-sail booms broke off close to the irons. The men attempted to get in the fluttering canvas.

“Cut! cut!” cried Dubois. “Let them go!”

The wind shifted a point or two, and we had to haul still more up. As I had been unable lately to look at the chart, I could not make out exactly for what place we were steering, but I could distinguish several blue hillocks rising out of the ocean, which I knew must be small islands, either the Virgin Islands or others in their neighbourhood. We were now steering due north. I again went aloft. The main body of the fleet was no longer in sight, but three or four white sails could be seen shining brightly in the rays of the setting sun far away astern, while our pursuer could still be distinguished over our larboard quarter, yet apparently no nearer than before. On returning on deck Dubois looked at me with a smile of satisfaction.

“We are not caught yet,” he said. “But bear it patiently, my young friend. We all have our trials.”

I made no reply, but walked to the other side of the deck. It was again night; the steward came and invited me down to supper, in which I joined Dubois, while La Touche remained on deck. He did not think fit to tell me what were his intentions, and though I should have liked to have known, I did not ask him. At last I turned in, and tried to go to sleep. I should not have minded hearing the brig go crash on shore, so vexed did I feel at the idea of her having escaped. Still I could not but admire the determination of the two young French officers, and again better feelings rose in my breast. At length I fell fast asleep. As I had no watch to keep, I slept on, as usual, until daylight streamed in through the bull’s-eye over my head, when, to my surprise, I heard the sound of the cable slipping out, and knew that the brig had come to an anchor. I dressed as speedily as I could, and went on deck. We were in a fine harbour with numerous vessels of all sizes and nations—Spanish, French, Dutch, and Danish (the latter predominating)—floating on its bosom, and among them a frigate, with the colours of England flying at her peak. I knew, therefore, that we were in a neutral port, for which Dubois had steered when he found he could not otherwise escape. On examining the frigate more narrowly, my heart gave a bound, for I felt almost sure that she was the Liffy, but as several vessels were between us I could not make her out very clearly.

Dubois, who had probably been on deck most of the night, had gone below; and La Touche was engaged in issuing his orders to the crew. I took care to conceal my feelings, and on speaking to Larry I found he had not suspected that the frigate was the Liffy. Still he might do so, and I told him that I believed her to be our ship, charging him on no account to exhibit his feelings.

“Shure, Mr Terence, that’s a hard matter,” he exclaimed. “I half feel inclined to leap out of my skin and get aboard her.”

“We must try to do that by some means or other,” I said; “but how to accomplish it is the question. Even if Captain Macnamara knew that we were on board this brig, he could not come and take us by force.”

“Why not, Mr Terence?” exclaimed Larry in surprise. “Shure if I see one of our boats pulling by, I’ll be after shouting at the top of my voice, to tell them we’re here, and to axe them to come and take us off. Our captain’s not the man to desert us, nor Mr Saunders either; and as soon as they know that we’re prisoners, they’ll be after sending a couple of boats to release us; or maybe they’ll bring the frigate round, and blaze away at the brig till they sink her.”

“That would be an unpleasant way of proceeding for us, at all events,” I answered, laughing. “The reason they can’t take us by force is, that this is a neutral port, and all vessels in here must keep the peace towards each other; so that if Monsieur Dubois refuses to give us up, our captain can’t compel him. We must therefore manage to get away by ourselves if we are to be free.”

“Thin, Mr Terence, that’s just what we will be after doing,” said Larry, taking off his hat and scratching his head while he considered how the undertaking could be accomplished. “Couldn’t we just slip overboard at night and swim to the frigate? It wouldn’t be further than I have swum many a time in the Shannon.”

“But the Shannon and this place are very different,” I answered. “Jack Shark keeps as sharp a look-out here as he does in Port Royal harbour; and we may chance to have our legs nipped off before we can get up the side of the frigate.”

“Shure, Mr Terence, thin I never thought of that,” said Larry; “but maybe the officers will go on shore, and they don’t keep very strict watch aboard here, so I might just manage to slip a grating and a spar or two over the side, to make a raft; then we might paddle on it to the frigate.”

“I don’t see any better plan than you propose,” I answered; “though I would risk a swim and the chances of encountering a shark rather than not make the attempt to escape; for, even supposing the frigate on the other side of those merchantmen should not prove to be the Liffy, we should be welcome on board. It is of the greatest importance that the captain should know of the despatches the brig is carrying to Guadaloupe, so that a watch may be kept on her movements, and that she may be pursued and captured outside the harbour.”

“Thin, Mr Terence, let me go alone; I’d have no difficulty in slipping overboard, and there’s less chance of my being missed,” said Larry. “When her captain knows that you’re aboard the brig, he’ll be after her in a jiffy.”

“No, no, Larry; I can never let you go alone. Whatever we do, we’ll do together.”

“That’s like you, Mr Terence. Just trust to me, thin; only do you be ready for a start directly it’s dark, and I’ll be keeping a look-out on deck for the chance of one of the Liffy’s boats coming near, to let them know that we’re aboard.”

Tantalising as it was to see the ship, as I supposed, to which I belonged within a short distance of me, and yet not be able to communicate with her, I felt that I could do nothing for the present, and that it was prudent not to be seen talking too much with Larry. I therefore told him to keep away from me during the day, unless he had something particular to say, while I went below again, to finish my toilet and wait for breakfast.

La Touche had been too busy to speak to me, and Dubois was still asleep. I remained in my berth until the steward announced that breakfast was ready, when I met the two officers, who had just come below. They politely invited me to take a seat at the table.

“Well, you see, we have managed to escape your cruisers,” said Dubois, as he poured me out a cup of coffee. “We have reason to congratulate ourselves, as we were very hard pressed.”

“I must compliment you, monsieur, on your skilful seamanship,” I said. “I do so with sincerity, although I should have been very glad had you been caught. However, I am prepared to bear my disappointment philosophically. We have not yet reached Guadaloupe, and I don’t despair of regaining my liberty, though I conclude you’ll not consider yourself justified in letting me leave the brig?”

“For your sake I wish that we could,” said La Touche; “but you are known to be on board, and we should have to account for you; so I’m afraid you must exercise the philosophy you speak of.” Imitating the Frenchman, I shrugged my shoulders, as if I was perfectly resigned to my fate. I made no remark about the English frigate in the harbour, as the Frenchmen didn’t allude to her, though they could not have supposed that I was ignorant of her being there.

I saw that the brig was riding at single anchor and hove short, and I expected that Dubois was waiting for an opportunity of slipping out of the harbour before the frigate was prepared to follow him. That she would do so, should the brig be discovered to be an English vessel, a prize to the French, there could be no doubt, unless detained by some matter of more importance.

After breakfast we walked the deck for some time, and then Dubois ordered La Touche to take a boat and pull round the harbour.

“See as you pass yonder frigate there, how she’s riding,” he said; “whether she appears to be ready to put to sea, and learn, if you can ascertain, what brought her in here. I wouldn’t have come in had I known that we should have found so unpleasant a neighbour.”

“Do you know what frigate she is?” he asked, turning to me.

“As I can’t see her hull clearly, were I perfectly acquainted with her I should be unable to answer your questions, monsieur,” I replied.

“Well, then, favour me by going aloft with my telescope, and you’ll then, by looking down on her deck, be able to tell me whether you recognise any of those on board, or have to your knowledge seen the frigate before.”

From his manner I believed he had not an idea that I suspected the frigate to be the Liffy.

I willingly agreed; and, taking the glass, went aloft. All my doubts were at an end. I at once made out Captain Macnamara walking the starboard side of the quarter-deck with Mr Saunders. On the opposite side, I distinguished several of my messmates by their figures. Some of the men were forward, but the greater number were below, and I could see no signs of any intentions of getting under way. I waited a considerable time, and heartily I wished for a pair of wings, that I might fly over the masts of the other vessels, and pitch down on her deck. No sight could have been more tantalising. I descended at last, and returning the telescope to Dubois, said—

“I confess frankly that I know the frigate. She is the one to which I belong.”

“Is she a fast vessel?” inquired Dubois.

“She is considered so, monsieur,” I answered.

“Faster than this brig?” he asked.

“Certainly, unless in a very light wind,” I said. “If you expect to be chased, you have very little chance of escape from her, I should think.”

“I must hope for the best,” he said. “There’s a fine breeze out of the harbour, and we may be off again before the frigate finds we are moving. We have the advantage of being concealed from her sight, and she dare not fire a gun or send a boat after us, even should she wish it, till we’re three leagues outside the harbour.”

Dubois spoke in a confident tone, as if he did not think that there was the slightest chance I should even try to make my escape. I was dreading all the time that he would ask me to give my word not to do so. He didn’t, however, appear to think of that. In a short time La Touche came back, and reported, as I knew he would, that the frigate didn’t appear to be preparing to sail. Scarcely had he come on board than the wind began to drop, till it became a stark calm. I saw the officers exchange looks with each other as they observed the dog vane hanging right up and down. It was very certain that we could not move, for we had not boats sufficient to tow the brig out of the harbour. There was every prospect of the calm continuing for many hours. The Frenchmen, by the way they paced the deck, showed their vexation, every now and then giving an impatient stamp with their feet.

At last La Touche stopped and said—

“Wouldn’t it be well to go on shore and try and pick up some news? We may gain intelligence which may be of importance; at all events, we shall pass the time more pleasantly than on board.”

“A good idea,” answered Dubois. “We will go. You’ll be content to remain on board?” he added, turning to me. “It might be inconvenient to take you with us, as we might meet some of your brother officers; but I brought a few books of light literature in my portmanteau, besides my nautical almanack, and you can read them while we’re on shore.”

I thanked him, and was very glad to find that he didn’t wish me to go; as, although by landing I might have a chance of making my escape, I would not do so without Larry.

They did not wait for dinner; but telling the steward to bring me mine at the usual hour, pulled away in one of the boats, leaving the brig under the charge of a quartermaster, who had come on board at Gonavez Bay. He was a sharp-eyed old fellow, and had evidently been directed to keep a watch on Larry and me. Several shore-boats came alongside, but after some fresh provisions had been purchased, the others were ordered to keep off.

Soon after the officers had gone Larry came up to me.

“Hwist, Mr Terence,” he said in a low voice. “Dan Hoolan and the other boys know that the frigate out there is the Liffy, and I heard Dan say to one of them that they must take care we don’t get away to her, for he’s afraid, if we do, that Captain Macnamara, when he hears of the mutiny, will consider that he has a right to retake the brig, and that they’ll all be triced up to the yard-arm before many hours are over afterwards.”

“We must try, then, to throw them off their guard, Larry,” I said. “Have you thought of any other plan for escaping?”

“Not just yet, Mr Terence; but I’m still hoping that something will turn up. I’ll tell you all about it presently; but I mustn’t stop long aft, for I have a notion that Dan and the rest have got something into their heads, and that they won’t be stopping aboard if they can help it, to run the risk of hanging.”

Larry again went forward, and I returned to the cabin. I cannot say that the books Dubois left me were edifying; and after I had turned over a few pages, I threw them aside as abominable trash, not fit for any gentleman’s eyes to rest on. They were such works as contributed to prepare the way for the French Revolution. The steward brought me an excellent dinner, and placed a bottle of claret on the table, of which, however, I partook very moderately. I passed the afternoon as best I could, now and then going on deck to have the pleasure of taking a look at the Liffy, and hoping to see one of her boats passing. I determined, should one pull by, to hail her and say who I was; for I was afraid that Nettleship might suppose the brig had been lost, and that the report of my death might, by ill-luck, reach Ballinahone. I watched, however, in vain. As evening approached I expected that Dubois and La Touche would return. Something kept them on shore; probably, finding the calm continue, they were carrying out their intentions of amusing themselves. At last darkness came on, and I went back into the cabin. I should have said that the brig carried a small boat hoisted up astern, but which was in a dilapidated condition, and considered not fit to put into the water. As we had no carpenter on board able to repair her, she was allowed to remain hoisted up. I had been in the cabin some time, and I believe I must have dropped off into a doze, when I heard a sound of blocks creaking, and presently there was a splash in the water. Springing up, I looked out of one of the stern ports, which was open, and could distinguish a boat just below me with a man in her, moving round the quarter. At first I thought he was Larry, and then I felt sure that Larry would not have taken a boat without first giving me notice of his intentions. In less than a minute afterwards, however, he poked his head into the cabin.

“Hwist, Mr Terence, it’s just as I thought it would be,” he whispered. “Dan Hoolan and the rest are going to pull on shore. They have made the watch below drunk, and they have seized the anchor watch and put them in limbo. They fancy that if they can get away up the country, they’ll be safe, and I have a mind to go with them and pull the boat back, and take you off. Keep a look-out of the cabin window, Mr Terence; maybe I’ll come under the counter, and you can squeeze through the port without anybody on deck finding us out. Now I’m off.”

Larry hurried out of the cabin, leaving me in a state of anxious doubt as to whether he would succeed. I was afraid of going on deck lest I should be seen by the mutineers, and I at once therefore went to the port, hoping that I might catch a glimpse of them pulling away. Even if Larry got off with them, there might be many chances against his returning. The boat even might fill before she could reach the shore, or she might encounter the French officers returning to the brig, and be seized. I wondered at their carelessness in leaving the vessel with such a crew as theirs; for those who had proved traitors to me might have been expected to turn traitors to them.

Scarcely a minute had elapsed before, to my surprise, I heard a “hwist” come from under the counter, and Larry’s voice saying—

“Lend a hand, Mr Terence, and catch the painter as I chuck it up.”

I did as he desired, and presently he climbed up in at the port.

“Hold fast there, Mr Terence,” he said, as he squeezed through, and springing forward locked the cabin door. “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re free of the brig,” he whispered.

Quick as thought he made the painter fast to an eye-bolt, used to secure the dead-light. “Now jump into the boat, Mr Terence, and we’ll be off,” he added.

As he bid me, I slid down the painter, expecting him to follow immediately. For a few seconds he didn’t come, and I feared that something had happened to him; but he soon appeared, and slid down as I had done, holding in his mouth a knife, with which he quickly cut the rope.

I had taken one of the oars, he seized another, and giving a shove against the counter, sent the boat off from the brig. We paddled away with might and main, making, however, as little noise as we could. Scarcely, however, had we gone half a cable’s length than I heard a gruff voice, which I recognised as Dan Hoolan’s, uttering a fearful oath, and inquiring what had become of the boat. Several others replied in the same tones; and one of them, who had apparently run aft, exclaimed, “Shure there she is, and that so-and-so Larry Harrigan has gone off with her.”

“Come back, come back, you villain!” shouted the men.

“It’s mighty likely we’ll be after doing that,” Larry was on the point of shouting out, when I told him to be silent; and there being now less necessity for caution, we bent to our oars with all our might.

“I wonder the villains don’t fire at us,” I said.

“Shure the cabin door’s locked, and they can’t get at the muskets, or they would be after doing the same,” answered Larry.

We had ample reason to pull hard, for the water was leaking in through every seam in the boat; but I hoped that she might keep afloat long enough to enable us to reach the side of the frigate. Hoolan and his companions, finding that it was of no use, had ceased hailing us. We had gone a short way when I saw a boat coming off from the shore. “A hundred to one the French officers are in her,” I thought; “and if they have heard the shouting from the brig, they will fancy that something has happened, and be on the look-out. However, we are in for it.” We were at first pulling ahead of the vessels which were at anchor between us and the frigate; but, on seeing the boat, I told Larry we would pass under the stern of the one nearest us, and thread our way in and out among them, so that we might be concealed from the sight of those coming off from the shore, in case they should make chase after us. In a short time, however, the boat was half full of water.

“We must get this out, or we shall be sinking,” I said.

There was no bailer; but I had seized my hat before I had got out of the cabin window, and putting in our oars we bailed away as hard as we could. We had succeeded in partly freeing the boat of water, when we heard the splash of oars coming from the direction of the brig. Once more we gave way, the water still coming in. I very much doubted that we should reach the frigate without having again to stop. The boat, however, was gaining on us. Should she come up before we could get under our own flag, we might lawfully be recaptured; the water was already up to the thwarts, and the boat pulled heavily; our pursuers were getting closer and closer. We were nearing the frigate.

I looked round. I saw her high sides and tall masts against the sky.

I shouted at the top of my voice, “Liffy ahoy! help, help here!”

Larry shouted still louder, for he had a voice of his own when he tried to exert it. The boat pulled more heavily than ever. If it had not been for the dread of the sharks, I should have jumped overboard and tried to swim to the frigate. Still we made her move. I can’t say what a leap my heart gave as we ran up against her side. Some ropes were hove to us, for our shouts had attracted attention, and, swirming up them, we each reached a port in time to see our boat’s gunwale flush with the water, and our pursuers turning round to pull away. As we got on deck the quartermaster brought a lantern, which he held so as to throw a light on our faces, and at the same time a midshipman ran up.

“Who have we here?” he exclaimed, and I recognised Chaffey’s voice. “What! Paddy Finn, my boy, where in the world have you come from?”

“From a brig—a prize to the French,” I answered. “But I say, Chaffey, I want to see the captain at once. If there comes a breeze she’ll be slipping out of the harbour, and we must be ready to go after her.”

“Why, we thought you were on board the Soleil, and expected she would be put into commission, and be sent out to rejoin us, as we want small craft to watch the movements of the French.”

I briefly told him what had happened. He in return told me what I was sorry to hear, that nothing had been heard of the Soleil, though the idea was that she had got safely into Port Royal harbour.

“The captain doesn’t like to be roused up; but I suppose as your information is of importance, he won’t give me a wigging for disturbing him,” he said, as we reached the cabin door. Mentioning his object, the sentry stationed there allowed him to pass, and I stood for a time outside, trying to squeeze the water out of my nether garments. I had formed a little pool round my feet by the time Chaffey returned.

“You’re to go into the captain, Paddy,” he said. “He fired off his great guns and small arms at me, so he’ll receive you pleasantly, I hope.”

Giving a final wring to my coat tails, I made my way to the after cabin. The captain, with night-cap on head, had just got into his breeches.

“Glad to see you safe on board, Finnahan,” he said. “Now give me the information you have brought. I’ll hear about your adventures afterwards.”

“I have just escaped from a brig, sir, that is carrying despatches to the French admiral at Guadaloupe, and as she may at any moment slip out of the harbour, I thought you would like to know of it, that you may follow and capture her as soon as she gets to a sufficient distance from this place.”

“How do you know she has despatches?” he asked.

“I heard the French officer who came on board tell the lieutenant in command of the brig what they were, and I saw them in the drawer of the cabin table. I supposed that the lieutenant put them there that they might be handy to throw overboard, should he find at any time that the brig was likely to be recaptured.”

“Then why didn’t you bring them away with you?” asked the captain. “You made your own escape—you might easily, I should have thought, have got hold of them.”

“I felt in honour bound not to do so, sir. I was trusted on board; but as I had not given my word not to escape, I felt justified in getting away when the opportunity offered.”

“I consider you acted rightly,” said the captain. “A man cannot have too nice a sense of honour; at the same time I believe you would have gained great credit if you had brought them off. Much may depend on our getting hold of them. However, we must do our best to capture the brig, and prevent her delivering them to the French admiral. You deserve credit as it is for making your escape, and I’m glad you got off without breaking your parole. I should have regretted to find that you had done that. Now call Mr Saunders, and—hillo! my lad, you’re dripping wet! Go and shift into dry clothes, or rather, if you’re not wanted, turn into your hammock and get some sleep. You have not had much of that to-night, I conclude.”

Getting a lantern from the sentry, I at once repaired to old “Rough-and-Ready’s” cabin.

“Mr Saunders,” I shouted, “the captain wants to see you.” He jumped up in a moment wide awake—a good first lieutenant always sleeps with one eye open.

“Why, where do you come from, youngster?” he asked, as, throwing his night-cap on the pillow, he rapidly slipped into his clothes.

I very briefly told him while he finished dressing, which took him scarcely a minute, and he then hastened to the captain’s cabin, while I gladly went below and had my marine roused up to get me out some dry clothes from my chest and to sling my hammock. I inquired for Larry, who I found had gone forward. In a short time he came aft, having also got into dry clothes.

“Mighty glad we’ve got away from the brig, Mr Terence,” he said; “but still I’m as sorrowful as a pig in a gale of wind. The first thing the men axed me for was my fiddle, and bedad I left it aboard the brig; so if she gets away I’ll never be after seeing it again.”

“We must hope to take her,” I said. “Depend on it the captain will keep a look-out on her movements, and we shall then recover your fiddle, though I’m afraid we shall not get hold of the despatches.”

“Is it them bundle of papers in the drawer you’re speaking of?” asked Larry. “I was after thinking it would be as well to bring them away, in case the captain should like to have a look at them, so I just put them in my shirt before I slipped out of the cabin window. I hope I won’t be called a thief for taking them. Here they are, Mr Terence;” and he handed me the packet which I had seen in the drawer.

I hurried aft with it to the captain. I found him and the first lieutenant in the cabin.

“Why, what’s this?” exclaimed the captain, as I gave him the packet.

I told him that I believed it contained the despatches sent from Port-au-Prince; and that my companion, Larry Harrigan, unknown to me, had brought them away.

“What! and you gave him a hint to do so?” said the captain.

“No, indeed I didn’t, sir,” I answered firmly, though I blushed as I then explained, that although I had spoken to Larry about them, it was with no intention of inducing him to do what I was unwilling to do myself. “I had told him of them, sir,” I said; “but I give you my word of honour that I had no thought at the time of his getting hold of them. I did meditate, I confess, throwing them overboard; but under the circumstances I came to the conclusion that I had no right to do that, independent of the risk of being severely dealt with by the Frenchmen, should my act be discovered.”

“Well, well, I believe you, Finnahan,” said the captain in a kind tone. “We have got them, and we must take them at once to Sir Samuel Hood. We need care very little about the brig now.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Old friends.

“Hadn’t you better, sir, see what they contain?” observed Mr Saunders. “It’s just possible, too, that the commander of the brig knows their contents, and will communicate it verbally to the French admiral, or perhaps he may have duplicates on board.”

“I don’t think he has that, sir,” I remarked. “I saw the packet delivered to the French lieutenant, and he certainly did not open it, though I can’t say whether he knows the purport of the despatches.”

“It’s likely enough that he does, though; and at all events we must prevent him, if we can, from communicating with his admiral,” said Captain Macnamara. “When he finds that you have made your escape, he’ll be eager to be off, and still more so if he discovers that the despatches are missing. Send a boat, Mr Saunders, at once to watch the movements of the brig. Heave the cable short, and be ready to sail the moment we get a breeze.”

Mr Saunders left the cabin to carry out the orders he had received. I hadn’t yet told the captain of the way the brig was taken from me, and of the mutiny. I now, by his desire, gave him a detailed account of the circumstances.

“There’s no blame attached to you, Finnahan,” he said; “though as far as I can make out, the French officers didn’t behave in an honourable way, and I hope those mutinous scoundrels will get their deserts before long. I’m sorry they are our countrymen, but I can show them no favour on that account. If we take the brig, every one of them will be hanged.”

“I rather think, sir, that the French officers will have saved us the trouble; for when they get on board and find what Hoolan and his mates have been about, they won’t be inclined to treat them leniently.”

“I wish that we had left them ashore at Cork,” observed the captain. “We should have been better without such scoundrels. Now, with regard to these despatches. I don’t understand a word of French, nor does the first lieutenant, nor any other officer in the ship except yourself, Finnahan; still it may be necessary to act immediately on them. I’ll open them, and you must translate their contents.”

I would thankfully have excused myself; for though I could jabber French pretty glibly, I was very little accustomed to write or translate it. The captain got out pens and paper from his desk and, telling me to sit down, opened the packet, and put it into my hands. The hand-writing greatly puzzled me, for it was not a style to which I was accustomed. I spelt out the words, however, as well as I could, and tried to get at the sense. It contained an account of the intended sailing of the Marquis de Boullie with four thousand troops for the relief of Guadaloupe, which was at that time being attacked by the English under General Prescott. There were also various directions for the guidance of the French forces in those seas; but the most important was a plan for the concentration of the fleet, carrying a large body of soldiers, so that they might pounce down on Jamaica while the English squadrons were being led away in opposite directions. It was some time before I arrived at the gist of the matter.

“This is important,” exclaimed the captain. “You would have rendered essential service to the country by bringing these on board, and I must see that Harrigan is rewarded; while the part you have played must not be forgotten, as, though your sense of honour prevented you from taking the packet, it is owing to your courage and determination that we have obtained it. However, we will talk of that by and by. We must look out, in the meantime, that the brig doesn’t escape us; for though I have got the information to put Sir Samuel Hood on his guard, the French may obtain it also, and act accordingly.”

While we were speaking, Mr Saunders came in to say the boat was ready, and the cable hove short; but that, as it was still a stark calm, there was no chance at present of the brig getting under weigh.

“You must go in the boat, Finnahan, and make sure that we watch the right brig. As we can’t see her from the ship, we may be following the wrong vessel,” said the captain.

Though I would much rather have turned in and gone to sleep, I of course obeyed orders.

Mr Harvey, the third lieutenant, was in charge of the boat, and as I stepped into her, I found that Larry Harrigan formed one of the crew. They pulled away under my directions, and soon gained sight of the brig.

“It’s mighty hard that we can’t jump aboard and take her,” I heard Larry say to the stroke oar, behind whom he was sitting. “I’d be after getting back my fiddle, at all events, if we could.”

“It’s agen’ the law of nations,” answered the man; “though I should like to punish the rascal Hoolan for murdering poor Ben Nash and Tim Logan.”

“Silence, men,” said Mr Harvey; “we must not let the people on board the brig find out that we are watching them. They’ll probably take us for a guard-boat, but if they hear our English voices, they’ll know who we are.”

We kept under the shade of one of the neighbouring vessels. All was quiet on board the brig. There were no signs of her being about to trip her anchor. I wondered whether Dubois had put Hoolan and the rest in irons when he discovered how they had behaved. I could scarcely suppose that they would have contrived to seize him and his boat’s crew when they returned on board; yet such was possible, and would have been retributive justice on him for having taken the brig from us. Still I should have been very sorry indeed to hear that he and La Touche had met with any injury.

We waited and waited, till it appeared that we were not likely to wait to any purpose.

At last Larry, who seemed to have forgotten the order he had received to keep silence, suddenly exclaimed—

“Couldn’t we go aboard just to axe the Frenchmen to give me back my fiddle. That wouldn’t be agen’ the law of nations, would it, Mr Terence?”

“Silence there,” said Mr Harvey, scarcely able to restrain his laughter. “I ordered you men not to speak.”

“Shure I forgot the same,” said Larry in a suppressed tone. “Och! my fiddle, my fiddle! what will I be after doing without it!”

At length daylight dawned; and according to the orders Mr Harvey had received, we returned on board. As the sun rose, a light breeze began to play over the surface of the harbour. A look-out was sent aloft to keep watch on the brig, while every preparation was made for heaving up the anchor and making sail, should she be seen to get under weigh.

Dubois, knowing that Larry and I had gone aboard the frigate, must have been aware that the captain was acquainted with the character of his vessel, and also that she was carrying despatches. He would certainly, I thought, suppose that we should follow him, should he put to sea. I therefore scarcely fancied that he would venture out of the harbour during daylight, but fully expected that he would wait another night, on the chance of there being a breeze during the time to enable him to get away. I was therefore greatly surprised when the look-out hailed—

“The brig is loosing her topsails, and heaving up her anchor.”

The breeze at this time had freshened considerably. Scarcely had the words been uttered than I saw, between the other vessels, the brig, with her topsails and courses set, steering towards the narrow entrance, through which only small or light vessels could venture.

The capstan was instantly manned; the hands were ordered aloft, and topsails, and topgallant-sails were let fall; but before we could cant the right way, the brig had passed us, and had already reached the passage, when, the head-sails filling, the anchor was tripped, and being run up to the bows, we steered for the broader and only safe channel.

What had induced Dubois to put to sea, and leave the safe shelter of the harbour, I could not divine. It made me suspect that he had not discovered the loss of the despatches, and knowing the importance of delivering them without delay, he had determined to run every risk for that object. He probably expected, by getting the first of the breeze, to be a long way ahead before we could follow, trusting to the various chances which might occur to effect his escape. Had we been able to go through the narrow passage, he must have known that he would to a certainty have been caught; but our captain, from remarks I heard, seemed to think that the brig might possibly succeed in getting off, though he was resolved to use every exertion to overtake her, provided we were not led out of our course, for it was of still greater importance to get down to Barbadoes, or wherever the English admiral might be.

During the stay of the Liffy in the harbour, information had been obtained of the movements of the French fleet, as also that they had a large number of troops on board. Their object was to capture as many of our West India Islands as they could, and several had already fallen into their hands. Saint Christopher’s, however, had hitherto held out; Jamaica was prepared to resist to the last; and Barbadoes, our pet island, was strongly protected by Sir Samuel Hood’s fleet.

The French were, I should have said, vastly superior in numbers to the English. We had, however, brave and vigilant commanders, who took good care not to let the grass grow beneath their feet.

Had Captain Macnamara been certain that Lieutenant Dubois was ignorant of the contents of the packet Larry had carried off, he would have cared very little about letting the brig escape. He thought, however, that Dubois might possibly have duplicates, or might have learned the information they contained.

The wind freshened as we got outside. We could now see the brig about five or six miles away to the southward, for she had got the first of the breeze, and had carried it along while we were getting under weigh. All sail being made, however, we rapidly gained on her.

“It’ll be a bad job for Dan Hoolan if we come up with the little hooker, Mr Terence,” said Larry. “If the Frenchmen haven’t shot him already, our captain will be shure to run him up to the yard-arm, with the poor fellows he decaived.”

“It’s what he richly deserves,” I replied; “but I wish that he had never been pressed. It would have been better to have left him on shore, to stand his chance of hanging, or turning honest.”

“Ah, shure there’s but little honesty likely to come out of Dan Hoolan,” observed Larry, who disliked him more than ever since he had caused the deaths of Tim Logan and Ben Nash.

The brig was steering south-east directly for Guadaloupe, and we followed in the same direction; but as there were numerous islands in her course, she might, if she could retain her distance ahead till dark, escape by keeping round them, or if hard pressed, run on shore, when the French officers would probably endeavour to forward the information they were conveying by some other vessel. She was, as I have said, very fast, and she was now carrying every stitch of canvas she could set. The Liffy was no laggard, and we pressed after her. The chase was as exciting as it could well be. Scarcely any of the officers left the deck, except to take a hurried breakfast, and every glass on board was in requisition. Now, when the breeze freshened, we appeared to be gaining on her; now, when it fell, she seemed to draw ahead of us. We passed between the islands of Saint John and Tortola; we sighted the east end of Santa Cruz, and then made out the curious conical hill of Saba, to the north of Saint Eustatia. Noon had passed, and the wind again freshening, we gained rapidly on the chase. The look-out aloft hailed that he saw several sail right ahead. It was a question whether they were English or French. If the latter, the brig might lead us under their guns, and it was necessary to be cautious. Dubois must have seen them also, but probably was as uncertain about their character as we were. He might, after all, be captured should he stand on. At length he altered his course, and appeared to be making for Saint Eustatia, and from this it was pretty evident that he took the fleet ahead to be English. Whether he was right in that respect or not we could not tell, but he made a mistake in hauling his wind. In another half hour we got near enough to send a shot, which fell aboard him; another and another followed, when, letting fly his head sheets, he put his helm to starboard, and hauled down his colours. We at once hove-to. A boat was lowered, and I, being able to speak French, was sent with Mr Harvey to take possession. We were soon alongside. Dubois must have recognised me when in the boat. As we stepped on deck he and La Touche advanced, and presented their swords to Mr Harvey, at the same time each of them made me a very formal bow. I returned it, and said, as I stepped forward—

“What is the meaning of this, Monsieur Dubois? You have made a gallant attempt to escape. It’s the fortune of war that you have failed; but why do you treat me as a stranger? I wish to behave towards you as old friends, and will do all in my power to help you.”

“We do not desire the friendship of one who has been guilty of such an act as you have committed,” answered Dubois stiffly.

“What act do you speak of?” I asked, suspecting, however, to what he alluded.

“You were trusted. You made your escape, and carried off the despatches,” he answered.

“I had a right to make my escape, for I had not given you my word to remain,” I said. “I did not carry off the despatches, nor did I instigate any one to do so. You’ll find that I speak the truth.”

“I have, then, to beg your pardon,” said Dubois, with French politeness, though he looked doubtfully at me.

There was little time for conversation, however. Mr Harvey desired the two French officers to prepare for going on board the frigate. “I understand that you have some English seamen on board. Where are they?” he asked.

“Two of them lie there,” said Dubois, “and the third, in trying to swim on shore, was seized by a shark. We are well rid of them, for they were mutinous rascals.”

I looked forward; there, on the deck, lay Dan Hoolan and the other mutineer. A shot had struck him on the chest, and nearly knocked the upper part of his body to pieces, while it had cut his companion almost in two, but I recognised his features, grim and stern, even in death. One of the French seamen had also been killed, and his countrymen, without ceremony, hove his body overboard. Mr Harvey ordered our men to dispose of the mutineers in the same manner, and to wash down the deck, for the sight was not such as any of us cared to look at longer than was necessary. Dubois and La Touche, who had gone below to get their valises, now returning with them, stepped into the boat, and Mr Harvey left me in charge of the brig. I felt somewhat elated at finding myself on board the craft of the command of which I had been so suddenly deprived, and began to hope that I was to retain it. I resolved, at all events, should any of the Frenchmen be left in her, to be careful that they didn’t again take her out of my hands.

I was sorry that I didn’t know rather more about navigation, but I thought that I could manage, by carrying on, to keep in sight of the frigate. I was especially thankful that we had not been compelled to hang Dan Hoolan and the other men, for ruffians as they were, and outlaws as they had been, I felt for them as countrymen, and should have been sorry to see them suffer so ignominious a fate. The brig was still hove-to, and I was pacing the deck with all the dignity of a commanding officer, when I saw another boat come off from the frigate, full of men. In a short time, Sinnet stepped up the side.

“I have come to supersede you, Paddy,” he said. “The captain doubts your capabilities as a navigator; besides which, he wants you as an interpreter, so you need not consider yourself slighted.”

“Not a bit of it,” I answered. “Only look out that the Frenchmen don’t take the brig from you.”

“The captain has made sure that that won’t be the case, by ordering all the prisoners to be sent to the frigate,” he replied.

I saw Larry step on deck with the new arrivals, and fancied that he had been sent to form part of the brig’s crew. I asked him if we were to be separated.

“No, Mr Terence, I’m thankful to say; but I axed leave of Mr Saunders to come and look for my fiddle. ‘To be shure,’ said he; ‘it puts life into the men, and you may go.’ So I’ve come, Mr Terence. If Dan Hoolan hasn’t hove it overboard, I’ll be after setting the men a-jigging this very evening, supposing we haven’t to fight the French, or do any other trifle of that sort!”

“Be smart, then, Larry, about it,” I said, “for I have to be off;” and Larry dived below. I ordered the Frenchmen to tumble into the boat,—they obeying in their usual light-hearted manner, not in any way looking as if they were prisoners. The last man had got into the boat, when Larry came up from below with his fiddle-case under his arm.

“Hooray, Mr Terence! shure I’m in luck, for I’ve got back my Cremona!” he exclaimed, as he came down the side, “I’ll set your heels going, mounseers, so don’t be down-hearted, my boys,” he said, addressing the French prisoners.

They seemed to understand him. Some exclaimed, “Bon garçon!” snapping their fingers, and moving their feet, to show that they were ready enough to dance notwithstanding that they were prisoners.

“It’s a wonder, Mr Terence: I’ve been after looking for Dan Hoolan, but never a sight could I get of him, or Phelan, or Casey,” said Larry.

When he heard of their fate, he’d scarcely believe it, till I told him that I had seen two of them dead on the deck, and that Dubois had accounted for the other.

“Well, I’m mighty thankful, for they might have had a worse ending, and it wasn’t to be supposed that they’d come to a good one,” he remarked.

Soon after I got back to the ship the captain sent for me into the cabin.

“I wish you, Finnahan,” he said, “to try and ascertain from these two young French officers what they know about the proceedings of their fleet, and also learn whether they suppose the ships ahead are those of our country or theirs.”

I promised to do as he desired. I found Dubois walking the deck, looking somewhat disconsolate. He received me as before, in a cold manner, though La Touche held out his hand when I offered him mine.

“It’s of little consequence now,” he said; “but I confess that we suspect you of carrying off the packet. We only discovered that it was gone after we left the harbour.”

I told him exactly how it had happened, and that I myself considered that under the circumstances I should not have been justified in taking it.

“You have acted honourably, monsieur. I apologise for our wrong suspicions, and I hope Dubois will do the same,” he said.

“Certainly,” said Dubois. “I vowed, when I discovered our loss, that I would never trust an English officer again.”

“You will now acknowledge, then, that though we are compelled to be enemies, we act honourably towards you,” I remarked. “However, all is said by you to be fair in love or war—is it not?”

“We have got the saying, though it may not be a true one, for all that,” he answered.

I now tried to carry out the captain’s instructions, but I confess that I could gain very little either from Dubois or La Touche. Perhaps they didn’t know much about the movements of their own fleet. Their opinion was that the ships they had seen ahead were English, or they would not have gone out of their course to avoid them. Captain Macnamara was not quite satisfied on that point.

We continued standing to the southward, with the brig following in our wake, while a bright look-out was kept aloft, that we might haul our wind, and get out of their way, in case they should prove enemies. It was fortunate that we were cautious, for, just before dark, the ships in sight were made out to be certainly French, and we immediately stood away to the southward to avoid them. Two frigates were seen coming in chase, but we made all sail, and night hid them from our sight. Whether or not they were still pursuing us we could not tell, but no lights were shown, and it was important to avoid an engagement, especially with enemies of a superior force. A careful look-out, however, was kept, lest they should come up with us during the night. When morning dawned we found that we had run them out of sight, and we now once more steered our course for Barbadoes.

On reaching Carlisle Bay, we found the fleet under Sir Samuel Hood moored in order of battle. It was evident from this that the admiral expected an attack from the French fleet, and we afterwards learned that he had gained information that it had sailed from Martinique in great force for the purpose of attacking the island. In an hour afterwards Sinnet brought in the brig in safety, when he had to deliver her up to the prize agents.

It was a fine sight to me, for I had never seen so many line-of-battle ships together, with their broadsides pointed in the same direction, sufficient, it seemed, to blow the whole navy of France into the air. Captain Macnamara, immediately on bringing up, sent Mr Harvey with the despatches to the admiral, and directed him to ask for instructions as to our future course.

We waited hour after hour in expectation of the French fleet.

“We shall have a good stand-up fight for it,” observed Sinnet to me. “I only wish that I had kept command of the brig, and I would have blazed away at the Frenchmen with my pop-guns.”

The night passed away. Early the next morning a sail was seen in the offing, standing towards the bay. We all supposed her to be one of the advance frigates of the French, sent ahead to ascertain our strength; but as the light increased she was seen to be a corvette, though at the same time she had a French appearance. She came steering directly for the admiral, and hove-to inside him.

“Why, I do believe it’s the craft we took soon after we left Jamaica, and Nettleship and you were sent away in charge of,” exclaimed Sinnet, who had been watching her.

I had also been examining her minutely, and had come to the same conclusion.

Directly she had furled sails, a boat went off from her to the admiral, and remained alongside for some time. We were thus left in doubt as to whether we were right. At length the boat, which had returned to the corvette, came pulling towards us.

Sinnet was watching her through a telescope.

“Why, I say, Paddy, I’m nearly certain I see old Nettleship in the stern-sheets, and Tom Pim alongside him,” he said.

“Then there can be no doubt that the corvette is the Soleil; but Nettleship hoped to get his promotion, and if so, he has been made one of her lieutenants,” I remarked.

“He hasn’t got on a lieutenant’s uniform, at all events,” said Sinnet, looking through the telescope.

In a short time the boat was alongside, and our doubts were solved, by seeing Tom Pim and Nettleship come on deck. They went aft at once, and reported themselves to Captain Macnamara. As soon as they were dismissed they joined us. They both gave a start of surprise at seeing me.

Tom grasped my hand and said, “Well, I am glad, Paddy, to find you safe aboard. We fully believed that the brig was lost in the hurricane, and never expected to set eyes on you again.”

Nettleship also greeted me warmly, though he looked somewhat down in the mouth. The cause of this soon came out.

“Why, Nettleship,” I said, “I thought you would have been made long before this.”

“It’s my ill-luck that I’m not, Paddy,” he answered. “I thought so too. I got highly complimented for bringing the prize into Port Royal, and I was then told to rejoin my ship as soon as possible; while the Soleil was commissioned, and a commander and two lieutenants, who had just come out from England with strong recommendations from the Admiralty, were appointed to her.”

“Well, cheer up, old fellow; we are very glad to have you still with us,” said Sinnet.

Tom afterwards told me that Nettleship got blamed by the admiral at Jamaica for sending me aboard the brig with so few hands, and for allowing the prisoners to remain on board, as he shrewdly suspected what had really happened, that if we had managed to escape the hurricane, they had risen on us and taken possession of the vessel.

The Soleil had brought intelligence which she had gained from the crew of a prize she had captured a few days before, that the Count de Grasse had borne away for Saint Christopher’s, where he had landed a force under the Marquis de Boullie, which it was feared would overpower General Fraser. The news soon ran through the fleet that, instead of waiting to be attacked, we were forthwith to sail in search of the French, to attack them. In a short time, at a signal thrown out from the flag-ship, the fleet, consisting of twenty-two sail of the line and several frigates, got under way, and stood out from Carlisle Bay. We first proceeded to Antigua, where we obtained fresh provisions, and took on board the 28th regiment of foot and two companies of the 13th, under the command of General Prescott; and on the evening of the same day we sailed for Saint John’s Roads, and stood under easy sail for Basse Terre, two of our frigates going ahead to give timely notice of what the French were about. We and the Nymph frigate were on one flank, and two others on the opposite side. We were fully expecting that we should have warm work in the morning. Few of the officers turned in. When a large fleet is sailing together, it is necessary to keep a very bright look-out. We could dimly see the other ships, with their lights burning, as we glided over the water.

Presently Nettleship, near whom I was standing, remarked—

“There are two of them closer together than they should be;” and the next instant he exclaimed, “They’re foul of each other! I feared that it would be the case.”

Signals of distress were now thrown out from both the ships. We on this closed with them; and Captain Macnamara ordered the boats to be lowered, to ascertain what had happened, and to render assistance. I went in one of them with our second lieutenant. The first we boarded proved to be the Nymph. She had been run into by the Alfred. She was dreadfully knocked about, being almost cut in two. We heard aboard her that the Alfred herself had also been severely damaged. A boat was at once sent to report what had happened to the admiral, and as soon as daylight dawned he threw out signals to the whole fleet to lay to while the injuries the Alfred had received were being repaired. The Nymph herself was too severely damaged to proceed, and was ordered at once to return to Antigua.

While we were lying to, a sail was seen in the distance, when the admiral ordered by signal the Liffy to chase. Before long we came up with her. She proved to be a large French cutter, laden with shells and ordnance stores for the besieging army.

Nearly the whole day was spent in repairing the damages the Alfred had received, and on our approaching Basse Terre, to our bitter disappointment, we found that the Count de Grasse had put to sea. The next night was spent in doubt as to what had become of him, but in the morning the French fleet, consisting of about twenty-nine sail of the line, was perceived about three leagues to leeward, formed in order of battle. Sir Samuel Hood immediately ordered the British fleet to bear down as if to attack him. This had the effect of driving him still farther to leeward, when, to our surprise, the admiral threw out another signal, directing the fleet to stand for Basse Terre.

In the evening we entered Frigate Bay, and anchored in line of battle. The object of this was to cut off the French from all communication with their forces on shore. Before we had brought up, the Count de Grasse stood towards us, and commenced a furious attack on the rear of our fleet, commanded by Commodore Affleck. He, supported by the Canada, Captain Cornwallis, and the Resolution, Lord Robert Manners, kept up so incessant a fire on the French, that, finding they could make no impression on us, their squadron bore up and stood again to sea. I mention these events to show the sort of work in which we were engaged.

The night passed quietly, but in the morning the French fleet was seen again approaching. On they came, passing along our line, and pouring their broadsides into us. Though superior to us in numbers, we returned so furious a fire, that after a time, finding we remained firm, they wore, and again stood out to sea. In the afternoon the French again appeared, but we again pounded them so severely that they at length, having had enough of it, once more retired, evidently having suffered severe loss.

The French flag-ship, the Ville de Paris, was seen to be upon the heel, blocking up the shot-holes she had received between wind and water.

All this time on shore the French were attacking General Fraser, who had been compelled to retire to a fort on Brimstone Hill, and with whom it had become exceedingly difficult to communicate. I was in the berth when I received a message from the captain, to go to his cabin.

“I have just come from the admiral,” he said. “He wishes to send some one on shore to communicate with General Fraser at Brimstone Hill. I told him at once that you would be able to succeed if any one could; though I warn you that the risk of being shot or captured by the enemy is considerable. Are you, notwithstanding, ready to go?”

“With all the pleasure in the world, sir,” I answered, “if I am likely to be able to find my way to the fort.”

“You’ll not have much difficulty in doing that,” he said, unless you’re stopped, for you’ll be furnished with an exact plan.

“Am I to go in uniform, sir, or in disguise?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t have you risk your life by going in disguise,” he replied. “If you were caught you would be shot as a spy. You must make the attempt at night, and by wearing a cloak you may escape detection, unless you happen to encounter any of the French soldiers; in that case you’ll have to yield yourself a prisoner.”

“Whatever the difficulties, I’m ready to go through with them, sir,” I said; “and as I speak French, though not very well, should I meet any French soldiers, I may perhaps be able to make my escape from them.”

“The captain told me that the object of the admiral was to establish a communication between the fleet and Brimstone Hill, by means of signals, which I was to carry with me, the general not being supplied with them. It will be safer to take a man with you to convey the flags, while you carry the code of signals, which you must endeavour to destroy should you be made prisoner,” he said.

I had still some hours to wait, however, before it was dark enough for me to land. I soon afterwards met La Touche. Both he and Dubois made themselves very happy on board, caring apparently very little about being prisoners. I told him of my intended expedition.

“If you succeed, well and good,” he said; “but if you are taken prisoner, I hope you’ll mention Dubois and me to the Marquis de Boullie, and suggest that he should make an offer to exchange you for me. Perhaps he has captured another English officer, who would gladly be exchanged for Dubois. Not that we are weary of our captivity, as you all do your best to make it as light and agreeable as possible.”

I told La Touche that I should be happy to carry out his wishes should I be taken prisoner, though I had no intention of being made one if I could help it.

When I told Tom Pim of what I had to do, he declared that he was jealous of me, and that he thought he should try to get leave to go. I said that I should like to have his company, and accordingly we went together to the captain to ask leave. He, however, refused, saying that he would not risk the loss of two midshipmen at the same time.

“You may, however, take Harrigan with you,” he said; “he is a sharp lad, and will serve you better than any other man in the ship.”

Though I should have been unwilling to ask for Larry, for fear of exposing him to danger, I was very glad to have him with me.

Just before dark a boat was lowered and manned, and Nettleship was ordered to take me and Harrigan on shore. I shook hands with my messmates.

“We hope you’ll get back, Paddy,” said Sinnet. “If you’re killed or taken prisoner, we will mourn over your hard fate. However, you’re too sharp to be caught, and we shall see you back again before long, I daresay.”

The captain desired to see me before I started, and gave me further instructions, making me study well a plan of the road to the fort, so I did not fear that I should lose my way. At length we shoved off. Instead, however, of pulling directly for the shore, we steered over to the opposite side of the bay to that where the enemy were encamped.

Nettleship seemed very anxious about me.

“I wish that an older man had been sent, Paddy,” he said; “and I’m ashamed of myself that I don’t understand French, or I might have been employed in the service. I envy you for the opportunity you have of distinguishing yourself.”

“I don’t see that I shall have much to boast of, having only to creep along in the dark up to the fort and back again. There’s no great difficulty in the undertaking, besides having to keep out of the way of the French pickets.”

“It’s not so much what you have to do, as the object to be attained, and the danger of doing it, which will bring credit on you,” he answered.

It was perfectly dark before we reached the place which had been fixed on for landing, so that we ran no risk of being observed from the shore. It was arranged that Nettleship was to wait off it until I made the signal for him to come in and take me aboard. Not a word was spoken as Larry and I stepped on to the beach, he carrying the signals and I the book and the admiral’s letter. We kept first to our right till we found a path leading inland through a wood. We went on as rapidly as the nature of the ground would allow. The snake-like roots ran across the path, and creepers hung low down in festoons, forming nooses, which might have brought us sharply up if we had run our heads into them. Now and then I fancied that I saw a huge snake winding its way along before me; and tree-frogs, crickets, and other nocturnal insects, kept up a noisy chorus as we went on. Sometimes it was so dark that it was with the greatest difficulty I could make my way with the stick I carried. I was very glad when, getting out of the wood, we found ourselves on the borders of a sugar-cane plantation. This I knew I should have to skirt till I reached another path leading almost directly up to the fort.

Chapter Seventeen.

The last of the “Liffy.”

We had proceeded some distance when the voice of a sentry hailing a passer-by struck my ear. The challenge was in French, as was the answer. It appeared to be some way off, and I hoped might come from one of the extreme outposts. Still I knew that it was necessary to proceed with caution, or we might suddenly find ourselves close upon another. We went on and on, occasionally stopping to listen. No other sounds besides those of noisy insects broke the silence of night. Already we could see the top of Brimstone Hill rising against the dark sky. In another quarter of an hour or so we might reach it. I hoped that we might find nothing to stop us in passing over the intervening space. We continued on, concealing ourselves as much as possible beneath the hedges of cacti, or the trunks of trees. We had got close to a thick copse, as we should call it, only that the plants were of a very different character, when I heard a sound of feet passing apparently before us. Then I heard a remark made in French by one person to another, who answered it in the same tongue. Grasping Larry’s arm, I dragged him towards the wood. Fortunately we found some thick bushes, behind which we crouched down. Presently the sounds of the footsteps grew louder, and I could just distinguish the dim outline of a party of men and several officers, passing along the road towards the left, where the French army were supposed to be encamped. They had evidently been out on a reconnoitring expedition, and were now returning. Had we gone on we should certainly have fallen into their hands. I waited until they were out of hearing, and then, whispering to Larry, we got up and made our way directly towards the fort, with much less fear than before of meeting any one. Still I knew that we were not safe until we had actually gained our destination.

At last we were hurrying on, when I heard a voice say, “Who goes there?” and I answered, “A friend from the fleet, with a letter for the general.” The sentry told us to pass on. In another minute we reached the picket, a soldier from which was sent up with us to the fort. We were at once admitted into the presence of General Fraser, to whom I delivered the despatches and signals.

“You have performed your service well, young gentleman,” said the general. “Are you to remain here, or to return to the fleet?”

I told him that my directions were to get back as soon as possible.

“I’ll detain you, then, but a short time, while I write a letter to Sir Samuel Hood,” he said. “I hope that you’ll be as successful on your journey back, as you were in coming here.”

Before he began to write, he ordered a servant to bring me refreshments, and to look after my companion. The walk had given me an appetite; and I did justice to the food placed before me.

The general had soon finished his letter; and, giving it to me, with a warm shake of the hand, told me that I was at liberty to set out when I was ready.

“My orders are to return without delay, sir,” I answered, and took my leave.

The sentry accompanied Larry and me to the outer picket, thence we hurried on as fast as we could manage to get along. Still I maintained the same caution as in coming, for at any moment we might fall in with some of the enemy, who might be watching the fort from a distance. The farther we got, the more my hopes of succeeding increased. I could already make out the lights of the ships in the bay, and the sheen of the intermediate water. We reached the wood through which we had before passed, and had just made our way to the outside, when I caught sight of a body of men, apparently a patrol, a short distance to the right. We were still under the shade of the trees, and I hoped that we should not be discovered. We drew back to see in what direction they were coming. It appeared to me that they had already passed, and that we might gain the landing-place, even should they see us making towards it. We accordingly, after waiting a short time, darted forward, running at our full speed. Scarcely, however, had we begun to run, than I heard a shout of—

“Arrêtez là!”—Stop there, stop!

It was an order we were not likely to obey. It was too late to return to the wood, so, scampering as fast as our feet could move, we ran on to where we expected to find the boat.

Again the Frenchmen shouted to us, and presently a shot came whistling by my ear.

“Stoop down, Larry,” I cried, “as low as you can; it doesn’t do to present a larger target to the enemy than is necessary.”

I hoped that the shots would attract the attention of Nettleship, and that he would pull in to take us aboard. I turned my head for a moment, and saw the soldiers running towards us; still, as we were some way ahead, I expected that we should have time to reach the boat, and to shove off to a distance before they came up.

To make sure, I shouted out—

“Nettleship, ahoy! Pull in as hard as you can.”

Though I could see lights on board the ships, close to the water as it was, I could not distinguish the boat, and I was afraid that, not expecting us so soon, Nettleship had pulled to a distance. Should he not arrive our capture was certain. We had nearly gained the rocks on which we had landed, when I made out a dark object on the water approaching. That must be the boat, I thought, and again hailed. Nettleship, recognising my voice, answered, and I guessed by the sound of the oars that the men were bending to them with all their might. Larry and I stood ready to spring in. We could hear the footsteps of the Frenchmen approaching rapidly. By stooping down we managed to conceal ourselves, and to avoid several more shots which were fired. The moment the bowman touched the rock with his boat-hook, Larry and I sprang on board. I scrambled aft, while Nettleship shouted out—

“Back oars all. Now, starboard oars, give way.”

The boat was quickly got round, but we had pulled to no great distance before the Frenchmen, reaching the beach, began to blaze away at us. We returned the compliment by firing the only two muskets which had been brought. The Frenchmen standing up on the rock presented a good target. First one shot struck the stern, and another the blade of an oar, but no one was hurt, and the Frenchmen, finding that they were the greatest sufferers, prudently retired from the beach.

After a long pull we got back to the frigate. The captain, to whom I delivered General Fraser’s letter, complimented me on having performed the duty.

“Your conduct will be noted, Finnahan, and you may depend upon obtaining your promotion as soon as you are old enough.”

I expected to be able to turn in, but he sent me with the letter at once on board the flag-ship, and I delivered it in person to Sir Samuel Hood.

The admiral almost repeated what the captain had said; and I had good reason to congratulate myself at the success of my adventure.

Next day, General Prescott’s division was re-embarked, as it was not a sufficient force to fight its way to General Fraser at Brimstone Hill. Other attempts were made to communicate with him, and two officers were captured; so that I had good cause to be thankful that I had escaped.

Dubois and La Touche confessed that they were very sorry to see me back.

“I felt sure that you would be made prisoner, and fully expected to have had the satisfaction of being exchanged for you,” said the latter. “But we have to practise patience and laugh at our misfortunes, to get on in this world.”

“I’m very glad you were not caught, Paddy,” said Tom Pim. “I envy you your success, and only wish that I could talk French as you do, to be employed on the same sort of service. La Touche is teaching me, and I’m trying to teach him English, but we make rum work of it without a grammar or dictionary, or any other book. I suspect he gets more out of me than I do out of him, though I try very hard to pronounce the words he says.”

We could hear the French guns thundering away at the fort, and those of the fort replying, hour after hour, without intermission, but the signals made by General Fraser were not supposed to be satisfactory.

At last, one day, we saw the flag hauled down; the guns at the same time ceased, and we knew that all was over, and the gallant garrison had been compelled to capitulate. Information of this was sent on board to the admiral, with a flag of truce, by the Marquis de Boullie.

That evening we sailed on a cruise to ascertain the movements of the French fleet. We had not been to sea many hours when we saw them standing in for Nevis Point, where they came to an anchor; and counting them, we found that they numbered no less than twenty-four sail of the line, several ships having lately joined them. We at once returned with the information to Sir Samuel Hood. It was now discovered that the French had been throwing up gun and mortar batteries on a hill, which would completely command the fleet.

We were seated in the berth after we had brought up, discussing the state of affairs.

“We’re in a nice position,” said Chaffey. “We shall be pounded at from the shore, and shall have the French fleet, with half as many more ships as we possess, down upon us before long, and it will be a tough job to fight our way out from among them.”

“Just trust our admiral,” answered Tom; “he knows what he’s about, depend on that; he won’t let us be caught like rats in a trap.”

As he was speaking, Nettleship came into the berth.

“The captain was sent for on board the flag-ship, and he’s just returned,” he said. “I hear that he met all the captains of the fleet on board, and the admiral told them to set their watches by his timepiece, and directed all the ships to slip or cut their cables at eleven o’clock. The sternmost and leewardmost ships are to get under weigh first, and so on in succession, and we’re to stand on under easy sail, in sight of each other, till we receive further orders from the admiral.”

No one turned in; the crews were at their stations; not a sign was shown which might allow the French—who were of course watching us from the shore—to discover that any movement was in contemplation. At the appointed time, the Alfred, the most leeward of our ships, was seen to get under weigh, followed in rapid succession by the Canada the President, and the rest of the line-of-battle ships, which stood out of the bay, accompanied by the frigates, before probably the French were aware what we were about.

It was a masterly movement, as it would have been madness to have stopped to be attacked by so superior a force as the French possessed; for though we might have driven them off, we must have suffered severely, and have had to return into harbour to refit. At this time we were outnumbered, and even out-manoeuvred, by the French, who took possession of several of our islands, which we were unable to protect.

We were not to be idle, for there was plenty of work for the frigates in watching the enemy, and occasionally in engaging their frigates.

We had not been long at sea when our captain received orders from Sir Samuel Hood to stand in towards where the French fleet were supposed to be, and ascertain what they were about.

We had sighted the island of Antigua on our starboard bow, and were standing in towards Nevis, when three sail appeared to the westward. One of the lieutenants went aloft to examine them. On returning on deck, he reported that one was a line-of-battle ship, and the other two frigates. As there could be no doubt, from their position, that they were enemies, the captain ordered our course to be altered, intending to pass to the northward of Antigua. We had been seen by the enemy, who were making all sail in chase. I saw Dubois and La Touche watching them eagerly.

“You expect this time to gain your liberty, my friend?” I said to La Touche. “Don’t be too sure that your countrymen will come up with us, or if they do, that they will make the Liffy strike her flag.”

“I would rather be set at liberty in any other way,” he answered, in his usual cordial tone; “but they appear to me to be gaining on us.”

“Perhaps they are, and if so we must fight them, and drive them off,” I observed.

“It would be madness to do that,” he remarked. “You cannot cope with a line-of-battle ship alone, independent of two frigates, each of which is a match for the Liffy.”

It was soon seen that our captain had no intention of striking his flag without striking very hard first at the enemy. The strangers appeared to have a stronger breeze than filled our sails, and were coming up hand over hand with us. Still we might get the wind, and run into an English harbour. It was the first time the Liffy ever had to run, and we didn’t like it. I asked Nettleship what he thought about the matter.

“We shall have a tough fight, at all events; but if we can save our spars, I don’t think, notwithstanding, the enemy will take us.”

This was the general feeling of all on board.

We had sighted Nevis, when two other ships were made out to the south-east. Presently several more appeared in that direction. It was a question, however, whether they were friends or foes. Had we been certain that they were friends, we should have stood towards them, but our captain was unwilling to run the risk of finding that he had made a mistake. A look-out was kept on them from aloft; and before long they were pronounced to be enemies. I saw by the looks of our captain that he didn’t like it, though he tried to appear as confident as usual. The rest of the officers kept up their spirits.

It was very evident that we were now in a difficult position. The line-of-battle ship was the closest; the two frigates, one to the north of us, the other some way to the south of her; while the new enemies we had discovered prevented us escaping in the opposite direction. Our only hope was to knock away some of the spars of the line-of-battle ship, and then fight our way past the two frigates. The line-of-battle ship was rapidly approaching. A single broadside, should we be exposed to it, would almost sink us.

Every preparation had been made for fighting; and not a man flinched from his gun. The officers were at their stations; the powder-monkeys seated on their tubs; the surgeons below, preparing for the wounded; and we, the younger midshipmen, ready for any duty we might be called on to perform.

At length a puff of smoke was seen issuing from the line-of-battle ship. The shot fell close to our counter.

“That was fired from her forecastle,” observed Nettleship, “from a long gun, too. It will play Old Harry with us if well served, before we can return the compliment.”

A second shot quickly followed, and struck the hammock-nettings on the starboard side, knocking several overboard.

We at length luffed up; and the captain ordered the whole of our starboard broadside to be fired. Our guns were well aimed, and immediately we had fired we again kept away. Our shot did considerable damage to our pursuer, but she still kept on, while we expected every moment to have her broadside crashing into us.

Fortunately for us the wind fell, and our light frigate moved rapidly through the water. The other frigates were, however, coming up.

“What does the captain intend to do?” I asked of Nettleship.

He pointed ahead where the island of Nevis rose green and smiling out of the blue water.

“Depend on it he won’t let the enemy have our tight little frigate if he can help it,” he answered. “My idea is that he’ll try and get close in, and stand round the island, to give a chance to our big enemy to run on shore.”

Shortly after this I heard Nettleship involuntarily exclaim, “See! see! here it comes!” and as I looked aft I saw the line-of-battle ship luffing up, and as she did so her whole broadside was discharged at us.

With a fearful uproar the shot came crashing on board. Cries and shrieks arose from all sides. Well-nigh a dozen of our men were struck down, and many more were wounded. The most severely hurt of the latter were carried below. Comparatively little damage, however, had been done to our spars and rigging, though the rents in our sails showed where the shot had passed through; while blocks came rattling down on deck, and several ropes hung in festoons from the yards. Still our stout-hearted captain held on.

To return the enemy’s fire would have been useless, and only the sooner insure our destruction. We got nearer and nearer the island. The men were ordered into the chains to heave the lead. The captain and master examined the chart, which had been brought from the cabin. We had no doubt of what their intentions were, but we couldn’t hear a word they said. We were gaining on our pursuer, but at the same time the two frigates were not far astern, while the other ships, which had last been seen, were coming up rapidly. The men in the chains were heaving the lead. We were shoaling our water.

“By the mark, nine,” was called, and immediately followed by “By the mark, eight.” Before the men in the chains could again cry out, a loud crash was heard,—every timber in the ship trembled,—the tall masts quivered.

“We’re on shore,” I cried out.

“No doubt about that,” said Nettleship, “and likely to remain there too.”

The captain at once ordered the men aloft to furl sails.

Our pursuer, not wishing to meet with the same fate, hauled her wind, and stood to a distance, which left us beyond the reach of her guns.

“Roll them up anyhow. Be smart about it,” cried Mr Saunders.

It was done. Then the order came,—“Out boats!”

Every boat was got into the water, and brought over to the starboard side, with a few hands in each.

“We shall have to cut away the masts,” said Nettleship, whom I again passed.

The ship was still forging over the ledge on which she had struck, closer and closer towards the shore. The order which he expected quickly came.

“Stand from under,” shouted Mr Saunders. Some of the men sprang below, others forward. We, the officers, rushed aft. The carpenter, with his mates, and the boatswain, stood ready, with their gleaming axes in their hands.

“Cut!” cried the captain.

The shrouds were severed at one side, then the axes descended. A few strokes, and the masts in rapid succession fell overboard. We had all been so engaged in this operation that we had not watched our enemies. We now saw the line-of-battle ship signalling the frigates. Shortly after they were seen to stand in, apparently for the object of attacking us.

“It must be done,” cried Captain Macnamara. “Lads, I’m sorry to say we must leave our stout ship. We must not allow her, however, to fall into the hands of the enemy. Get your clothes, and anything you value most, as I have resolved to destroy her.”

Every one now hurried below to get their clothes, and such other things as they desired to preserve. The purser appeared with the ship’s papers, the master with the ship’s log, and the captain with a few instruments. Muskets and ammunition, pistols and cutlasses, were then served out, so that we might have the means of resisting the enemy should they attempt to land. All were now ready for embarking. He would allow none of us to take larger sized packages than the men were permitted to carry away. The crew were now all told off to take their places in the boats. The midshipmen and boys, as in the case of fire or shipwreck, were sent first. Larry was in my boat.

“It’s a sad day this, Mr Terence, which I never thought to see,” he said; “but arrah! I’ve not forgotten my fiddle, and it will be mighty convenient to cheer the hearts of our poor fellows when we get ashore.”

Most of the men took the matter very philosophically. Those who suffered most were the unfortunate wounded, who had previously been lowered into the boats, with the surgeons to look after them. Our two prisoners, Dubois and La Touche, had, I fancied, formed some plan for remaining on board, but a hint from Rough-and-Ready made them very quickly follow me into the boat, accompanied by a marine.

“Take care, Finnahan, those two foreigners don’t give you the slip,” shouted the first lieutenant. “Let them understand that they must remain under charge of the sentry, and that if they give leg-bail he has orders to shoot them. Now shove off.”

I told my friends what Mr Saunders had said.

“Ah, that lieutenant of yours is very suspicious,” remarked Dubois. “We wish to get away! What folly to think of it.”

I said nothing more, but there was a twinkle in Dubois’ eye, which made me fancy he did think of it.

The shore was soon reached; providentially there was no surf, and the men quickly landed. On this the boats at once put off to bring away the remainder of the crew. The men bent to their oars. There was no time to be lost, for the French frigates were approaching, and would soon be blazing away at our ship. On they came under all sail.

“We’ll have them right enough if they run ashore,” cried one of the men; “there’ll then be fair play maybe.”

“I wish that our captain would only just let us go back and fight them,” exclaimed another; “we’d soon show them that the saucy Liffy hasn’t done barking yet.”

But the Frenchmen seemed to have no intention of running ashore if they could help it. As we got alongside they had come almost within range of our guns. The remainder of the crew and officers stood ready to embark. Just at that moment I recollected that I had come away without my grandfather’s sword, which was hung up in the berth. I sprang on deck and rushed down below to obtain it. Having got it in my hand, I was hurrying out of the berth, when I saw the captain, accompanied by Mr Saunders with the gunner and his crew, just coming aft. At the same time I observed a dense smoke issuing from the fore-hold. They had matches in their hands, with which they had lighted some trains which had been laid leading to the after-part of the ship. I sprang back into the boat, into which the gunner and his crew followed me, the captain’s gig still waiting alongside. Mr Saunders came down and took his seat. The captain stood for some moments gazing along the deck, then, lifting up his hat, he also descended. “Shove off!” I heard him cry out, in a husky voice, just as we were pulling away.

He was the last man to leave the frigate. As he did so several shot came crashing aboard her from the opposite side. We pulled away as fast as we could lay our backs to the oars, for we had a good chance of being hit. The shot dropped round us pretty thickly, but we escaped uninjured. As we looked astern thick wreaths of smoke were issuing from every part of our gallant frigate.

“Her fighting days are over,” I observed.

“Not just yet, sir,—not just yet. Wait a minute and you’ll see,” exclaimed the coxswain.

He was right. Before we landed the flames had reached the guns, and her whole broadside, pointed towards the Frenchmen, went off in rapid succession.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted all the men; “the old girl dies game to the last.”

What damage the guns of our ship effected on the French frigates we could not discover, but they were seen to haul their wind and to stand off as fast as they could from the land. We soon gained the shore, which was as captivating in appearance as any shipwrecked mariner has ever landed on. It seemed like a perfect garden, with churches and planters’ houses peeping out from among the trees, in the midst of the most picturesque scenery. In the centre rose a lofty cone, surrounded by a ruff of trees, below which all was one mass of verdure. We had little time or inclination just then to admire the beauties of nature. The crew having been mustered, none being missing except the poor fellows who were known to have been killed, the wounded were placed on litters formed of sails, and we were set off to march towards Charlestown, the smart little capital of the island, whence Captain Macnamara expected to be able to send intelligence of the disaster to the admiral.

We had gone some distance, and were all feeling hungry and thirsty, when we came in sight of the house of a planter. Our approach was perceived. The master of the mansion came forth, and, addressing Captain Macnamara, insisted on our halting, and taking such refreshment as he could provide. His offer was gladly accepted. As the house wouldn’t hold us all, we youngsters stopped in the shade of of a grove of trees close to it, the captain and gun-room officers being invited inside. The men threw themselves on the ground, in every variety of attitude, waiting for the expected feast. We of the midshipmen’s berth formed a group by ourselves a little way from the men, close to a fountain, which sent up a jet of water into the quivering air. The sight of it alone was calculated to cool us, and we needed cooling, for our march had been hot and fatiguing. Some of the men suffering most from thirst rushed to the fountain, and baled the water into their mouths, or lapped it up like dogs.

“I say, Paddy, what has become of your French friends?” asked Nettleship, looking round. “I thought La Touche would at all events have been with us, though Dubois might have considered himself privileged to go in with the gun-room officers.”

“I haven’t set eyes on them—since—since—let me see—not since we left the shore,” I answered. “I suppose they must be in the house.”

Just then I saw the marine who had had charge of the prisoners. I asked him what had become of them. He had been ordered to fall into the ranks with his comrades, and had handed them over, he said, to the second lieutenant,—Simon Silk,—known among us as Softy. I told Nettleship this.

“Oh, then of course they are in the house,” he remarked.

“Not so sure of that, if Softy had charge of them,” said Tom.

In a short time a number of blacks came out, bringing provisions of all sorts. Huge jugs of sangaree, baskets of pink shaddocks, bananas, oranges, pomegranates, figs, and grapes, in addition to the more substantial fare. How we did peg into the fruit, which we enjoyed the more from having been lately on salt provisions. To the poor wounded fellows the fruit was especially refreshing, and I believe the lives of several were saved who would otherwise have succumbed.

“Well, I shouldn’t mind being shipwrecked occasionally, if I could always land in such a place as this,” said Chaffey, devouring a superb shaddock, while the rest of us were similarly employed, or sucking oranges, or popping grapes into our mouths.

As we were at no great distance from Charlestown, our kind host advised the captain to remain, and to pursue his march in the cool of the evening, undertaking to send on to the authorities that quarters might be provided for us. We were not at all sorry to hear this, as all of us needed rest. We ate the delicious fruit till we could eat no more, and then threw ourselves on the ground. Our host came out and invited us into the house, but Nettleship, who considered that he might have done so at first, declined his offer; indeed, we were far better off under the trees than between walls, and certainly more at our ease. At length Mr Saunders came out, and ordered us to get ready for marching; the men were formed in ranks, and, giving a cheer for our host, we set out.

I had been looking about for Dubois and La Touche, when I saw Lieutenant Silk. I asked him if he knew where they were.

“Bless me! why, have they not been with you all this time?” he exclaimed. “I understood them to say that they would join you when we arrived at Mr Ballahoo’s, and I never dreamed of their not doing so.”

The marine officer looked somewhat aghast on hearing that we had not even seen the Frenchmen.

“Whether he dreamed it or not, they are off as sure as a gun,” observed Nettleship, when I told him.

Such proved to be the case; and though Softy had to march back with a party of his men to look for them, they were nowhere to be found. I do not think that the captain was very much put out, though I was sorry to part from my polite friends without saying good-bye. As the enemy were in the neighbouring island, it was probable that they would send a force across to capture Nevis, so that we fully expected to have work to do, as the governor was resolved to oppose them.

We arrived at Charlestown just at sunset, and were hospitably received by the inhabitants, among whom we were billeted, the wounded being sent to the hospital. We were expecting to have a pleasant stay in the town, but next day a frigate appeared off the place and sent her boat ashore, when our captain applied for a passage for himself and men to join the admiral. We had at once, therefore, to embark on board the Thisbe. Next day we stood across to Antigua, and, having passed that island, we beat to the southward, when a large fleet was seen ahead. We approached cautiously till we got within signalling distance, when the fleet was found to be that of Sir Samuel Hood, steering for Antigua. We were ordered to join it, and the next day brought up in Saint John’s roads. We here remained at anchor for some time, till we were joined by Sir George Rodney, who had come out from England with several sail of the line. Sir George Rodney became commander-in-chief, and now considered himself strong enough to cope with the French and Spanish.

While the officers and crew of the Liffy were together, we were merry enough; but after we had undergone the trial for her loss, and our captain and his subordinates had been honourably acquitted, the time came for our separation. We were distributed among the different ships of the fleet. Nettleship, Tom Pim, and I were ordered to join the Cerberus, 74, with a portion of our men, among whom was Larry. Tom and I agreed that we felt lost in so big a ship. We soon, however, got accustomed to her, and became intimate with our new messmates, several of whom were very good fellows. Tom declared that he should never like the gun-room after our snug little berth, for, should he once fetch away, he shouldn’t bring up again until he had cracked his head against a gun or against the ship’s side. For some time we had fine weather, so that he had no opportunity of experiencing the inconvenience he anticipated. We heard that the very day we left Nevis the French had thrown an overwhelming force across and taken possession of the island.

“I don’t know that we should have prevented that,” said Tom, “so I am glad that we got away, or we might have been killed or made prisoners.”

The fleet being strengthened as I have described, we proceeded to Saint Lucia to complete our water. We now had to sail in search of a large French convoy which was expected to arrive from Europe, and anticipated a rich prize; but the French were too sharp for us, for though a vigilant look-out was kept by the frigates, they managed, by sailing close under Dominique and Guadaloupe, to reach Port Royal Bay unperceived by any of our ships. When Sir Samuel Hood got information of this unlucky event, the line-of-battle ships returned to Saint Lucia to refit, while the frigates were employed in watching the movements of the enemy. The object of the French and Spaniards was well known. It was to unite their fleets, and thus, forming a powerful force, to proceed to the conquest of Jamaica. Our object was to prevent them from doing this. The frigates had ample work in watching their movements, and many ran a great risk of being captured in the anxiety of their captains to keep a vigilant watch on them. Our fleet lay ready for a start as soon as information was brought of the enemy having put to sea.

Chapter Eighteen.

Lucy Talboys again.

At length, at daylight on the 8th of April, when I, acting as signal midshipman, was on the look-out, I saw a frigate standing towards us and making signals. I immediately communicated the information to the commander, who was on deck.

“The Andromache, Captain Byron,” he exclaimed. “She tells us that she has seen the enemy’s fleet with a large convoy coming out of Port Royal Bay, and standing to the north-west.”

Tom Pim was immediately sent down to call the captain, and, as he appeared, the admiral threw out a signal from the Formidable to put to sea in chase of the enemy. Cheers resounded from ship to ship, and never did fleet get under weigh with more alacrity. By noon we were clear of Gros Islet Bay, when we stretched over to Port Royal, but, finding none of the French ships there or at Saint Pierre, we stood after them in the direction they were supposed to have taken. We continued on for some hours during the night, still uncertain as to whether we should overtake the enemy, when, to our joy, we discovered their lights right ahead.

As morning broke, a large portion of the convoy was discovered under Dominique, while to windward we could see the French fleet forming the line of battle. As the light increased, the admiral threw out signals to prepare for action and to form the line.

It was welcomed by a hearty cheer from ten thousand throats. As, however, we got under Dominique, to our bitter disappointment the sails flapped against the masts, and most of the ships lay becalmed, unable to obey the orders which had been received. It was tantalising in the extreme. At length, however, the lighter canvas filled, and the sea-breeze freshened. The Barfleur, Sir Samuel Hood’s flag-ship, then our ship, then the Monarch and Warrior, the Valiant and Alfred got the wind, and the whole of the van division, of which we formed a part, stretched to the northward on the starboard tack in chase, while the central and rear divisions, under Sir George Rodney, lay still becalmed and unable to join us. Our gallant admiral, however, anxious to bring on an action, continued his course, when we saw the French fleet also forming their line on the starboard tack, in the hope of attacking us before we could be joined by Sir George Rodney.

“Now, Paddy, we shall see what a real fight is like,” said Tom Pim, as we stood on the quarter-deck.

“I hope we shall see what a victory is like, too,” I answered, as I eyed the approaching enemy, numbering fifteen ships, to oppose which we had but eight. Sir Samuel Hood, however, knew what he was about, and the order was given to heave to, which brought our broadsides to bear upon the French, and at the same time would allow the other two frigates to come up with us as soon as they could get the wind. The first shot was fired from the Barfleur a few minutes before 10 a.m., and then all our eight stout ships began blazing away at the French, as they stood down intending to break our line; but so tremendous was the fire with which they were received, that they found the attempt hopeless. They, however, returned it vigorously, and for a full hour we were pounding away at each other, not a few of our brave fellows being killed, and many more wounded. Towards the end of the time, as the smoke cleared away, I saw the rest of our fleet coming up with the breeze, which had at length reached them. The French admiral also saw them, and, having had a taste of how eight ships could treat him, he stood away under all sail after the remainder of his fleet. Sir George Rodney now threw out a signal for a general chase, but the Frenchmen beat us hollow in running away, and we in vain attempted to come up with them. For two whole days we were engaged in chasing.

“I’m afraid, after all, the mounseers will get off, and reach Jamaica before us,” said Tom Pim to me; “and if they do, what will become of Mr Talboys and his family? Poor Lucy! she will be marrying a French count, perhaps, and I shall never see her again.”

“They are not quite out of sight, and though they’re gaining on us, the wind may change, or some other accident may occur, and we shall have another stand-up fight,” I answered.

This was soon after sunrise on the 12th of April, when our fleet was standing to the northward, about five leagues north-west of Prince Rupert’s Bay, with a light breeze. The French were upon the same tack to windward of the Saintes, with a fresh sea-breeze. The light increasing, we saw a ship which had lost her foremast and bowsprit, in tow of a frigate standing in for Guadaloupe. On perceiving this the admiral threw out a signal for us and three other ships to chase; and, disabled as the French line-of-battle ship was, we made sure of capturing her.

“We shall get hold of one ship, at all events, and the frigate too, if she doesn’t up stick and run,” said Nettleship, as he watched the two Frenchmen ahead.

Presently he exclaimed, “Not so sure of that, though. I see the French admiral making signals, and we shall know what he has been saying presently.”

A short time afterwards he added, “His fleet is bearing up for the purpose of protecting the wounded bird.”

We stood on, however. The captain told Tom Pim, who was signal midshipman, to keep a sharp eye on our admiral.

“If he keeps on that course he’ll give us the weather gage, and we shall catch him as sure as his name is De Grasse,” cried Nettleship.

Our crew of course were at their quarters, and we expected ere long to be exchanging broadsides with the enemy. Presently the French again altered their course, and formed their line on the larboard tack.

“The admiral has hoisted the recall signal,” cried Tom. Directly afterwards we saw the signal made for our ships to form the line of battle on the starboard tack. Rear-Admiral Drake’s division was now leading, the Marlborough being ahead. The island of Dominique was on our starboard hand, the wind coming off the land, and the French between us and it. Thus they were to windward of us, standing almost directly for Guadaloupe. We were now gradually nearing each other. Just at 8 a.m. the Marlborough, in gallant style, opened fire on the rear of the French. At the same time Rodney made the signal for close action. Soon after it was hoisted all the other ships and Rear-Admiral Drake’s division commenced firing their broadsides. For a time Admiral Hood’s division was almost becalmed, as were many of Sir George Rodney’s ships, but as they drew ahead they got the wind much stronger clear of the land. After the action had continued for some time, the wind shifted, enabling us to get to windward of the enemy.

“Look out there, Paddy, at the Duke. See, that gallant fellow Gardner is endeavouring to force the Frenchman’s line,” cried Nettleship.

We watched for some minutes, when a shot carried away the Duke’s main-topmast, and she dropped to leeward, and Sir George Rodney, followed by the Namur and Canada, stood right in between the enemy’s ships, not far from the Ville de Paris, carrying their admiral’s flag. Others quickly followed, when Rodney wore and doubled upon the enemy, all the time, it must be understood, keeping up a tremendous and incessant fire. By this gallant manoeuvre the French line was completely broken, and thrown into the utmost confusion. Their van bore away, and endeavoured to form to leeward, but our division, under Sir Samuel Hood, now getting the breeze, came up, and joined in the close fight which had long been going on. To describe it so that my account should be understood would be difficult in the extreme. All the time the shot of the enemy came crashing aboard. Our object was to catch sight of the hulls of the Frenchmen amid the clouds of smoke, and to pound away at them. Each of our ships did the same. Amongst the ships was the Glorieux, commanded by the Vicomte d’Escar. Though surrounded by enemies, he continued to fire his broadsides until his masts and bowsprit were shot away by the board, and not till he saw that he must abandon all hope of rescue did he haul down his colours. We almost immediately afterwards came up with another ship, which we found to be the Caesar, Captain M. de Marigney. We got so close up to her that our guns almost touched, and began furiously pounding away at her sides. She had already been severely battered before we attacked her. The gallant Frenchman, however, continued to engage us, and, looking up, as for an instant the smoke was blown aside, we saw that he had nailed his colours to the mast.

“We must knock them away notwithstanding,” said Nettleship.

Soon afterwards down came the enemy’s mainmast, followed by her mizzenmast, fortunately falling over on the opposite side.

Still the Frenchmen continued working their guns, but one after the other ceased firing, and at last an officer waved a handkerchief, to show that they surrendered. As he did so the foremast went by the board. We immediately ceased firing, and our second lieutenant was sent to take possession in one of the few of our boats which could swim. I accompanied him. I by this time had seen a good deal of fighting, but I had never yet witnessed any scene so dreadful as the decks of the Caesar presented. On reaching the upper deck, one of the first objects which met our eyes was the body of the gallant captain, who had just breathed his last. Near him lay three or four other officers, and a little farther off two young midshipmen; while fore and aft lay the dead and wounded, their shipmates having had no time as yet to carry the latter below. Everywhere there was wreck and confusion, masts and rigging trailing overboard, the stumps alone remaining, the bulwarks shattered, the guns upset, the carriages of some knocked to pieces, every boat damaged, while it was impossible, as we stepped along, to avoid the pools of blood and gore. The third lieutenant, his head bound up, stepped forward, saying that he was the officer of the highest rank remaining, and offered his sword. In the meantime the fight continued raging: the Ardent struck to the Belliqueux, and the Hector to the Canada; but the gallant Cornwallis, leaving his prize, made sail after the Count de Grasse, who, together with his second, was endeavouring to rejoin his flying and scattered ships. We were fast approaching. Notwithstanding this, the Count de Grasse held out till the Barfleur came up, and poured in so tremendous and destructive a fire, that at length the gallant Frenchman, deserted by his ships, was compelled to haul down his flag, just as the sun sank beneath the horizon.

The French fleet were now going off before the wind, pursued by some of our ships. Others would have joined in the chase, but Sir George Rodney, wishing to collect the fleet and secure his prizes, made the signal to the fleet to bring to.

Our captain meantime had ordered us at once to commence removing the prisoners.

I had shoved off with one boat-load, and just got alongside the Cerberus, when I heard the cry, “The Caesar is on fire!” I hurried the prisoners up the side, eager to assist in extinguishing the flames, or to bring away as many as I could of those on board. Several of the other ships were also sending their uninjured boats to the rescue; but before they could reach the blazing ship, we heard a fearfully loud explosion. Up went her decks. Fragments of planks and timbers, and even heavy guns, with human bodies torn and rent asunder, rose in the air; the whole ship blazed furiously, lighting up the surrounding vessels with a lurid glare, when suddenly her hull sank, and all was dark around. In her perished our third lieutenant and boatswain, and fifty of our gallant crew, besides four hundred Frenchmen.

Our most valuable prize was the Ville de Paris, as she had on board a quantity of specie, and she was considered the finest ship afloat; but we had a heavy price to pay for our victory: Captain Bayne, of the Alfred, and Captain Blair, of the Anson, were killed, besides several lieutenants and other officers. Altogether we lost two hundred and fifty-three men killed, and eight hundred and sixteen wounded. The French ships, having numerous troops on board, and carrying more men than ours, suffered more severely in proportion, and it was generally believed that three thousand were killed, and double the number wounded. On board the Ville de Paris alone four hundred were slain.

We remained three days under Guadaloupe, repairing damages, when Sir George Rodney ordered Sir Samuel Hood to proceed with his division in search of stragglers. In spite of the fighting we had had, with cheerful alacrity we stood away; and on the 19th sighted five of the enemy’s ships. They were standing for the Mona passage.

“They hope to escape us,” said Nettleship. “But never fear, if they can get through, so can we.”

This proved to be the case. Just then Sir Samuel Hood threw out the signal for a general chase. A shout rose from our deck when it was seen that the wind had died away, and that the enemy lay becalmed.

The Valiant early in the afternoon got alongside the Caton, which immediately struck. Captain Goodall then stood on, leaving us to pick her up, and attacked the Jason, of the same force, with so much impetuosity, that after a stout resistance of twenty minutes she also hauled down her colours. Two other smaller ships were shortly afterwards captured, and only one, which got through the passage, effected her escape.

A few days afterwards we rejoined Sir George Rodney under Cape Tiberoon, and with him proceeded to Jamaica.

Great was the rejoicing of the inhabitants. Guns were thundering, flags flying on steeples and houses and hundreds of flagstaff’s; and the whole town of Kingston turned out, with the military and civic authorities at their head, to receive the conqueror as he landed, accompanied by the Count de Grasse, the admiral who had threatened their subjugation.

We aboard the Cerberus saw little of the festivities which took place, as we were engaged in repairing her, and fitting her for sea,—it being understood that in consequence of the damages she had received she was to be sent home.

Tom and I got leave only for one day to go up to Kingston, in the hopes of seeing our friends the Talboys. Tom was in a great state of excitement.

“I say, Paddy, I wonder whether Lucy still cares for me,” he said. “Perhaps she’ll have forgotten all about me by this time; and if that fellow Duffy has been stationed at Kingston, as soon as we left he’ll have done his best to cut me out.”

“I don’t think her papa, at all events, would prefer an ensign to a midshipman; and depend upon it, that if she has transferred her affections, it would be to a post-captain or a colonel,” I answered. “But cheer up, Tom, don’t be down-hearted; we’ll hope for the best.”

Almost the first gentlemen we saw on landing were two French officers, strolling along arm in arm. As we got close to them they turned their heads, and I recognised Lieutenant Dubois and La Touche. They knew me in a moment, and held out their hands with more cordiality than I should have expected.

“You see us again prisoners to your brave nation; but we have given our parole, and are allowed to be at large during the day,” said Dubois.

“You’ll come to our lodgings, I hope, and allow us to show you some hospitality,” added La Touche. “In this life we have many ups and downs. One day you are prisoners to us, and the next day we are prisoners to you. What matters it if we retain our honour and our lives. It’s a miracle that we’re alive.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“We were aboard the Ville de Paris,” he said, “and were doing duty on the lower deck. We fought to the last, and fully believed that the ship would go down. At one time the admiral was the only person left unwounded on the upper deck. Officer after officer was killed as they went up to join him. We were about to follow, when our flag was hauled down. However, we expect to be exchanged soon, when, for my part, I intend to return to France.”

This was said as we walked along with the young Frenchmen.

The lodgings to which they introduced us consisted of a single room, in which they slept and took their meals; but they didn’t seem a bit ashamed of it, and did the honours with as great an air as if they were receiving us in a magnificent saloon. They had evidently won the heart of their mulatto landlady, who placed an elegant repast on the table,—indeed, in a country where fruits and delicacies are abundant, that is not any difficult matter.

“The English are very polite to us here; and some of the young ladies are charming,” observed Dubois. “There is one family especially polite,—that of a Monsieur Talboys. Ah! ma foi! his little daughter is perfectly charming.”

On hearing the name of Talboys, Tom Pim pricked up his ears and looked at me, for he was not able to understand all that was said.

“We are acquainted with Mr Talboys,” I observed, “and all must admire his daughter. Is she not engaged to be married yet?”

“Ah, yes, there’s the pity,” said Dubois, shrugging his shoulders; “to a military officer, I’m told,—the Capitaine Duffy. He has lately obtained his promotion, and appeared at a ball in a bright new uniform, which completely captivated the young lady’s heart.”

“I’ll not believe it until I see her, and she tells me so,” exclaimed Tom, starting up. “You must have been misinformed, monsieur.”

“Ma foi! I hope so,” said Dubois; “for I thought I was making great way, and resolved, if her father would accept me as his son-in-law, to give up the sea and settle down as a planter in Jamaica.”

On hearing this Tom became very fidgety, and proposed that we should go in search of our friends. As I was afraid that he might say something which might annoy our hosts, I agreed, and, wishing them good-bye, Tom and I started for Mr Talboys’ town house.

We had no great difficulty in finding it. Just as we reached the entrance, who should I see but Duffy himself, strutting out in a captain’s uniform. He didn’t know me at first, until I hailed him.

“What, Duffy!” I exclaimed. “It must be yourself or your elder brother. Let me congratulate you on obtaining your captain’s commission. You have faster promotion in your service than we have in the navy.”

“Ah, Paddy! is it you?” he cried, taking me by the hand. “It’s myself, I can assure you. Thanks to this torrid climate, sangaree, and Yellow Jack, you’re right, my boy. All the fine fellows you knew at Savannah are invalided home, or are under the sod; but as I eschew strong drinks, and keep in the shade as much as I can, I have hitherto escaped the fell foe. I suppose you’re going to call on my friends the Talboys? They will be very glad to see you. We often talk about you, for the gallant way in which you, Pim, and your other messmates behaved when the house was attacked.”

“Here is Pim,” I said.

“What! I beg your pardon,” said he; “I really did not recognise you;” and he put out his hand, which Tom took rather coldly. “We all owe you a debt of gratitude which none of us know how to repay.”

“I don’t require payment,” said Tom, drawing himself up stiffly. “Good morning, Captain Duffy! I don’t wish to detain you.”

“Well, as I have to go on guard, I mustn’t stop, or I should like to go back and join Lucy in thanking you.”

“I don’t require thanks,” said Tom, gulping down his rising anger. “Come along, Paddy.”

As I saw that the sooner the interview was brought to an end the better, we entered the house. Tom was even half inclined to turn back, and I think he would have done so had not Mr Talboys seen us, and insisted on our coming into the drawing-room.

Both of us followed him over the slippery floor, and nearly pitched down on our noses, making a somewhat eccentric entrance into the room.

Mrs Talboys, with Lucy and her younger girls, were seated on cane-bottomed sofas, dressed in white, with fans in their hands. The weather was unusually hot. A blush rose to Lucy’s cheek as she saw Tom. She, however, came frankly forward, and we all shook hands. Nothing was said about Duffy. They were all eager to hear our adventures, which we narrated as briefly as we could. They knew Dubois and La Touche, and Mr Talboys thought them very agreeable Frenchmen, but they didn’t appear to be much in Lucy’s good graces. I was much inclined to speak of Duffy, but Lucy evidently didn’t wish to mention him. We had observed the marks of fire on some of the houses as we came along, and Mr Talboys told us that since we had been there there had been a fearful conflagration; and had not the wind shifted, the whole town would have been burned down. He and his family were at that time in the country, and so escaped the alarm which the fire caused.

Mrs Talboys invited us to spend the evening at the house, but Tom at once answered for himself and me, and said that we had to return on board, and we were not pressed to stay. At last we got up to take our leave.

“Lucy is very anxious again to thank you, Mr Pim, for your brave conduct in saving her from the blacks. Perhaps you’ll meet in England, as she expects to go there shortly, should peace be established; but we are unwilling to allow her to risk the danger of the passage in war time.”

Lucy had managed to get Tom to the window, so I didn’t hear what she said, but he looked far from happy.

“I must tell you, Mr Finnahan, that my daughter will probably be soon married. Captain Duffy,” said Mrs Talboys, “her intended, is an excellent young man, and heir to a good estate, with a sufficient fortune already in possession; and she could not expect to make a more satisfactory match. It has our entire approval. You know him well, he tells me?”

I of course said that I did, that he had treated me very kindly at Savannah, and that I must congratulate him on his good fortune.

While we were speaking, Tom came up, and said somewhat abruptly, “Paddy, we must not delay longer.” He didn’t again turn towards Miss Lucy, to whom I went up and wished good-bye. Tom and I then paid our adieus to the rest of the family. Lucy was well-nigh crying, I thought, but the yellow light admitted through the blinds prevented me from seeing clearly.

“It’s all over,” cried Tom, as we got outside. “I thought it would happen. I’ve been and made a fool of myself, and I’ll never do so again as long as I live; no, never—never!”

I comforted Tom as well as I could, and indeed he soon recovered his equanimity. I told him I was sure that Miss Lucy was very grateful, though she was not inclined to wait till he had become a post-captain, or even a commander, to marry him.

We looked in on our way down to the harbour on our two French friends. We found them in high spirits, for they had just received information that they were to accompany the Count de Grasse, and other French officers, who were about to return home, on board the Sandwich, Sir Peter Parker’s flag-ship, on their parole. As Sir Peter was on the point of sailing in charge of a homeward-bound convoy, Sir George Rodney remained as commander-in-chief at Jamaica. A short time after, Admiral Pigot arrived out from England to supersede him, and Sir George returned home in the Montague.

At length, after lying idle for some time, Admiral Pigot, with his flag on board the Formidable made the signal for the whole fleet to put to sea.

A report reached us just before this that we and the other ships were to return to England, and highly delighted every one was at the thoughts of going home. We were, however, kept cruising for some time, till we fell in with the fleet of Admiral Graves off Havanna; thence we proceeded to Bluefields, on the south coast of Jamaica, towards its western end.

Here Admiral Graves, whose flag was flying aboard the families, received orders to convoy a hundred sail of merchantmen, together with the French prizes, consisting of the Ville de Paris, no guns, the Glorieux and Hector; of 74 guns each, and the Ardent and Jason, of 64 guns each. The men-of-war accompanying them were the Canada, our ship the Cerberus, of 74 guns each, and the Pallas, of 36 guns.

“It’s to be hoped that we shall have fine weather,” said Nettleship one day at mess. “Even now we’re obliged to keep the pumps going every watch. It’s a wonder the hull and rigging hold together; while we’re terribly short-handed, and, as far as I can judge, the rest of the ships are in no better condition, and the prizes are still more battered.”

“What an old croaker you’ve become,” cried Tom. “I thought you would have been the last person to talk in that way.”

Others, joining Tom, made the same sort of remarks.

“I’m not croaking. I only say that never fleet put to sea in a worse condition; but I do hope we shall be blessed with fine weather, and not meet with a heavy gale, or have to encounter an enemy of superior force.”

Those watching us from the shore could certainly not have supposed that the fine-looking fleet sailing along the coast of Jamaica was unable to cope with the fiercest gale that it was likely to encounter.

As we got away from land we found that the Jason had not joined us, being employed in completing her water, while during a calm the officers of the Ardent sent a memorial to the admiral stating that she was totally unseaworthy; and they had therefore the good fortune to be ordered back to Jamaica to refit.

For some time the fine weather lasted, and few doubted that we should convoy the merchantmen committed to our charge, and the trophies of our hard-earned victory, in safety to England. We had got about the latitude of the Bermudas, when some of the convoy parted company, on their way to New York, leaving us, including the men-of-war and merchantmen, with only ninety-two sail,—the Ville de Paris, under an experienced navigator, leading the van through the Gulf Stream. The wind and sea, however, shortly after this got up, and two ships, the Caton and Pallas, made signals of distress, each having sprung a leak. The admiral therefore ordered them to bear away for Halifax, then less than a hundred leagues distant. Scarcely were they out of sight than the wind shifted to the south-east, blowing strongly, while a still heavier sea got up. The admiral on this made signals for the whole fleet to collect together, and prepare for a heavy gale. He hove-to on the larboard tack under his mainsail, with topgallant masts struck. We and the other ships followed his example, with all our other canvas furled.

Nettleship, Tom Pim, and I, being in the same watch, were on deck together. We had just got the ship snug, and, our duties for the moment performed, were standing together, watching the fast-rising seas.

“I say, Nettleship, we have got that gale you hoped we should escape, and no mistake about it,” said Tom Pim; “but the old barkie rides easily, and the wind must blow a good deal harder than it does yet to hurt her.”

“But we can’t say that it won’t blow harder, youngster,” said Nettleship, who was much graver than usual. “To my mind the weather looks as threatening as it well can be, and those in authority would have shown more wisdom had they waited till the equinox was over to send us to sea. Just look round; now did you ever see a wilder sky?”

Nettleship was right. The clouds were rushing madly on overhead, while to the southward and east it had a peculiarly angry appearance. Foam-capped waves were tossing and tumbling, the spoon-drift flying off their heads covering the ocean with a sheet of white, while a lurid light occasionally gleamed forth from the point where the sun was going down, tinging for a moment the crests of the seas and here and there a tossing ship on which it fell. The sea with thundering blows struck our bows and washed along our high sides, the blocks rattled, the wind whistled in the rigging, the masts groaned, the bulkheads creaked. We had to speak at the top of our voices to make each other hear, while the lieutenants had to shout their loudest through their speaking-trumpets as they issued their orders. We were the leewardmost of the men-of-war who were in sight, the merchantmen scattered around, all pitching and rolling together, in a way which threatened to send their masts overboard. The latter we could see had now a yard, now a topmast carried away, but as far as we could make out, no great damage had been done. Each dog-watch the pumps were manned. Their clanking was heard amid the uproar as night closed in. My old shipmates and I had to keep the morning watch, so as soon as the hammocks were piped down, we turned in to get some sleep first. Seldom that I had my head on the pillow many seconds before my eyes closed, but this night the fearful uproar, the violent swinging of my hammock, and the plunges which I felt the ship making, kept me awake. My watch below seemed twice as long as usual. At length I heard eight bells strike. I turned out, and with my two messmates went on deck.

“Things haven’t mended since sundown,” observed Nettleship, as he, Pim, and I were together on the quarter-deck.

Indeed, the wind was howling more furiously than ever, and the big ship plunged and rolled in a way which made it difficult to keep our feet.

“We’ve plenty of sea-room, that’s one satisfaction, at all events,” said Nettleship. “I shouldn’t like to be on a lee shore on a night like this.”

“Faith, nor should I, unless there was a good harbour to run into,” said I.

“It must have a broad entrance, and be well lighted, then,” he answered, “or we shouldn’t be much better off than we are at present.”

Two—four bells struck in the morning watch, and there appeared to be no improvement in the weather. The captain and second and third lieutenants came on deck, and, by the way they stood talking together, I saw that they considered matters growing serious. The pumps were kept going twice as long as usual. Six bells had just struck, when there came a sound like thunder breaking over our heads. Looking up, I saw the mainsail aback.

The captain shouted out, “Man the clew garnets, let fly tacks and sheets;” but the words were scarcely out of his mouth before the ship heeled over, with a suddenness which nearly took us all off our feet.

There was no need for the officers to cry out, “Hold on for your lives.” We struggled to windward, grasping whatever we could clutch. More and more the ship heeled over; then there came another loud report, the mainmast went by the board, the fore-topmast fell over the starboard bow, and the next instant the mizzenmast was carried away half up from the deck, while the sound of repeated blows which came from the after-part of the ship, showed us that the rudder had been wrenched from the pintles, and was battering away under the counter. All these accidents happened in such rapid succession that it was impossible to do anything to avert them. The utmost vigilance was required to save ourselves from being crushed by falling yards and blocks, while cries and shrieks arose from many of our poor fellows, some of whom had been struck down, and others carried overboard, vainly endeavouring to regain the ship. Suddenly she righted, with a violence which tore away the guns from their lashings, and jerked the shot out of the lockers. The captain, not for a moment losing his self-possession, shouted to the crew to clear away the wreck of the masts,—himself, axe in hand, setting the example. Before, however, many strokes had been given, the sea came roaring up astern, and, bursting into the captain’s cabin, swept everything before it. The doctor, purser, and several other officers who had remained below, came rushing up, some only in their shirts and trousers, others in their shirts alone, believing very naturally that the ship was going down. Tom Pim and I, with the other midshipmen, were exerting ourselves to see that the men obeyed the orders received. I met Larry, axe in hand, chopping away vigorously at the shrouds.

“Ah, then, Mr Terence, things have come to a bad pass, I’m after fearing,” he exclaimed. “Will you be letting me keep by you, if you please? If the ship goes down, I’d like to see how we could save ourselves on a boat, or a raft, or one of the masts, if we can’t get into a boat.”

“If it comes to that, Larry, I’m afraid we shall have little chance of saving our lives,” I answered; “at all events, however, I should like to have you near me.”

I can scarcely find words to describe the fearful condition of the ship. Gun after gun broke loose, crushing several of the men against whom they were cast; shot, hove out of the lockers, were rolling about between decks, injuring many others. The water from below rushed from side to side, making a clean sweep of everything it encountered, doing almost as much mischief as the seas which broke aboard on the upper deck. The officers who had last come from below were unable to return, and stood shivering in their scanty clothing, no one having even a coat to spare. While some of the crew were clearing away the masts, which were striking with every surge against the ship’s side, tearing off the copper, and, as the oakum washed out, increasing the leaks, others, encouraged by their officers, were labouring at the pumps, while a third party was endeavouring to bale out the water with buckets. I didn’t expect to see another dawn; but the morning came notwithstanding, and a fearful sight it presented to us. Away to leeward we discovered the Canada, with her main-topmast and mizzenmast gone. The flag-ship, more to windward, seemed in no better condition. The Glorieux had lost her foremast, bowsprit, and main-topmast. The Ville de Paris still proudly rode the waves, as far as we could judge, uninjured, yet ere long she was to share the fate of many others, for after that day she was never again seen, and must have foundered with all her crew. Of the merchantmen several had already gone down, others had lost many of their spars, and some their masts, while out of the whole fleet not twenty remained in sight. Not far off from us lay a large ship on her beam-ends. Nettleship pointed her out to me. “Poor fellows, they’re worse off than we are,” he said. The crew were attempting to wear her. First they cut away the mizzenmast, then shortly the mainmast went; still she lay helpless.

“See, she’s hoisting the ensign, Union downwards,” said Nettleship. “It’s her last despairing signal for help.”

No help could any one give her. We watched her for a few minutes, when her stern rose, the sea rolled up and plunged into it; down she went, the fly of her ensign the last object visible.

She was the Dutton formerly an East Indiaman, and then a storeship. Her fate might soon be ours.

“Some of her poor fellows have escaped,” cried Nettleship.

He pointed out to me a boat under sail, not far from where the Dutton had foundered. We watched the boat. Now she was hid from sight in the trough of the sea, now she rose to the summit of a billow. Still it seemed impossible that she could escape being swamped. Yet on she went, driving before the gale.

“That boat is well handled, or she would have been under water before this time,” observed my messmate. “What she can do others can do, and some of us may have a chance for our lives if our old ship goes down. Paddy, my boy, if that happens, do you try and get aboard a boat. You’re young, with a good chance of promotion. I’m old, and have none; and I should like to have you and Tom Pim save yourselves.”

“But I can’t go without Larry,” I answered; “and you too, Nettleship, if you have any hope of a boat living in this sea, you must try to get off.”

He shook his head.

“No, no, Paddy. I have long made up my mind for the worst, and am ready for it. I should be thankful, though, to see you and Pim escape, and your honest fellow, Larry. There are two or three boats still uninjured. It’s a pity that the lives of some of us should not be saved, if we can but manage to launch them.”

While he was speaking I was watching the progress of the Dutton’s boat. First she steered for a ship some way to the eastward, but those on board at length saw that they should have to haul up to reach her, and again she kept away for a large merchantman to leeward. Presently the boat ran alongside the merchantman, from whose deck a number of ropes were hove into her, and the men, clutching them as the boat surged by, were hauled up, and, as far as we could see, none were lost, though the boat herself almost immediately rilled and disappeared. In other directions most melancholy spectacles met our sight. The whole sea was literally covered with pieces of wreck and human beings clinging to them, among whom we observed several women lashed to spars or gratings, probably by brave fellows who themselves had perished after in vain attempting to preserve those they loved. No help could be given to the unfortunate wretches; and even had we been able to haul some who came near us on board our ship, it would only have been to prolong their lives for a few short hours.

Our captain and officers were making all possible efforts to save our ship, but from the first, I suspect, they must have seen they were hopeless. Every possible weight was got rid of. The anchors were cut away; then the upper deck guns were hove overboard, though the operation in itself was a dangerous one, for, after the gun tackles were cut loose, there was the risk of the guns upsetting and crushing those standing near. All this time the pumps were being worked. The captain ordered all hands not otherwise engaged to bale, and we were formed in gangs to pass the buckets up and down and along the deck.

Chapter Nineteen.

The wreck of the “Cerberus.”

We were thus employed when the carpenter came to the captain with consternation in his countenance, and told him that the pumps would no longer work, for, the shot-lockers being destroyed, the shot as well as the ballast had got into the well, and completely choked it up.

“Well, my lads,” cried the captain, “we must try what baling will do, and lightening the ship by every means in our power.”

Those who had been working at the pumps, and some others, were now divided into gangs under different officers, and were employed in getting rid of the heaviest things which could be reached. Some hove the guns overboard, others got up the weightier stores, the boatswain’s party being engaged in chopping up the cables and throwing them into the sea.

While my messmates and I were hard at work with the rest, I saw the captain beckon Nettleship to him. They talked for a minute or more. Directly afterwards Nettleship came to where Tom and I were at work with Larry and some of the men. “The captain has given me charge to try and save some of you youngsters,” he said. “Life is sweet, and I won’t deny that I am glad to have the chance of preserving my own with honour. You tell Tom Pim and your boy Larry. I’ll speak to some of our other messmates, and try to pick out a few trusty men who I know are cool hands, and we will try and get a boat into the water. It will be no easy matter,—it may, I warn you, hasten our deaths; but the captain is satisfied that the ship can’t float many hours longer. He argued the point, and showed me that if we don’t get off as he directed, we shall not escape at all, as numbers will be rushing for the boats when they discover that the ship must go down.”

Matters were growing rapidly worse. Even now I don’t like to think of that dreadful night which followed. When morning broke, the number of ships in sight had much diminished. The sea raged as furiously as ever, the wind blew with fearful force. All hands had been toiling away. Nearly every one began to see that our efforts had been in vain. A loud noise was heard like that of an explosion coming from far down in the depths of the ship. The carpenter reported that the water in the hold had blown up the orlop deck. It was very evident that the ship was settling down. Many of the men who had been looked upon as the bravest now gave way to despair, and went below, crying out to their messmates to come and lash them into their hammocks. Other stout fellows were in tears as they thought of their country and those dear to them, whom they were never to see again. Some, though they must have known it would be of no use, were lashing themselves to gratings and small rafts, which they had formed of spars. Larry wanted me to do the same.

“Shure, Mr Terence, you and Mr Pim and I will be able to manage a raft between us, and we’ll get aboard one of the ships in better plight than we are,” he said.

I pointed out to him the distance the ships were from us, and the impossibility of reaching one of them. Some of the poor fellows launched their rafts overboard, but were quickly swallowed up by the sea. Even the lieutenants went below; and, strange as it may seem, few of the men remained on deck. Tom Pim and I, however, kept together, with Larry, who would not leave me. Presently Nettleship came up.

“Now is our time, lads, if we’re to save our lives. I have spoken to those whom the captain named, but none of them will come. They shake their heads, and declare it useless.”

One of the quarter boats still remained uninjured. We went to her and found six of our men, one of whom was Larry, standing by the falls ready to lower her. Nettleship told us to jump in, there was not a moment to be lost. We found that he had put masts, and sails, and oars, and provisions aboard. Waiting till a sea surged up alongside, he and the men sprang into her.

“Cut, cut!” he cried.

The next instant I found that the boat was some fathoms from the ship. All was done so rapidly, and it seemed only by a miracle we got clear, that I can scarcely explain how it happened. I looked around, when what was my dismay to find that Tom was not with us. Looking up, I saw him on the deck.

“Leap! leap!” shouted Nettleship, though in the uproar his voice could not have been heard so far. Next instant Tom was in the water, striking out towards us.

“We have already as many aboard as the boat will carry,” cried some of the men.

What we had been about had been discovered by our unfortunate shipmates, who were now crowding to the side and shouting to us to return. Several in their fear leaped into the sea, but immediately disappeared. I caught sight of one head still above water. It was Tom Pim.

“Oh, take him in—take him in!” I cried out.

The men were getting out the oars. We were still, it must be understood, under the lee of the ship, or we should instantly have been swamped.

“We must have that lad aboard,” exclaimed Nettleship sternly. “I’ll not try to save you if you desert him.”

Tom struck out bravely. Larry and I stretched out our arms, and, catching hold of him, hauled him on board the boat. Several others, now leaping into the water, tried to reach us, but, had we attempted to save them, we should to a certainty have perished together.

Nettleship sprang aft to the helm.

“Now, lads, step the mast and hoist the sail,” he shouted. “Get out the starboard oars.”

In another instant the boat was before the wind, a cable’s length from the ship. We could scarcely believe that we were saved; indeed, every moment it seemed as if the fierce foaming seas would break aboard us and send us to the bottom. I could not resist still looking at the ship, nor could Tom Pim. He presently exclaimed—

“There’s another boat being launched.”

We both saw her for a moment, but she presently disappeared.

“She’s gone,” cried Tom.

“No—no, there she is,” I exclaimed, as I caught sight of her on the summit of a sea, and again she sank out of view. As far as I could make out, there were several people in her, but she had no sail hoisted, and consequently in those foaming seas rising up between us was scarcely visible.

We ran on, steering to the southward. Most of the hands were employed all the time in baling out the water, while Nettleship’s whole attention was engaged in steering the boat, for he well knew that with the slightest want of care she would have filled in an instant. It seemed a wonder, indeed, that she could float in the midst of those foaming seas. Tom and I still kept looking at the ship.

“She is sinking lower and lower,” said Tom.

I hoped that he was mistaken, and that she appeared to be so only because we were getting farther from her.

Not many minutes afterwards, as I looked, a huge sea rolled up towards her.

The next instant Tom cried out, “She’s gone!” I rubbed my eyes. The foaming waters raged over the spot where the old Cerberus had floated; and I knew too well that every one of our helpless shipmates had perished, unless the other boat had got safely off. Their fate might be ours before long, we all knew, though we did not despair.

Nettleship’s first care was to see what provisions we had got. We found that we had but two quart bottles of water, a bag of biscuits, a small ham, a single piece of pork, and three bottles of French cordials. These he had placed in the stern-sheets, that they might be kept dry, and that none of the men might be tempted to take more than their share. We might be days, or even weeks, before we were picked up or reached land. Nettleship pointed out to us the importance of husbanding our stores. The afternoon was far gone before we left the ship, and night was now approaching, while the gale had shown no signs of abating.

Humanly speaking, our lives depended on Nettleship’s steering. There was everything to try the skill and nerves of a man; but it was difficult in the darkness to watch the seas coming up so as to avoid those likely to break aboard.

He sat in the stern-sheets like a figure of iron, his countenance fixed, his eyes turned now ahead, now on one, now on the other side. He seldom spoke, for his attention was occupied with the task he had undertaken. Older seamen had given in, while his courage and resolution had remained unshaken.

I had always liked him, ever since I joined the Liffy, but now I admired and respected him above all men, barring my uncle the major, who would, I am sure, have acted in the same way, though he might not have had the nautical skill to steer the boat.

“Stretch yourselves as best you can, youngsters, in the stern-sheets, and go to sleep,” said Nettleship; “I intend to steer till daylight, and then let either Hunt or Ray (they were two quartermasters) take the helm.”

“But I don’t like to leave you without company,” I said.

“Don’t trouble yourself about that, Paddy,” he answered; “the seas are my company, and precious rough company they are too; they’ll prevent me nodding.”

He laughed at his own remark.

At last Tom and I did as he advised us; indeed, we couldn’t keep our eyes open longer, for we had had no sleep, lashed as we had been to the bulwarks on the previous night.

We both of us slept on right through the night. I awoke with a weary heart-sinking feeling. Dawn was already casting a grey light over the still troubled ocean. Clouds hung thickly overhead; the seas seemed to reach them as they rose up on either side.

There sat Nettleship, wide awake, his hand on the tiller, his eyes wearing a pained expression, as well they might, looking round watching the waves as they hissed up, threatening to overwhelm us. No one was speaking. Most of the men sat with their arms folded and their heads bent down, still fast asleep. I believe that Nettleship had been the only one awake among us during the night.

“The wind has fallen, and the sea has gone down considerably, Paddy,” he said, looking at me. “Cheer up, lad; we shall save our lives after all, I believe.”

Tom, hearing him speak, awoke.

“I wish you would let me take the helm, Nettleship,” he said.

“No, no, Tom! The responsibility is too much to impose on you; I’ll let Hunt steer presently.”

First one man woke up, then another, and another; but they all looked round with lack-lustre eyes and gloomy countenances. After some time, Tom shouted out that there was a break in the clouds to the eastward.

Just then a ray of bright light streamed across the ocean, tinging the foam-topped seas with a ruddy hue.

“It’s the harbinger of better weather,” I said.

“You’re right, sir,” observed Hunt. “It will be our own fault if we don’t manage to keep the boat afloat.”

I saw Nettleship for the first time showing signs of sleepiness. He aroused himself for the moment, and called to Hunt to take the helm. The quartermaster stepped aft, and Nettleship, resigning his seat to him, a moment afterwards was fast asleep.

The men now cried out that they were very hungry, and Pim and I agreed that it would be better to serve out some food without awaking Nettleship. We gave each man a biscuit and a small piece of ham. The neck of a broken bottle was the only measure we had for serving out the water. The quantity was but just sufficient to moisten our lips, but not to quench our thirst. The men asked for more, but Tom told them that until Nettleship awoke he couldn’t give them any.

Though the weather was moderating, the wind went down very slowly, and the seas tossed and tumbled with almost as much violence as before. It was noon when Nettleship awoke. He approved of the allowance Tom and I had served out.

“But, my lads,” he said, “you see these two bottles of water. We don’t know how long we may have to go before we get more, so you must make up your minds to do with the allowance you have already had to-day. I’ll take no more.”

He then told Tom and me to give him what we had given the rest; and, after eating the biscuit and bit of ham, he drank the bottle-neck full of water. My own sensations made me hope that we should not have many days to live on so small an allowance. Still, though my throat felt like a dust-bin, I determined to support Nettleship, and I knew Tom would do so, in whatever he thought necessary. We ran on all day, the wind going down very slowly. At noon, Ray took the helm. Whether he steered with less care, or, as I think, the seas broke in a different way, two in succession came aboard, and we had to bale as fast as we could, to get the water out of the boat. As it came in, it washed right aft and wetted through our bag of biscuits, which Tom and I in vain tried to save. Nettleship didn’t blame Ray, but warned him to be more careful.

“I intend to steer to-night,” he said, “so I’ll finish out my snooze, and call me at sundown.”

Both Hunt and Ray asked him to let them steer during part of the night, but he was firm.

“No,” he answered; “your lives are entrusted to me, and it’s my duty to keep at the helm while there’s most likely to be danger.”

Tom and I, however, determined to have our eyes open, so as to make company for him during part of the night, which, it being summer time, was fortunately not long. Had it been in the winter, none of us could have survived. Nettleship appeared to have completely recovered himself. I sat up through part of the night, and Tom through the remainder. We talked cheerfully and hopefully. When I lay down, I slept as soundly as I ever did in my bed. Towards morning, I suppose it was, I dreamed of the various scenes I had gone through since I came to sea, among others of the earthquake at Savannah, and then I was looking out into the barrack-yard, and there was Larry fiddling away, with soldiers and blacks dancing to his music,—everything seemed so vivid that I had no doubt about its reality. Then Mr Talboys and Lucy and Captain Duffy came in and joined in the dance. I thought it very good fun, so I ran down and began to dance, and who should I see but the admiral and captain and old Rough-and-Ready, each with a black partner, and there we were jigging away right merrily, till I awoke, to find myself in the stern-sheet of the boat, and to see Nettleship steering, while the notes of Larry’s fiddle sounded in my ears. There, sure enough, he was, seated on the after-thwart, with the fiddle at his chin, working away with right good-will. I sat up and looked at him with amazement.

“Shure, Mr Terence, I wasn’t going to leave that behind after it had been saved from fire and water, so I took it into the boat the first thing, and Mr Nettleship gave me leave to play it, just to cheer up he boys a bit.”

The music had certainly had that effect, for all the people wore more cheerful countenances than they did the day before. Larry, however, put his fiddle back in its case while breakfast was served out. It consisted only of wet biscuit, a modicum of ham, and a small taste of liquor. The water Nettleship said he should keep till mid-day, to serve out with the pork.

The sea was still rough, though there was much less than on the previous day, and careful steering was necessary to keep the boat free from water. As there was nothing for the men to do, Nettleship advised us to spin yarns and sing songs in the intervals of Larry’s playing. He was ready enough to go on moving his bow as long as he had leave.

During the day the clouds cleared away, and the sea went down still more. We were thankful for this, as we could now dry our clothes, and, what was of more importance, our biscuits, and move about in the boat to stretch our limbs. But then, again, with a calm we might be delayed, and, after all, perish from hunger and thirst. Nettleship, I daresay, thought this, but notwithstanding cheered us up with the hopes of reaching land or being taken on board some vessel. Next night passed much as the others had done. The sun rose in a clear sky, and as it got above the horizon the wind dropped, and there appeared every likelihood of a perfect calm. Our scanty provisions were served out, and then Nettleship, as he had done the day before, set us to spinning yarns and singing; but even those who had the best voices could scarcely bring out a note, and several appeared but little inclined to talk. Larry, however, kept his fiddle going, and Tom and I talked, and tried to draw out the men to tell something about themselves. At last my throat felt like a dust-bin, and I suspect the rest were very much in the same condition. There we were, floating out in the Atlantic, hundreds of miles away from help, as far as we could tell, and the calm might continue after the gale for a week or more. At last Nettleship ordered the men to get out the oars.

“We may pull into a breeze, lads, perhaps,” he said. “At all events, we shall get so much nearer land.”

Tom and I each took an oar to encourage the rest, half of us pulling at a time. We had been at the oars for some five or six hours, when towards evening, Nettleship, who had been standing up shading his eyes, said—

“Lads, there’s a sail in sight; she has a light breeze, and is standing to the northward. We shall, I hope, get up to her; but mark you, she may be English, but she may be French, and in that case we shall be made prisoners.”

“That won’t be much odds,” said one of the men; “better be made prisoners than die of hunger and thirst out here.”

That was true enough, but I didn’t like the thoughts of the alternative. When Nettleship, however, said that he was determined to try and come up with the stranger, the men bent to their oars. Tom and I, at the time, were now pulling, and I was surprised to see the strength the men still possessed.

Gradually the stranger’s topgallant-sails, and then the heads of her topsails, rose above the horizon.

“She’s a large ship, no doubt about that,” said Nettleship. “Cheer up, lads! my belief is she’s English, but we shall be better able to judge when we see her courses.”

We were now steering west-and-by-north, so as to cut her off. After going some distance, Nettleship called to Tom Pim to stand up in the stern-sheets, and take a look at the stranger.

“What do you think of the cut of her canvas, Tom?” he asked. “Is that English or French?”

“I should say English,” answered Tom, “but we must get nearer to be certain.”

“Have you made up your minds to a French prison, lads, if we’re mistaken?” again said Nettleship.

“Better a French prison with food and water, than out here starving to death,” answered the men. “And we’ll ask you, Mr Nettleship, for a drink of water apiece. We’ll get aboard her before dark, and our throats are terribly dry.”

“I warn you, lads, that a breeze may spring up, and that even now we may miss her; and what shall we do if we have no water left?” said Nettleship.

Still the men cried out for water. I could judge how my companions felt by my own sensations. Nettleship reluctantly served out a double allowance, leaving scarcely a quarter of a bottleful,—the other had before been exhausted. The sun was sinking low, and we had not yet seen the hull of the ship. Nettleship looked more anxious than before. The men strained every nerve, for they believed that their lives depended on their getting up to the ship before dark.

Some of them now called out for food, and declared that they could pull no longer without it; others asked for the remainder of the water.

Accordingly, while one half rested, Nettleship served out a portion of our remaining stock of provisions. The other half then took a meal. This, however, only made us all more thirsty, and again the cry rose of—

“Water! water! We must have it, or we shall have to give in!”

Nettleship seemed to think that it would be useless to resist their entreaties, and with a look of desperation he divided the remainder of the water, leaving not a drop at the bottom of the last bottle.

Rapidly the sun sank towards the horizon. In a short time it would be dark, and we should have no chance of being seen from the ship. The men cried out for the remainder of the liquor, saying that they could pull all the better if they could get it. This, also, to my surprise, Nettleship served out to them,—the bottle-neck full to each of us, for we all shared alike,—and again they pulled as lustily as before for a short time; but we all felt our thirst increased. Few of them spoke; but Larry every now and then gave a shout, or made some comic remark to encourage his companions. Nettleship also did his best to keep up our spirits.

Darkness, however, was fast approaching; the wind appeared to be freshening, and, should a strong breeze fill the stranger’s sails, all hope of getting alongside her before she passed us would be lost. Not a word was now uttered; but every now and then the men turned their heads to ascertain what progress we were making.

Nettleship now steered the boat rather more to the northward.

Presently a light streamed out towards us across the water. Again our hopes of getting on board increased. The wind once more dropped.

“We shall reach her, lads!” cried Nettleship at length, in a confident tone.

The men cheered, though their voices sounded husky, the ring of a British seaman’s voice sadly wanting. They pulled bravely on, however.

The light rose higher above the surface. It was now almost ahead. Then another streamed forth from a port. Presently Nettleship’s voice rang out clear and loud—

“Ship ahoy! What ship is it?”

“His Britannic Majesty’s ship Hector. What boat is that?” came over the water.

Nettleship replied.

Presently the order sounded out from aboard the ship—

“Raise tacks and sheets! clew up mainsail and foresail! Let fly topgallant-sheets!”

The wind having fallen, the ship soon lost her way, and we pulled up alongside. A light gleamed through the entrance port, and ready hands, coming down, quickly assisted us up on deck, while the boat was secured, for none of us had much strength left to help ourselves.

Nettleship, Tom, and I were at once conducted to the upper deck, where we found the gallant commander of the Hector, Captain Bouchier, to whom Nettleship at once gave a brief account of what had happened.

“We have reason to be thankful that we escaped the gale, Drury,” said the captain, turning to an officer in a captain’s uniform standing near him. “We should to a certainty have shared the fate of many others.”

Captain Bouchier made this remark, I found, in consequence of the unseaworthy condition of his ship. To enable her to perform the voyage, before she sailed from Jamaica she had had twenty-two of her guns taken out of her, and her masts replaced by others of smaller dimensions. Her crew amounted in all to scarcely three hundred men, many of whom were invalids, and others French and American prisoners, who had volunteered to assist in working the ship.

As soon as Nettleship had finished his account, the captain directed that we should be taken below, and hammocks slung for us.

“I would advise you to turn in, young gentlemen, as soon as you have had some food,” he said, as we were leaving.

He also ordered that our boat’s crew should be well looked after. The surgeon, who was summoned, went to attend to them, and to prevent them from being overfed, or overdosed with grog, which to a certainty they would otherwise have been by the seamen of the ship. As I was going down to the orlop deck, Larry came aft, supported by two men, with his fiddle-case under his arm.

“Och, Mr Terence,” he said, “I’m mighty glad to find ourselves safe aboard a big ship again, and to see you all right. It is more than I thought to do since our own went down with all her brave boys, barrin’ ourselves.”

The doctor, finding that we did not require much of his assistance, attended to Larry and the other men, who appeared far more knocked up than we were, and they were at once sent to their hammocks. We were ushered into the gun-room by the master’s mate, who accompanied us. Here we found a number of midshipmen seated at a table, employed in various ways. They greeted us warmly, and were all eager to know our adventures, which we told them while discussing the meal placed before us. Scarcely, however, had I finished eating, when my head dropped on the table, and there I should have sat, had not one of the assistant-surgeons aroused me and advised me to turn in. I slept on, as did Nettleship and Tom, till the hammocks were piped up next morning, and, if left alone, should not have awoke for hours afterwards.

We all three, though still weak, felt pretty well able to get about, and were in reality in a better state than many of the officers and men, who were suffering from the effect of the West Indian climate. I never saw so pale and haggard a crew. We were treated with the greatest kindness by our new messmates, and Nettleship was asked into the ward-room, to give a further account of what had happened to us. We had indeed ample reason to be thankful for our preservation, when so many on board our own and other ships had perished.

In a couple of days we were as well as ever, and, as many of the mates and midshipmen were too ill to do duty, we were directed to take their places. Larry, as usual, made himself at home with his fiddle, and soon set the seamen and French prisoners jigging away, as he had done on board other ships.

We were standing on with all the canvas the battered old Hector could carry, with the wind from the southward, when the look-out aloft announced two sail away to leeward. One of the lieutenants, with his telescope on his back, immediately went to the main-topmast cross-trees to have a look at them.

“As far as I can make out, they are two frigates, sir, coming up before the wind,” he said to the captain when he came down.

“Are they English or French?” asked the captain. “According to my judgment, sir, they are French,” was the answer.

The captain took a few turns on deck, and then again sent aloft. The lieutenant, on his return, pronounced his opinion more decidedly that they were French, and both large frigates. The captain on this ordered the drum to beat to quarters, and the usual preparations were made for battle. Evening was approaching, and it might be well on in the night before the enemy could be up to us.

Although the Hector was a 74-gun ship, she in reality only carried fifty-two guns, and, from her battered condition, was not fit to cope even with a single frigate. Still our brave captain determined to struggle to the last. She being a heavy sailer, the two frigates came rapidly up with us, and there was no doubt from their appearance that they were enemies, although we could not as yet see their ensigns. All doubt on that score was dissipated, when, in a short time, French flags were run up at their peaks. The prisoners were accordingly ordered below and placed under sentries, while the captain went along the decks encouraging the men. They received him with cheerful countenances as he appeared, promising to do their best to beat the enemy. I asked Nettleship what he thought would be the result of the contest.

“Heaven only knows!” he answered; “but there’s one thing, I’m certain that our fellows will fight to the last. I never saw a crew, though so many of them are sick, more resolute or full of pluck.”

The leading frigate, now coming up on our starboard quarter, opened fire, and we, luffing up, returned it with our aftermost guns. She then ranged up abeam, while her consort placed herself on our larboard quarter, so that we could not luff up again without being raked by the other. We, however, could fight our starboard broadside, and occasionally could bring some of our larboard guns to bear on the enemy on that side. We could now see that each frigate mounted forty guns, their decks being crowded with men; indeed, they together mustered more than double our complement. These were fearful odds, but Captain Bouchier and his crew seemed in no way daunted. The men ran the guns in and out as fast as they could load them, but the enemy’s shot came crashing aboard, committing fearful havoc in all parts of the ship. The French must have known, from our smaller masts and spars, that we were likely to be short-handed, and also soon discovered the small number of guns we carried.

Though I saw numbers struck down around me, I never for one instant thought of myself or expected to be killed. The surgeons below soon had their hands full, as one poor fellow after another was carried down to the cockpit. The dead were left where they fell, for all were too busy to remove them. The enemy generally fired at our hull rather than at our spars.

I was standing near Nettleship, when I heard him exclaim—

“Here comes one of them alongside us.”

I looked out of a port, and there saw the frigate on the starboard beam dropping so close that I could distinguish the countenances of the people on her deck.

Presently the voice of the captain sounded loud and clear—

“Boarders! repel boarders!”

Our crew, leaving the guns on the starboard side, seized their weapons; some stood armed with cutlasses and pistols, others with pikes, at the place where the Frenchmen were likely to try and gain a footing on our deck. Our larboard guns were still replying to the fire of the frigate on that quarter; but she now making sail, ranged up alongside, receiving, however, a heavy fire from our guns as she did so. A large body of her men, with the soldiers, stood on the forecastle, ready to leap aboard.

“You must drive those fellows back,” cried Nettleship. “Come on, my lads,” he shouted to such of the men as were near him, among whom was Larry. Tom also, who saw what we were about, quickly joined us.

Just as the first Frenchman sprang on to our deck, Nettleship’s sword cut him down. Others, however, followed, but our men fought desperately. Though the enemy came rushing on board, not an inch of ground did they gain.

Presently, a big fellow—the boatswain, apparently, from his dress—joined his shipmates, and attacked Nettleship. I saw another close behind him, aiming a pistol at his head. I sprang forward and knocked it up just as it exploded, and the next moment dealt the Frenchman a blow on his sword arm, which saved Nettleship’s life. The fellow whose pistol I had knocked up, however, had his cutlass uplifted to strike me down, when Larry, who was by my side, parried the blow with his cutlass, and, though he got a severe wound, he brought the man to the deck by a blow which he gave the next moment. Others of our crew now coming to our assistance, we drove back the enemy, who had nearly gained a footing.

The fight all the time was going on fiercely on the starboard side, and we could not tell whether the Frenchmen were getting the best of it.

As we had begun the action with but three hundred men, many of whom had been killed or wounded, and invalids who had scarcely strength to handle their weapons, and the French had upwards of six hundred, it might be seen that our chance of success was very small indeed. Our men, however, fought with the most desperate courage. Captain Bouchier, with Captain Drury—who was a passenger—and several of the lieutenants, headed the men on the starboard side in repelling the enemy; while the master and two of the other lieutenants and the purser encouraged those on our side of the deck.

Directly the Frenchmen had been driven back, the second lieutenant, calling off a portion of the men, hurried to the guns, when their thundering roar, with the crashing sounds which followed, showed us that their shot were creating a dire effect on the bows of our antagonist. All this time a withering fire of musketry had been kept up on us from a body of troops stationed on the forecastles of the French frigates, and many of our poor fellows had been struck down.

Again and again the Frenchmen attempted to gain a footing on our deck, some springing down from the fore-rigging, others clambering up from the forecastle, and all the time the guns roaring, the musketry and pistols rattling, the cutlasses clashing, the men shouting and shrieking, while the ships surged against each other with tremendous crashes,—many of the Frenchmen who were driven overboard being crushed to death between them. This continued, not for the few minutes which it has taken me to describe the scene, but for an hour or more, and it seemed sometimes that all the three ships must go down together.

Our marines were not idle, for some stationed on the forecastle, and others on the poop, kept up a hot fire on the enemy.

At length our ship tore herself from her two antagonists almost at the same moment; and they apparently gave up all hopes of taking us by boarding, as they didn’t attempt again to come close alongside, though their fire was even more destructive than at first, for now one passed under our stern and raked us, now the other performed the same manoeuvre; while we, with our braces shot away, our masts and yards injured, and our sails shot through and torn, were unable to move with sufficient swiftness to avoid them.

Already numbers of our men had fallen. I frequently looked round to see how it fared with Larry, Tom Pim, and Nettleship, and was thankful to find them still actively engaged at the guns, at which most of the officers were assisting the men.

Chapter Twenty.

Old England again.

Occasionally, as the French ships were manoeuvring, alternately passing either ahead or astern of us, there was a cessation of firing, but it was only for a short time. Again their shot came crashing aboard.

I observed Captain Bouchier not far from me, when, just as we were receiving a raking broadside, he staggered, and would have fallen to the deck, had not the purser sprang forward and caught him. Directly afterwards, the latter, summoning two men, the captain was carried below.

On this, Captain Drury, shouting, “Keep at it, my lads! We’ll beat them off yet!” took his place, and issued the necessary orders.

Again the Frenchmen ranged up as before,—one on our beam and the other on our quarter,—and made another attempt to board. Captain Drury, leading our men on the starboard side, while our first lieutenant commanded those on the other, drove them back, many falling dead on our deck and others overboard. In a few minutes we again separated.

For four hours the action had continued (it appeared to me to be much longer), when, as the smoke from the guns cleared away, I saw that day was breaking.

As it showed the enemy more clearly than before our shattered and weak condition, I could not help fearing that they would again renew the attack, with every prospect of success.

From the numbers of the poor fellows who had been carried below wounded, and the many who lay stretched dead on the deck in all directions, I fancied that we must have lost half of our crew, while it seemed to me that at any moment our shattered spars would come tumbling down on deck. The fore-topmast hung over the bows, the main-yard was nearly cut in two, and not a sail remained whole. Still Captain Drury and the other officers went about encouraging the men to persevere.

When daylight increased, however, and we saw our two antagonists in comparison to our ship but slightly injured, we knew how desperate was our condition, yet our men stood sturdily to their guns, and blazed away as they could be brought to bear.

While watching the two frigates, I observed signals exchanged between them, and almost immediately afterwards, to our astonishment, they hauled their tacks aboard, and stood away from us. Our nearly exhausted crew, on seeing this, cheered again and again.

“We must not be too sure that they don’t intend to come back again when they have repaired damages, and renew the fight,” said Nettleship to me.

“We will hope for the best, and if they do, try to beat them off again,” I answered.

“That’s the right spirit, Paddy,” said Nettleship. “Please Heaven, we shall do so.”

“Hurrah! hurrah! We’ve licked the Frenchmen,” I heard Larry shouting. “Give them another cheer, boys! Hurrah! hurrah!” and the men round him joined in his hurrahs.

The men were still allowed to remain at their quarters, for it was yet difficult to say what the enemy would do next. We watched them anxiously, for even the most fire-eating of our men had no wish for more fighting, as by no possibility could we hope to capture either of the frigates. When some way astern they joined company, and we saw them standing to the westward. They got farther and farther off, and gradually their hulls sank below the horizon. We were now ordered to secure the guns. This done, the dead hove overboard, and the decks washed down, all hands were employed in knotting and securing the running and standing rigging, and strengthening the wounded spars. I asked one of the assistant-surgeons, who came on deck to get a little fresh air, if he knew how the captain was going on.

“He has a desperate wound in the arm, but is likely to do well,” he answered.

He told me, besides, that there were six-and-twenty wounded men below, while nineteen had been killed. From the number of shot the Frenchmen fired at us, I supposed that we had lost many more. A large proportion of the shot, however, had flown over our heads, and injured only our sails and rigging. The ship was but partially put to rights when another night closed in. I found it difficult enough even during my watch to keep my eyes open, and the moment I turned in to my hammock I was fast asleep. I suspect that all on board, both officers and men, were equally drowsy. I had not to turn out again till the hammocks were piped up.

When I came on deck I found that the weather had changed. Dark clouds were rushing across the sky, the sea had got up, and the ship was rolling and pitching into it. The wind was from the southward. Two reefs had been taken in the topsails, but from the way the ship heeled over it was evident that she had more canvas on her than she could carry.

Captain Drury had just come on deck.

“We must shorten sail,” he said to the first lieutenant.

“Hands aloft,” he shouted.

Just at that moment, as the men were about to spring into the rigging, a tremendous blast struck the ship, and over she heeled.

“Up with the helm!” cried Captain Drury.

The ship did not answer it, but heeled over more and more. I thought she was about to share the fate of the Cerberus, The moment afterwards a heavy sea came roaring up, a succession of crashes was heard, the masts went by the board, and she rose on an even keel, the wheel flying round and sending the men at it across the deck. The rudder had been carried away, and the ship lay a helpless wreck on the stormy ocean.

The men looked at each other, with blank dismay in their countenances, but our brave commander did his best to conceal his anxiety, and the officers followed his example.

“Clear away the wreck, lads; the gale won’t last long, and when the wind goes down we must try to get up jury-masts and repair the rudder,” he cried out.

All hands were now employed in trying to save some of the spars, and to cut the masts clear, for their butts were striking with fearful force on our larboard side, already shattered by the shot of the enemy. While we were thus employed, the carpenter and his mates, who had been below, came on deck, and went up to the captain. I saw by his looks as he passed me that something was the matter. Directly afterwards the order was given to man the pumps, and they were set clanging away as fast as they could be made to work. The quantity of water gushing out showed that the ship must be leaking at a rapid rate. There was so much work to do that but few words were spoken. I happened to meet Larry.

“Cheer up, Mr Terence,” he exclaimed. “Things look mighty bad; but though our ship went to the bottom we were saved, and I’m after hoping that we’ll be saved again. It would be hard to have beaten the enemy and yet to lose her.”

“I don’t expect that we shall do that,” I answered. “The wind is fair for Nova Scotia, and when we get up jury-masts and rig a new rudder, we may be able to get her along.”

Though I said this, I confess that I was not very sure about it. Things didn’t improve. The sea increased, the wind blew stronger and stronger, and though the pumps were kept going without cessation, we could not get the water under. It came in faster and faster. The reports from the sick bay were also disheartening. Several of the poor fellows who had left their hammocks to fight had since succumbed, and many others were following them. The wounded, who might have done well under other circumstances, dropped off one by one. The only satisfactory intelligence was the state of the captain, who, though so badly wounded, was progressing favourably. The day after the gale commenced ten men died, and the following a still larger number. It was sad to see them lashed in their hammocks as they were slid overboard. There was no time for any funeral ceremonies. Even the healthiest among us looked pale and broken in spirits. On the fourth or fifth day, I think it was, from that on which the gale commenced, the purser’s steward, on getting up provisions, found that the salt water had spoiled all the bread, while many of the casks with fresh water had broken loose and their contents were lost.

To try and stop the leaks, Captain Drury ordered the only spare mainsail to be fothered and drawn under the ship’s bottom. To prepare it a quantity of oakum was spread over the sail, and stitched down by the sail-makers, thus forming what seemed like an enormous mat. This was lowered over the bows, and gradually hauled under the ship’s bottom, where the leaks were supposed to be the worst. We all looked anxiously for the result. Though, in addition to the pumps, a gang of men were set to bale, the water still continued to gain on us. In spite of this, neither officers nor men appeared to lose heart.

“The gale will come to an end some day,” cried Captain Drury, “and we must keep the ship afloat till then. We should be cowards to give in.”

He did his best to speak in his usual cheery tone, but even his voice was more husky than usual, and it was easy to see that he didn’t say what he thought. At last many of the men were seen to desert the pumps.

“Come, Paddy,” said Tom Pim, “we must not let them do that. You and I will take their places and shame them back.”

We turned to, and worked away till our arms ached. “Spell ho!” we cried, and, catching hold of two men, we dragged them back to the pumps. Nettleship did the same with others. The lieutenants were constantly going about trying to keep the crew at work. Some of them behaved exactly as those aboard the Cerberus had done before she was lost, and were about to lash themselves into their hammocks. The first lieutenant and the boatswain, going round, quickly routed them out, and they returned to their duty, either to pump or bale.

The carpenter and his mates, assisted by the boatswain, were attempting to get at the leaks, but even they at last abandoned their efforts on finding them hopeless.

Captain Drury, who had been to visit Captain Bouchier, now returned on deck, and ordered the guns to be hove overboard to lighten the ship. All hands not engaged in pumping were employed in this duty. One by one they were sent plunging into the sea, and the big seventy-four was left at the mercy of the smallest privateer afloat. This gave the ship relief, and our hopes rose of saving her. Of late we had been on the smallest possible allowance of water, and now, to our dismay, the purser announced that the last cask was expended. Nor could wine or spirits be got at owing to the quantity of water in the hold. We had beef and pork, but the bread was all spoiled; thus, even should we keep the ship afloat, we ran the risk of dying of hunger and thirst. Of the crew of the Hector, which had consisted of three hundred men when my companions and I got on board, nearly one hundred had been killed in action, or had since died, and still others were dropping off fast.

Day after day went by. We had known when in the boat what it was to suffer from thirst, but I now felt it more severely. Even Nettleship owned to me that he didn’t think he could get through another day.

“I don’t know whether either of us will survive, Paddy,” he said, “but if you do, I want you to write to my mother and sister, who live near Plymouth, to tell them what happened to me, and that I thought of them to the last; and should be thankful if you could just get some one to let the Admiralty know that Jack Nettleship did his duty while life remained.”

I tried to cheer him up, at the same time promising to carry out his wishes if I should survive him. I fancy a good many, both of officers and men, were feeling as he did. Still, no one I saw showed any signs of cowardly apprehension. Our chief work was now to keep the men at the pumps and baling. It was only by the constant efforts of the officers that they could be induced to remain at their stations; and when “Spell ho!” was cried, and a fresh gang was ordered to take their places, the people relieved staggered away, and fell down on the deck like drunken men. The others, after labouring away for some time, relaxed in their exertions. Nettleship and I were standing near, occasionally taking a turn to help them. One poor fellow fell down. We ran forward to lift him up, but he was dead. We could only just drag him out of the way and call to another to take his place. Before many minutes were over another fell in the same way, dying at the post of duty, as heroically as if he had been standing at his gun. One of the lieutenants, who just then came up, called the surgeon to examine them. He came at once, but his efforts proved ineffectual to restore the men, and they were soon sent to join a number of their shipmates in their ocean grave. Two or three others, I heard, died in the same manner, when I was not present. The gun-room had become uninhabitable from the water washing through it. We had to move up to the ward-room. The deck below us was fast sinking. The carpenter reported that some of the beams of the orlop deck had fallen into the hold, though they must have done so gradually, for we had heard no sound to account for what had taken place. Indeed, the loud noise of the seas beating against the ship, and the water washing about in the hold, prevented any noises except the loudest from being heard. We all now knew that the ship was sinking. Only by the greatest exertions could she be kept afloat to prolong our lives for a few hours. Still no one talked of giving in.

Captain Bouchier, wounded as he was, got up and went about, encouraging both officers and men. The spirit he and Captain Drury displayed encouraged us all. For three days we had none of us tasted a drop of water or spirits. We could judge by our own sufferings the fearful agonies the sick and wounded must be enduring. Not one would have survived, had not the surgeon discovered a few bottles of claret, which the captain insisted should be reserved for them, and though he required it as much as any one, he would not touch a drop himself.

The third day since the water had been exhausted came to an end, and few of us expected to see another sunrise. That night was a dreadful one. The loud lashing of the sea against the side, the creaking of the bulkheads, the ominous sounds which came from the depths of the ship, the groans and cries of the sick and dying, heard at intervals, the ceaseless clanging of the pumps, rang in our ears as we lay, during our watch below, on our damp beds extended on the ward-room deck. The night, however, did come to an end, and we found ourselves still alive, though the ship had evidently sunk lower since the previous day. I joined Nettleship on deck, for we naturally kept together as much as we could. I found that the wind was still blowing strongly, and the sea running high, although it had lately somewhat gone down. Nothing could be seen around but the leaden-coloured foaming seas rising and sinking between us and the horizon. On comparing notes, my two messmates and I agreed that we didn’t suffer nearly so much from thirst as we had done in the boat. Such provisions as could be got at were served out, but none of us cared much for food, though we ate what we could to keep up our strength. We were soon summoned to watch and assist the men at the pumps and buckets, for even now, not for an instant were they allowed to relax in their exertions. Captain Bouchier, weak as he was, went frequently amongst them.

“Keep at it, my lads!” cried Nettleship; “while there’s life there’s hope. If we can keep the ship afloat for a short time longer, it may make all the difference whether we save our lives or perish. Cheer up, lads, cheer up! Show that you’re British seamen to the last!”

The men uttered a faint cheer when the captain, leaning on the purser’s arm, returned.

Captain Drury, who had fought the ship so bravely after Captain Bouchier was wounded, was the life and soul of all on board.

Noon had passed, and still the stout ship lay rolling in the trough of the sea. Inch by inch the water was rising, and we knew that if we were to cease pumping and baling, it would gain upon us still more rapidly.

Already despair could be seen on nearly every countenance. Notwithstanding, few, if any, flinched from their work. Those who spoke, talked of home and friends whom they never expected to see again. Some shook hands, believing that at any moment the ship might make the last fatal plunge, and sink beneath the waves.

Larry was now like my shadow, wherever I went, he followed, no one preventing him, except when he had to take his turn at the pumps or buckets.

Some of the officers had written letters addressed to friends or relatives, and were enclosing them in bottles headed up in small casks, so that some record might be preserved of our fate. Nettleship had prepared one.

“Have you anything to say to your friends at Ballinahone, Paddy?” he asked.

“Yes; beg your mother to write to them, and say that I send my love to all, not forgetting my uncle the major, and that I have been thinking much of them to-day,” I answered, as well as I could speak with the choking sensation in my throat.

“And please, Mr Nettleship, may I be so bold as to axe you to put in a word about Larry Harrigan, and to say that he stuck to Mr Terence to the last, and that if he couldn’t save him, it wasn’t the will that was wanting, but the cruel say was too much for us at last.”

“And put in a word to my family,—you know their address,” said Tom; “just my love, and that I was thinking of them. They’ll know that I was likely to have done my duty as far as I could, so I won’t trouble you with a longer message.”

Just as Nettleship had returned to the gun-room to add the messages to his letter, there came a shout from the poop—

“A sail! a sail!”

Many of the officers rushed up to take a look at her. Tom Pim and I followed them. We could make her out clearly,—a small vessel, right away to windward. The question was whether she would see us.

Captain Drury also had his telescope on her.

Now she was hidden by the seas which rose up between us; now she came clearly into view, her hull almost visible.

“She’s standing this way,” said Captain Drury, “and I believe has made us out, but of that we can’t be certain. However, we must not relax in our efforts to keep the ship afloat, for it may be many hours before we can get aboard her.”

I should have said that we had had a spar secured to the stump of the mainmast, to which an ensign with a jack downwards had been nailed from the first, in the hopes of attracting the attention of any passing vessel.

Captain Bouchier, who had been informed that a sail was in sight, now came up to have a look at her, but almost immediately went down again among the men.

“Lads,” he said, “your exertions will be rewarded, I hope; but you must not slacken in them, or your labours may be thrown away. We may keep the ship afloat many hours longer if you bale and pump as sturdily as heretofore. By that time the sea may have gone down, and we may manage to get aboard the vessel in her boats, though she probably will not venture alongside.”

The men received his address with a faint cheer, and turned to again at the pumps, while those employed in baling passed the buckets to and fro with greater alacrity even than before.

I occasionally ran up on deck to see how near she was getting. I know my heart bounded when I saw the English flag flying out at her peak. She appeared to be a good-sized merchantman, a “snow,” and I heard some of the officers who had been looking through their glasses say that she had guns aboard.

On hearing my report when I returned, some of the men burst into tears, others shouted for joy and shook each other by the hand, believing that our deliverance was near.

Night was now coming on. The sea still ran too high to allow of boats laden with men to pass from one vessel to the other. For the same reason it was impossible for the stranger to come near enough to take any of us off. Many would very probably perish in the attempt, even if the snow should escape being hove against us and stove in.

Again I ran up. All those on deck were now stretching out their hands towards her. She came close enough for the voice of her captain—who stood on the poop—to be heard through his speaking-trumpet.

“I’ll stay by you during the night,” he shouted. “The sea is going down. In the morning I’ll take you off,—please God.”

The last words reached us as the stranger surged by, close under our lee. She then hove-to at a safe distance. Eager eyes were turned towards her before the light altogether faded away, and many looked as if they were tempted to leap overboard and swim to her. Thirsty, hungry, and weary as we were, we would gladly have knocked off baling; but the captain wisely ordered us to keep at it as long as we remained on board.

“You can’t tell, my lads, when the bucketful will leak in that will send her to the bottom,” he said, and the men again turned to. He ordered, however, the carpenter to patch up such of the boats as could be made serviceable enough to float even for a short time, so that they might be employed in carrying us aboard the snow. Without the masts the launch could not be got off the deck, but we had three other boats fit to be repaired; all the others had been completely knocked to pieces. No one slept at all events during that night, for we were all kept spell and spell at the pumps and buckets. The certainty that relief was at hand if we kept afloat, inspired us with renewed strength. When morning dawned the snow came as close as she could venture. Three of her boats approached and pulled towards us. The order was now given for the men to prepare for leaving the ship. Sentries were placed at the gangways to prevent any crowding in till they received the order to go down the side, but this was unnecessary. The few survivors of the sick and wounded were first lowered into the boats, with the surgeons to attend them. The boys and midshipmen were then ordered to go down the side, the names of all being called in succession. As soon as the snow’s boats were filled and had pulled away, ours were lowered. Tom Pim and I went, with Larry, in one of them, Nettleship having charge of her. I looked up at the old ship. She seemed to be settling fast. The water came out of the scuppers, showing that, according to the captain’s orders, the hands were still at the pumps. There was no hurry, yet all was done rapidly. The moment we shoved off our crew gave way, and we were soon aboard the snow. While Nettleship returned for more men, Tom and I stood watching them anxiously. It seemed even now that before they could escape the ship would go down. Though the sea had much decreased, there was no little danger, while the boats were alongside the Hector, of their being swamped. As fast as they could the boats went backwards and forwards, taking their cargoes in through the lower ports. I saw Captain Drury and the first lieutenant pressing Captain Bouchier to leave the ship, but in spite of his wound he insisted on remaining to the last. Our men, as they arrived, stood watching the ship from the deck of the snow, and gave a cheer as they saw him descending, the last man, into the cutter, for they knew that not a soul was left on board the gallant Hector, Scarcely had the captain been helped up the side, than we saw the ship’s head begin to sink. Lower and lower it went, then down she plunged, her ensign flying from the spar secured to the stump of her mainmast, streaming upwards, alone showing us the spot where she was sinking into the depths of the ocean. A groan escaped from the breasts of many of those who had long sailed in her. We found that we were on board the Hawk snow, a letter-of-marque belonging to Dartmouth, Captain John Hill, and bound from Lisbon to Saint John’s, Newfoundland. When Captain Bouchier expressed his gratitude to the master for receiving him and his people, the reply was—

“Don’t talk of it, sir; I’m but doing my duty. I would wish to be treated the same way by others.”

Besides his own crew of five-and-twenty men, he had now two hundred of the Hector’s on board. We had brought neither provisions nor water, and were still many a long league from our port. The Hawk had fortunately hitherto had a quick passage. We had, therefore, more provisions and water on board than would otherwise have been the case. Still two hundred mouths in addition was a large number to feed, yet neither the captain nor his ship’s company grumbled or made the slightest complaint. To stow us all away was the difficulty. To solve it, the captain at once ordered his men to heave overboard the more bulky portion of his cargo. His owners, he said, would not complain, for he himself was the principal one, and he trusted to the justice of his country to replace his loss. We were, of course, put on an allowance, but after the starvation we had endured, it appeared abundance. Even when the cargo had been got rid of it was unpleasantly close stowing for most of us, but we had great reason to be thankful to Heaven for having escaped with our lives. The officers and crew of the Hawk treated us with the greatest kindness; most of our poor fellows, indeed, required help, and were unable to move about the deck by themselves. The wind, however, continued fair, and those who had abundant sleep recovered their spirits. Still several died, worn out by fatigue and sickness. We were safe for the present, and we did not allow ourselves to recollect that another gale might spring up before we could reach Saint John’s, to which port we were bound, or that contrary winds might keep us from our port, and that, after all, we might perish from hunger and thirst. I was talking of what we should do when we got ashore.

“Wait till we are there, Paddy,” said Nettleship. “I don’t say that we shall not reach it, but we may not. That noble fellow, Hill, knows that such may be the case as well as I do; and I admire his calmness, and the care he takes not to show us that he fears he and his people may suffer the fate from which they rescued our ship’s company. You see they are all put on the same allowance that we are, yet not one of them complains.”

I heartily agreed with him. Shortly afterwards I asked Nettleship what he had done with his letter.

“I left it in the cask aboard, Paddy,” he answered. “So in case we’re lost, our friends will know our whereabouts, though they’ll not hear of our being rescued, and the chance we have had of escaping; but that won’t matter much, though I should like to have made Hill’s conduct known.”

Never, perhaps, did seamen watch the weather more anxiously than we did. Our lives, as far as we could see, depended on the winds. Already the stock of provisions and water was getting low, and it was necessary to diminish the allowance of both. Still the crew of the Hawk would only receive the same quantity that we did. The sun rose and set, and again rose, and we sailed on. Mr Hill met us each morning at breakfast, his honest countenance beaming with kindness, and jocularly apologised for the scantiness of the fare. Even he, however, one morning looked grave; the wind had fallen, and we lay becalmed. He had good reason to be grave, for he knew what we did not, that he had only one cask of water left, and provisions scarcely sufficient for a couple of days.

“I have come away without fish-hooks,” he observed. “If I had had them, gentlemen, I might have given you cod for dinner; and I promise you I’ll never be without them again, when I make this voyage.”

“Then I only hope, captain, that you’ll take us up again if we happen to have our ship sinking under us,” I said, at which there was a general laugh.

As we had nothing else to do, all hands employed themselves in whistling for a breeze. Just before the sun again rose, a cheering shout was heard from the masthead—

“Land! land!”

In a short time the rocky coast of Newfoundland rose on the larboard bow, and we stood along to the northward for Saint John’s harbour, on the east coast. Before evening we were passing through the Narrows, a passage leading to the harbour, with perpendicular precipices rising to a considerable height on either side. Passing under Fort Amhurst, a voice came off hailing—

“Where are you from? What length of passage?”

The answer announcing, “We have on board the officers and crew of H.M.S. Hector,” evidently caused considerable excitement, and signals were made to a post on the top of a lofty hill on the right side, whence the information was conveyed to the town.

Before we dropped our anchor, the last cask of water was emptied, the last particle of food consumed.

The moment we brought up, the vessel was surrounded by boats, the news of our arrival having preceded us. Before landing, all the officers again expressed their thanks to our gallant preserver, who, I hope, received the reward he so well merited, from our Government, we ourselves being unable to offer him any. None of us, indeed, had more than the clothes we wore, and a few articles we had been able to carry off with us from the wreck.

We were received with the greatest kindness and hospitality by the inhabitants of Saint John’s. Nettleship, Tom, and I were lodged together in the house of a merchant, whose wife and daughters, pitying our condition, did everything they could to restore us to health. Certainly we were very unlike the gay midshipmen we appeared when we sailed from Jamaica. Both the young ladies were very nice girls; but Tom confided to me that his heart had become hard as adamant since Lucy’s cruel treatment of him.

“It will soften by and by, Tom,” I answered, laughing, though I could not say that I felt mine inclined to yield to their attractions.

We agreed, however, that Nettleship, as we thought, would knock under. What might have been the case I don’t know; but as soon as the men had somewhat recovered from their hardships,—there being no man-o’-war likely to call off the place,—the captain chartered two merchant brigs to convey himself and the survivors of the Hector to Halifax, Nova Scotia, whence he expected to get a passage home for us to England. Nettleship, Tom, and I, accompanied by Larry, had to go on board the Jane, one of the vessels, of which Captain Drury went in charge; while Captain Bouchier, though still not recovered from his wound, went in the other, the John Thomas.

I did not mention it at the time, but Larry had managed to save his riddle uninjured when he left the Hector, and his appearance with it under his arm afforded no small amount of satisfaction to the crew of the Jane.

The John Thomas proved a much faster sailer than the brig, and soon ran ahead of us. We had just lost sight of Cape Race when a sail was made out, standing towards us from the southward.

“I don’t like her looks,” observed Nettleship to me, as she approached. “I shouldn’t be surprised if she proves to be a French privateer.”

The captain appeared to be of this opinion, for, after: examining the stranger through his glass, he ordered all the sail we could carry to be set, and stood away right before the wind, to the north-west. The stranger, however, came up with us hand over hand. In a short time the French ensign was seen blowing out at her peak, leaving no doubt as to her character.

“We must not be taken, lads. I trust to you to fight to the last, before we strike our flag,” cried the captain.

The crew cheered, and promised to do their best.

The Jane had six nine-pounders, while the enemy carried twice as many guns, evidently of much heavier metal. As a few men only were required to work them, the captain ordered the rest to go under shelter. Tom and I were among those ordered below. In a short time we heard our guns go off, and the shot of the enemy came rattling on board. Presently there came a crash, and we guessed that the privateer had run us alongside.

“On deck, lads!” cried the captain. “Boarders, repel boarders.”

At the summons we eagerly rushed up through every hatchway, to see a number of Frenchmen swarming on board; but they didn’t get far beyond the bulwarks before they were driven back, we in return boarding them. Tom and I led our men into the fore part of the vessel. More and more of our fellows followed. The Frenchmen gave way, some leaped below, others ran aft, where they encountered Nettleship and his party; in less than five minutes the privateer was ours, and Larry, shouting—

“Wallop-a-hoo-aboo! Erin go bragh!” hauled down her colours.

The enemy had so completely been taken by surprise, that they had offered but a slight resistance, and few, therefore, had lost their lives, while we had only half a dozen wounded. Captain Drury, with two-thirds of our men, went on board the prize, retaining the larger number of our prisoners; while Nettleship, Tom, and I remained in the Jane, with orders to follow close astern.

“We must take care, Paddy, that our prisoners don’t play us the same trick yours played you,” said Nettleship. “They would like to try it, no doubt.”

We had thirty prisoners to look after.

“I’ll take remarkably good care that they don’t do that,” I answered; “and to make sure, it would be as well to keep them in durance vile till we reach Halifax.”

The Frenchmen grumbled at finding that they were to have their arms lashed behind them, and be kept below under charge of a couple of sentries. They were somewhat more contented when we fed them carefully, and told them that it was because we considered them brave fellows, and felt sure that if they had the opportunity they would take the brig from us, that we were obliged to treat them so unceremoniously. Fortunately the wind held fair, and we had a quick passage to Halifax, where we arrived before the harbour was frozen up. Of course we gained great credit for our last exploit at that favourite naval station.

We found the Maidstone frigate just about to sail for England, on board of which all who were well enough were ordered home. We were pretty considerably crowded, but we were a merry set, and had plenty to talk about. The midshipmen of the Maidstone, which had been for some time at Halifax, spoke warmly of the kindness they had received, and of the fascinations of the young ladies of the place, except an old mate and an assistant-surgeon, who declared that they had been abominably treated, and jilted by half-a-dozen whose hearts they thought they had won.

Old Grumpus, the master’s mate, was especially bitter. “Look here,” he said, producing a sketch which he had made. “See these old ladies seated on chairs on the quay, watching their daughters fishing. There are a dozen girls at least, with long rods and hooks, baited with all sorts of odds and ends. And see what sort of fish they’re after,—naval officers—marine officers—and of all ranks, from an admiral down to a young midshipman. And there’s a stout dame—she can’t be called a young lady exactly—casting her hook towards a sturdy boatswain.

“‘Look here,’ one of them cries out, ‘mother, mother, I’ve got a bite.’

“‘Play him, my dear,’ cries the mother, ‘till you see what he is.’

“‘Oh, mother, mother!’ she cries out presently, ‘I’ve caught a midshipman.’

“‘Throw him in, my dear, he’s no good,’ answered the old lady.

“Presently another sings out, ‘Mother, I’ve got a bite. I’m sure it’s from a lieutenant, from the way he pulls.’

“‘Let him hang on a little, my dear,’ says the mother; ‘may be if you see a commander or a post-captain swimming by, you may cast him off, and hook one of the others instead.’

“Presently a fourth cries out, ‘Oh, mother, I’ve hooked a captain!’

“‘Run, Jane, run, and help your sister to land him,’ cries Mrs Thingamebob; and just see the way they’re doing it, so as not to frighten him, and make him turn tail.

“At last another shouts, ‘Mother, I’ve hooked a master’s mate.’

“‘Then go and cut the line, Susan. Don’t let Nancy land that brute, on any account. He’s the worst of the lot.’

“And so it goes on,” exclaimed old Grumpus. “However, to my mind they’re all alike. Why, while we have been there a dozen officers from different ships have been and got spliced. It’s lucky for you fellows that you were not there long, or you would have been and done it, and repented it all your lives afterwards.”

During the voyage old Grumpus brought out his sketch a score of times, and repeated his story as often, with numerous variations, which afforded us all much amusement. He had anecdotes of other descriptions without end to tell, most of them hingeing on the bad way the junior officers of the service were treated. He didn’t say that most of those junior officers were rough diamonds like himself, who would have been much better off if they had not been placed on the quarter-deck.

We had a somewhat long and stormy passage, and were half frozen to death before it was over, most of us who had been for years in the West Indies being little prepared for cold weather. We should have been much worse off, however, in a line-of-battle ship, but in the midshipmen’s berth we managed to keep ourselves tolerably warm when below. At length we sighted the coast of Ireland.

“Hurrah, Mr Terence! There’s the old country,” said Larry, throwing up his hat in his excitement, and nearly losing it overboard. “If the captain would only put into Cork harbour, we would be at home in two or three days, and shure they’d be mighty pleased to see us at Ballinahone. What lashings of whisky, and pigs, and praties they’d be after eating and drinking in our honour, just come home from the wars. Och! I wish we were there, before a blazing turf fire, with the peat piled up, and every one of them red and burning, instead of being out here with these cold winds almost blowing our teeth down our throats.”

The picture Larry drew made me more than ever wish to get home. Not that I was tired of a sea life, though I had found it a pretty hard one in some respects; but I longed to see my father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters again, and my kind uncle the major, as I had not heard from them for many a long day. Letters in those days were conveyed to distant stations very irregularly. I had only received two all the time I had been away. Indeed, friends, knowing the great uncertainty which existed of letters reaching, thought it scarcely worth while to write them. We could just see the land, blue and indistinct, over our larboard bow, when the wind veered to the eastward, and instead of standing for Plymouth, as we expected to do, we were kept knocking about in the Chops of the Channel for three long weeks, till our water was nearly exhausted, and our provisions had run short. There we were, day after day, now standing on one tack, now on another, never gaining an inch of ground. Every morning the same question was put, and the same answer given—

“Blowing as hard as ever, and right in our teeth.”

We sighted a number of merchant vessels, and occasionally a man-of-war, homeward-bound from other stations, but all were as badly off as we were.

At last one morning the look-out at the masthead shouted, “A sail to the eastward coming down before the wind.” It was just possible she might be an enemy. The drum beat to quarters, and the ship was got ready for action. On getting nearer, however, she showed English colours, and we then made out her number to be that of the Thetis frigate. As soon as we got near each other we both hove-to. Though there was a good deal of sea running, two of our boats were soon alongside her to obtain water, and some casks of bread and beef, for, as far as we could tell to the contrary, we might be another month knocking about where we were. In the meantime, one of her boats brought a lieutenant on board us.

“Peace has been signed between Great Britain and France,” were almost the first words he uttered when he stepped on deck. “I can’t give particulars, but all I know is, that everything we have been fighting for is to remain much as it was before. We are to give up what we have taken from the French, and the French what they have taken from us, and we are to shake hands and be very good friends. There has been great rejoicing on shore, and bonfires and feasts in honour of the event.”

I can’t say that the news produced any amount of satisfaction to those on board the Maidstone.

“Then my hope of promotion has gone,” groaned Nettleship; “and you, Paddy, will have very little chance of getting yours, for which I’m heartily sorry; for after the creditable way in which you have behaved since you came to sea, I fully expected to see you rise in your profession, and be an honour to it.”

“What’s the use of talking to sucking babies like Paddy and Tom here about their promotion, in these piping times of peace which are coming on us,” cried old Grumpus, “if we couldn’t get ours while the war was going on?”

Chapter Twenty One.

Festivities at Home.

The news of peace was received perhaps with more satisfaction by the men who had no promotion to look for, and who now expected to visit their families, or enjoy themselves in spending their prize-money according to their own fashion on shore.

Parting from the Thetis, we continued beating backwards and forwards for another week, when the wind shifting suddenly to the southward, we ran up to Plymouth, and at last dropped anchor in Hamoaze. We lived on board till the ship was paid off. In the meantime, I wrote home to say that Larry and I would return as soon as we could manage to get a passage to Cork. Tom Pim was uncertain of the whereabouts of his family, so he also waited till he could hear from them. Nettleship had told us that his mother and sister lived near Plymouth, and he got leave to run over and see them.

“It won’t be a good thing for you youngsters to be knocking about this place by yourselves,” he said, on his returning; “and so, having told my mother this, she has invited both of you, with Larry, to come up and stay with us till you can go home. You’ll be much better off than in lodgings, or stopping at an inn, even though you may find it somewhat dull.”

Tom at once accepted the invitation, and persuaded me to do so, though I wanted to see some of the fun of Plymouth, which my other shipmates had talked about. I won’t describe the scenes which took place on board,—the noise and uproar,—the characters of all descriptions who crowded the ship, eager to take possession of the sailors, or rather of the money which lined their pockets. I saw very much the contrary of fun in it. We had then a midshipman’s paying-off dinner on shore, to which some of the ward-room officers were invited. The wine flowed freely. Healths were drunk and sentiments given, and in a short time most of the party became very uproarious, those who were sober enough on shore being as bad as the rest.

“Come, Paddy,” said Nettleship, “we have to get home to my mother’s house to-night, and I can’t introduce you, remember, if you’re not quite yourself.”

Tom Pim was ready.

“So am I,” I said. “I’ll not take another drop.”

Our intended departure being discovered, we were assailed with hoots, and shouts, and groans.

“Never mind them,” said Nettleship. “If we were to be moved by that sort of stuff, those very fellows would be the first to laugh at us another day.”

On seeing us gaining the door, several jumped up, intending to bring us back.

“Run for it, Paddy; run, Tom,” cried Nettleship. “I’ll guard your retreat. They’ll not stop me.”

“Hands off,” he shouted, as Grumpus and some others attempted to seize him. “I have made up my mind to go, and go I will, though every one in the room were to jump up and try to bar my passage.”

Tom and I got safe into the street, where we were joined by Larry, who had been waiting for us; and Nettleship came up, saying that he had got clear off, at the cost of flooring two or three of his assailants.

“Not a satisfactory way of parting from old friends,” he said, “but the only one which circumstances would permit.”

We at once set off, walking briskly, to get as soon as possible away from the scene of our shipmates’ revels. We at length reached a pretty little cottage, a short way out of Plymouth, where Mrs Nettleship and her daughter received us in the kindest manner possible. I was struck by the appearance of the two ladies, so nicely dressed, and quiet in their manners, while the house seemed wonderfully neat and fresh, greatly differing from the appearance of Ballinahone. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been in an English house. When Nettleship talked of his mother’s cottage, I had expected to see something like the residence of an Irish squireen. Both inside and out the house was the same,—the garden full of sweetly-scented flowers, the gravel walks without a weed in them, and the hedges carefully trimmed. Then when Tom and I were shown to the room we were to occupy, I was struck by the white dimity hangings to the beds, the fresh curtains and blinds, the little grate polished to perfection, and a bouquet of flowers on the dressing-table. Tom was not so impressed as I was, though he said it reminded him of his own home. Miss Fanny was considerably younger than Nettleship, a fair-haired, blue-eyed, sweetly-smiling, modest-looking girl, who treated Tom and me as if we were her brothers.

Nettleship and Tom accompanied me into Plymouth each morning, that I might learn if any vessel was sailing for Cork, and thus be saved the journey to Bristol, with which place and Ireland, as there was a considerable amount of trade carried on, I was told that I should have no difficulty in obtaining a vessel across. I was so happy where I was, however, that I was less in a hurry than might have been supposed. I had no want of funds for the purpose, for I had received my pay; and a good share of prize-money for the vessels we had captured was also due to me, though, as Nettleship told me, I must not count upon getting that in a hurry.

At last, one morning, on going to a shipbroker, who had promised to let me know of any vessel putting into Plymouth on her way to Cork, he told me that one had just arrived, and would sail again in a few hours. I at once went on board the Nancy schooner, and engaged a passage for Larry and myself, and then hurried back to wish Mrs Nettleship and her daughter good-bye. My old shipmates returned with me, and Larry carried our few traps over his shoulder, as I had not possessed a chest since mine was lost in the Liffy.

“Good-bye, Paddy, old fellow,” cried Nettleship. “If I get appointed to a ship I’ll let you know, and you must exert your interest to join her; and I hope Tom also will find his way aboard. We have been four years together without so much as a shadow of a quarrel; and if we were to spend another four years in each other’s company, I’m sure it would be the same.”

Tom merely wrung my hand; his heart was too full to speak.

“Good-bye, Mr Pim,” said Larry, as the schooner’s boat was waiting for us at the quay. “Your honour saved my life, and I would have been after saving yours, if I had had the chance, a dozen times over.”

“You saved it once, at least, Larry, when you helped to get me out of the water as the boat was leaving the Cerberus and I hope that we may be again together, to give you another chance.”

“There’s nothing I’d like better. May Heaven’s blessing go with your honour,” said Larry, as Tom held out his hand and shook his warmly.

Our friends stood on the shore as we pulled across the Catwater to the schooner, which lay at the entrance. Directly we were on board she got under weigh, and with a fair breeze we stood down Plymouth Sound. She was a terribly slow sailer, and we had a much longer passage to Cork than I had expected. We had no longer any fear of being snapped up by a privateer, but, seeing her style of sailing, I hoped that we should not be caught in a gale on a lee shore, or we should have run a great chance of being wrecked.

Larry made friends with all on board, keeping them alive with his fiddle, which he was excessively proud of having saved through so many and various dangers.

“Shure, I wouldn’t change it for all the gold in the Ville de Paris, if it could be fished up from the bottom of the say,” he exclaimed, “for that couldn’t cheer up the hearts of my shipmates as my old fiddle can be doing. Won’t I be after setting them toeing and heeling it when we get back to Ballinahone!”

At length our eyes were rejoiced by a sight of the entrance to Cork Harbour, and the wind being fair, we at once ran up to Passage, where I engaged a boat to take us to Cork. As we had no luggage except what Larry could carry, and he wouldn’t let me lift an article, we proceeded at once to the inn at which my uncle and I had put up.

I was just about to enter through the doorway, when I saw a tall figure standing before me, not older by a wrinkle than when I, a stripling, had last seen him, standing on the quay waving me a farewell; his hat and coat, the curl of his wig, every article of dress, was the same. For a moment he looked at me as if I were a stranger; then, recognising my features, though in height and breadth I was so changed, he stretched out his arms, exclaiming—

“Terence, my nephew! Is it you, indeed?” and embracing me, his feelings overcame him, and he could say no more for some minutes. “I came on the chance of meeting you, though I knew not when you would arrive,” he said at length. “I have been waiting day after day, every hour in expectation of seeing you; but faith, when my eyes first fell on your figure I forgot the change that four years would have produced in you, and took you for a stranger. And you have brought back Larry safe from the wars? Glad to see you, boy. I thought you would be taking care of the young master.”

“Faith, your honour, I should have been mighty grieved at myself if I hadn’t done the best I could; and it’s a pleasure to hand him back to you, major, without a wound or a scratch, though the round shot and bullets have been flying about pretty quickly round him; and we’ve escaped from fire and hurricane, and shipwrecks and earthquakes, and a mighty lot of other things besides.”

“And you, uncle, don’t look a day older than when I went away,” I said.

“You must not trust too much to appearances, Terence,” he answered, shaking his head. “The enemy has been sapping the foundations, though he has not as yet taken the fortress. I have a good many things to try me. Matters at home are not in a satisfactory state.”

“It was about them all I was going to ask, uncle,” I said. “How are my father and mother, the girls and the boys?”

“Your mother is not so strong as she was, though she bears up bravely; but your poor father has greatly changed. Though he has given up his claret, he still sticks to his potations of rum shrub and whisky punch, which are rapidly bringing him to his grave, though he won’t believe it Kathleen and Nora are married; Kathleen to Eustace Fitzgerald, and Nora to Tim Daley. I would rather they had found steadier husbands, but they’ll bring the boys into order, I hope, in time. Your brother Maurice got his commission soon after you left home, and, having seen some service in America, has lately returned home on leave. I was in hopes that he would have fallen in with you. Denis stops at home to help me mind the house and keep things in order. The rest have grown into strapping lads, and it’s time to be sending them out into the world to seek their fortunes. The Fitzgeralds and the Daleys are staying at the Castle, and they’ll be mightily pleased to see you. We will start to-morrow morning at daylight. I brought horses for you and Larry, with Tim Sweeney to look after them, for I suppose that Larry will scarcely know the head from the tail of one by this time.”

“Och, your honour, I’ll soon be after remembering which is which when I see the bastes again, though I haven’t crossed a horse’s back since I left,” said Larry, in answer to my uncle’s remark.

“I’ll trust you for that, my lad,” said the major; “and now, Terence, we will go in and order supper, and while it’s coming, you shall give me an account of your adventures.”

I was soon seated before the fire, briefly describing what I had gone through, in as clear a way as I could. My uncle was deeply interested, and constantly stopped me to put questions, when he did not clearly understand my descriptions. Even when we were at supper he made me talk on, appearing scarcely to think about what he was eating, so eager was he to listen to me. He was much struck on hearing of Dan Hoolan’s fate.

“I can’t say the country is much the quieter, for unfortunately there are too many boys of the same character to take his place,” he remarked, “but I hope we shall reach Ballinahone without meeting any of them.”

At last, seeing that I was getting sleepy, he advised me to turn in, to be ready to start in the morning.

Larry in the meantime had been well taken care of by Tim Sweeney,—indeed, too much taken care of; for when he came into my room to see if I wanted anything, he stood balancing himself with difficulty, and talking away, until I was obliged to turn him out and bid him go to bed as fast as he could.

The next morning we were on the road, the major sitting his horse as firmly as ever; and indeed, except that we were going in an opposite direction, I might have fancied, until I looked at Larry and felt the change that had come over myself, that we were but continuing our journey of four years back.

Having plenty to talk about, I rode alongside my uncle, Larry and Tim following us, the latter listening with eager ears to the wonderful accounts Larry was giving him. We pushed on as fast as our horses would carry us, but as the roads were none of the best, our progress was much slower than I liked.

The afternoon of the second day my uncle proposed that, instead of stopping at the village through which we were then passing, we should push on to a little roadside inn, that we might be so much the further on our way next morning. It was almost dark when we arrived, but the landlord, Pat Casey, who knew my uncle well, received us warmly, promising to give us all the accommodation we could desire, and a supper and breakfast not to be despised. Pat at once fulfilled his promise by placing some rashers of bacon and fresh eggs, and actually a white loaf, which with several others he said he had received that morning, on the table.

“I would be after having some tay for breakfast, but I wouldn’t dream of giving it to your honours for supper,” he said, as he placed instead on the table a bottle of the cratur, from which, he observed with a wink, the revenue had not in any way benefited, while a bowl of smoking hot potatoes formed the chief dish of the feast. I remember doing good justice to it, and was not sorry when my uncle proposed that we should retire to our downy couches. Unpretending as was the outside of the inn, they were far superior to what I should have expected; mine was a feather bed to which many hundreds of geese must have contributed, while the curtains were of silk, faded and patched, to be sure, but showing that they had come from some grand mansion. I slept like a top, till my uncle roused me up in the morning with the announcement that breakfast was nearly ready. To that I was prepared to do more ample justice than I did to the supper.

“Come, Terence, let us take our seats,” said my uncle. “Biddy has just placed the things on the table, and they will be getting cold.”

The breakfast looked tempting. There was a pile of buttered toast, plenty of new-laid eggs, a beautiful griskin broiled to perfection, and water boiling on the hot turf fire in a saucepan. The teapot having taken to leaking, as Biddy said, she had made the tea in the potheen jug. I was just about to follow my uncle’s example, when there came a rap at the outside door of the paved parlour in which we were sitting.

“Come in,” said my uncle.

No one answered.

“Go and see who it is, Terence; maybe it’s some modest fellow who doesn’t like to open the door.”

No sooner had I lifted the latch than I felt a heavy shove. The door flew open, and before I could get out of the way, in rushed a huge sow, knocking me over in a moment; and while I was kicking my heels in the air, over my body came nearly a dozen young pigs, their amiable mother making her way round the room, grunting, snorting, and catching the air through her enormous proboscis.

“Jump up, Terence! jump up, or she’ll be at you!” said my uncle, coming to my assistance; but the sow was too rapid in her movements, and, ere he could reach me, charged furiously at his legs. Fortunately he escaped her by springing with wonderful agility out of her way, and, mounting on a chair, got up on the top of a chest of drawers, which formed a convenient place of retreat. In the meantime I got on my legs, and, seeing the savage sow was inclined to attack me, I sprang on to the chest of drawers, the only safe place I could discover. Here we sat, regularly besieged, for our weapons of offence and defence had been left on the table. The sow, seeming to know the advantage she had gained, kept eyeing us savagely. Indeed, unless we had thought it worth while to run the risk of an attack from her, we saw that we must make up our minds to remain where we were. The louder we shouted for help, the more enraged the sow became, thirsting, as we had reason to believe, for our blood. She was the lankiest, the tallest, and grisliest beast I ever saw; her back, arching higher than a donkey’s, resembled a rustic bridge; her loose-flapping ears nearly hid her small sunken, fiery eyes, their ends just covering one half of her mouth, which divided her head, as it were, into an upper and under storey, clearly showing that she had the means of taking a huge bite out of our legs, could she get at them. Her tusks, like those of a boar, projected from under her nostrils, and the ring and hook in her nose was a formidable weapon of offence, though intended to prevent her from digging up the ground. Her promising family were not little pigs, but had nearly attained the age when they would be turned out to shift for themselves, regular hobbledehoys of swinehood.

After rampaging round the room, sniffing the air, and vainly attempting to get at us, the sow ran under the table, which she unceremoniously upset, when, with a peculiar grunt summoning her progeny to the feast, she and they immediately commenced gobbling up our viands. Seeing this, I jumped down, intending to drive her away, but scarcely had I reached the ground when she made so savage a rush at me that I was glad to regain my former position.

“This is too bad,” cried the major; and, slipping off the drawers, he seized a chair, with the intention of belabouring our assailant, when just at that moment one of the young pigs, of an inquisitive disposition, hearing the bubbling water on the fire, attempting to look into the pot, brought the scalding contents down upon itself. On feeling its tender bristles getting loose, it set up the most terrific cries, louder even than the most obstinate of its race when the butcher is making preparations for manufacturing it into corned pork. The sow, attributing the cries of her darling to some torture inflicted by us, rushed to the drawers, making several savage attempts to rear up against them so that she could seize us by the legs. Every moment we expected to be caught hold of by the hook in her nose, when we should have inevitably been brought down. In vain we kicked and stamped at her to drive her off, while we shouted loudly for assistance.

As it turned out, Larry and Tim were in the stables attending to the horses, while the landlord and his family, having performed, as they supposed, all their required duties in attending on us, had gone to the potato garden. Not for some minutes did Pat hear our voices, and then in he rushed, with astonishment depicted on his countenance. Seizing a stick, he began belabouring the sow, bestowing on her epithets numberless and profuse.

“Och! the curse of Crummell light on you for a greedy old sow as ye are,” he exclaimed, whacking away at the creature, who didn’t care for his blows, though she dared not attack him. At length Tim and Larry came in, and, seizing the sow by the tail, attempted to drag her out; she, supposing that they wanted her to go into the room, in the usual swinish spirit of contradiction turned to snap at their legs, and, followed by her hopeful progeny, bolted out of the door. My uncle and I burst into fits of laughter, though in reality it was no laughing business as far as our breakfast was concerned. Pat expressed his fear that there was not another morsel of food in the house; however, Biddy and her assistant, coming in from the potato garden, soon set matters to rights, and put some water on to boil, hunted up some fresh eggs, and produced another loaf. We were too hungry to let them toast and butter it, however. We made a very good breakfast after all, our appetites being sharpened by the exercise of our lungs, not to speak of the alarm we had been in. The occurrence delayed our departure till a later hour than we intended, and we pushed on to try and make up for lost time.

I confess that I occasionally looked round, half expecting to see some of Dan Hoolan’s successors come out from behind the rocks or bushes, and demand our valuables; but if any were lying in wait in the neighbourhood, they probably thought four well-armed men too formidable to be assailed, and we proceeded towards our journey’s end without molestation. I had at first felt a sort of callousness about reaching home, and should have been indifferent had any delay occurred; but as I approached Castle Ballinahone I became more and more eager to be there, and could scarcely restrain my feelings when I saw the towers rising beyond the trees in the distance, and the Shannon shining brightly in the rays of the setting sun. My uncle and I gave our horses the rein, and our two attendants clattered after us. The gate of the park was open, and as we dashed up the avenue at full speed, the sounds of our horses’ hoofs attracted the attention of the inmates of the castle. The door was thrown open, and my mother and sisters, and Maurice and Denis and my two brothers-in-law, appeared on the steps, down which the younger boys came springing towards us; while from the servants’ wing out rushed a whole posse of men and girls and dogs,—tumbling over each other, the dogs barking, the girls shrieking, and the men shouting with delight, as they surrounded Larry, and half pulled him off his horse. Dismounting, I sprang up the steps into my mother’s arms, where she held me for some time before she was willing to let me go. I received a similar welcome from my sisters. “You see I have brought him back safe after all,” said the major, benignantly smiling. My hands were next seized by my brothers and brothers-in-law, who wrung their fingers after receiving the grips which I unconsciously bestowed upon them.

“And my father?” I asked, not seeing him.

“He is in the parlour,” answered my mother in an altered tone; and she led me in. He was seated in his wheelchair, a look of dull imbecility on his countenance.

“What! are you Terence?” he asked in a quavering tone. “Come back from the wars, eh? I suppose you are Terence, though I shouldn’t have known you. We will drink your health, though, at supper in whisky punch, if he’ll let me have it, for we can’t afford claret now,—at least so he says, and he knows better than I do.”

I was much pained, but tried to conceal my feelings from my mother, though my father’s changed appearance haunted me, and prevented me from being as happy as otherwise would have been the case. His state had been that of many of his neighbours, whom he was fond of boasting he had seen under the sod,—once fine intelligent men, who might have lived out their natural course of years in health and happiness, with everything to make their lives pleasant, had it not been for the drinking habits so general among their class. After the greetings with my family were over, I went into the servants’ hall to have a talk with the old domestics. Larry was in the height of his glory, just getting out his fiddle to give them a tune in honour of our return. They all crowded round me, each eager to grasp my hand, and congratulate me on having escaped the dangers of the wars. I felt myself more of a hero than I had ever done before. The moment I retired I heard Larry’s fiddle going, and the boys and girls beginning to make use of their feet, for it was impossible to keep them quiet while such notes sounded in their ears. After a visit to my chamber, which had long been prepared for me, accompanied by Denis, who wanted to hear all I had got to tell him, I returned to the drawing-room. I there found the family assembled, fully as anxious as my brother to have a narrative of my adventures. My mother, taking my hand, which she held in hers, led me to the sofa, and fondly looked in my face as I described the battles I had been engaged in and the shipwrecks I had encountered. My uncle nodded approvingly as I described the actions in which I had taken a prominent part. My poor father, who had been wheeled into the room, stared with lack-lustre eyes, evidently only comprehending a portion of what I said. The rest of the family occasionally uttered exclamations of surprise and astonishment, now and then putting questions to help me along, when I stopped for want of breath or to recollect myself. I had never in my life talked so much at a stretch.

At last we went in to supper. My poor father, lifting his glass with trembling hands to his lips, drank my health. My brothers-in-law, Maurice and Denis, followed his example. The major kindly nodded.

“You have done well, Terence, and I’m proud of you,” he exclaimed; “and though the war is over, I hope you’ll still find means to climb up the rattlings, as you say at sea.”

Several neighbours looked in, hearing of my arrival, to congratulate me and my family. The whisky-toddy flowed fast. I as usual drank but little; in truth, I had no taste for the stuff, though probably it would have grown upon me, as it does upon others.

My uncle looked at me approvingly. “I’m glad to see, Terence,” he said, “that you possess one of the qualities of a good officer, and that even when off duty you retain the habit of sobriety.”

My brothers-in-law glanced at each other and laughed, but took care that the major should not observe them. The guests took no notice of my uncle’s remark, evidently intending to make the whisky punch flow freely, the great object for which they had come. Toasts and sentiments, according to the fashion of the day, were given. My father tried to sing one of his old songs, but soon broke down. Several of the other gentlemen, however, took up his stave, and soon began to be uproarious. My mother on this got up, and beckoned to my sisters to follow her. They whispered to their husbands, who, however, only nodded and laughed. My uncle’s object was rather to guide than to suppress the hilarity, and when he observed anything like a dispute arising, he put in a word or two nipping it in the bud in a calm, determined way, to soothe irritated feelings. In a short time Dan Bourke came in, and, putting his hands on the back of my father’s chair, said, “By your leave, gentlemen, I’m come to wheel the master away;” and without more ado, though my poor father stretched out his hand trying to grasp his glass, before he could reach it he was at a distance from the table. It was a melancholy spectacle, and I almost burst into tears as I saw him moving his arms like a child, and trying to kick out with his gouty feet. As Dan wheeled him round towards the door, he shouted and cried, “Just let me have one glass more, Dan, only one; that can’t be after doing me harm.”

One of the guests exclaimed, “Can’t you be leaving the master alone, and let him have a glass to comfort his soul? Just one glass can make no matter of difference.”

But Dan was obdurate, and, looking over his shoulder, he said, “It’s the orders of the mistress, and they’re to be obeyed.”

Had the major’s eye not been upon him, I don’t know how Dan would have behaved, but without another word he wheeled my poor father out of the room, and closed the door behind him. It was almost the last time he appeared at table. His state made a deep and lasting impression on me.

As soon as he was gone, the guests went on talking and singing as before, and would probably have kept up their revels till a late hour, had not my uncle reminded them that he and I had just come off a long journey.

“As I’ve been playing the part of host, I can’t be so rude as to leave you at table, gentlemen.”

The hint, as he intended it to be, was too broad not to be taken, and those whose brains had still some sense left in them rose to take their departure, hoisting the others in a friendly way out of their seats, when arm-in-arm they staggered to the door.

“The ladies have retired, so you need not stop to pay your farewell respects to them,” said my uncle; and he told Dan Bourke, who was in the hall, to order the gossoons to bring round the gentlemen’s horses. Some mounted without difficulty, but others had to be helped up on their steeds by my brothers-in-law and Denis. I thought they would have tumbled off.

“They’ll be all to rights when once in their saddles,” said Denis. “They’re accustomed to ride home in that state. To be shure, one of them now and then dislocates his neck or breaks his head, but that’s a trifle. It’s too common a way for an Irish gentleman to end his mortal career for anything to be thought of it.”

“I hope, Denis, that you’ll not be after following their example,” I remarked.

“Faith, the major keeps me in too strict order for that at present,” he said; “I don’t know what I should do if I hadn’t his eye upon me, but I’ll acknowledge I have no wish to become a brute beast, as some of them are.”

My first day at home was over. I felt less happy than I had expected. My father’s melancholy condition,—my mother’s sorrow, which she in vain tried to conceal,—and the fallen fortunes of the family, damped my spirits. My brothers-in-law were fine young fellows, but not altogether what I liked; and my sisters were graver than they used to be. Everything about the house looked in a dilapidated condition. My mother and sisters wore old dresses; the furniture was faded; the servants, if not ragged, were but poorly habited. Had it not been for the major, the family, I suspect, would long ere this have been turned out of house and home. I must not spend much time in describing my life at Castle Ballinahone. I soon got tired of it, and began to wish myself at sea again, for I knew that my only chance of promotion was to keep afloat. I told the major. He said that he perfectly agreed with me, and that he would at once write to Captain Macnamara, who was in London, and to two or three other friends, and ask them to try and get me appointed to a ship without delay. After I had been at home a few days, Fitzgerald and Daley invited me to accompany them to the fair at Mullyspeleen, where they wished to dispose of some horses they had bred on my father’s property. Larry begged that he might come, just to see the fun. I observed, as he mounted, that he had strapped his fiddle-case on his back. My journey had made me as much at home as ever on horseback, so that I was enabled to keep up with my brothers. The distance we had to go was about fifteen miles, through beautiful country, with a range of hills in the distance, below which is situated the old castle of Tullinhoe, once the seat of a powerful family, many of the descendants of whom were now probably selling pigs at the fair. We met people wending their way towards the place of meeting, some on foot, some on horseback, others in cars and carts of primitive construction, all grinning and shouting in high glee at the thoughts of the fun to be enjoyed. What that fun was we were soon to witness. Not only were there men, but women and children, down to small babies in arms,—the men with frieze coats, with shillelahs in hands, the women in cloaks and hoods, and caps under them. Others had gaily-coloured handkerchiefs tied over their heads. As we got near the fair the crowd increased, till we sometimes had a difficulty in making our way among the people. As we pushed them aside, however, they were in no way offended, but good-humouredly saluted us with jokes of all sorts. There were tents and booths of various descriptions, the most common among them being formed of wattles,—that is, young saplings cut from some neighbouring estate, the thick ends stuck in the ground some distance apart, and the thin ends bent down till they met, when they were fastened together with haybands. Some twenty or thirty of such arches having been formed, and further secured by a long pole at the top, were covered over with blankets, sheets, and quilts, borrowed from the nearest cottages, occasionally eked out with petticoats and cloaks of varied hue; the quilts, being of every variety of pattern, and of all the colours of the rainbow, had a very gay appearance. The tables were composed of doors carried off from farm buildings and cottages, elevated on hillocks of clay dug from underneath. The benches on either side generally consisted of doors cut longitudinally in two or three parts, and to be nailed together again when done with. Outside several of the tents were huge turf fires, on which pots were boiling, some containing lumps of salt beef and cabbage, while fried herrings were sending up a fragrant odour attractive to hungry visitors. There were cold viands also displayed, to tempt those disposed for a snack, rounds or rumps of beef, hams, bread and cheese, and whisky enough to make every soul in the fair moderately drunk if equally divided. Here and there were booths containing toys and trinkets; but the great object of the fair was for the sale of horses, cows, pigs, and poultry. Besides these were the more pretentious booths of the frieze merchants, who were likely to run a good trade to supply the place of the garments which would be torn into shreds before the fair was over. In other booths, earthenware, knives, and agricultural implements were to be procured. My brothers-in-law having disposed of their horses at a good price,—especially good to them, as the animals had cost them nothing since they were foals,—we agreed to ride round the fair and see the fun, which had now been going on for some time, while, as the eating and drinking booths had been constantly filled and emptied, a large portion of the visitors were already in a hilarious condition. We were passing a booth, when a man came out, who, taking off his long frieze coat, which he trailed along behind him on the ground, at the same time flourishing his shillelah, shouted out—

“Who’d be after daring to put a foot on that, I should like to know?”

He hadn’t gone far, when from another tent out sprang a stout fellow, holding a cudgel big enough to fell an ox with. Rapidly whirling it in the air, he exclaimed—

“That’s what I’ll dare to do!” and he made a fierce blow at the head of the owner of the coat, which would have felled him in a moment, had he not been prepared to defend himself with his shillelah. A clatter of blows succeeded, when the owner of the coat fell, stunned, to the ground.

At the same instant numbers of fellows in frieze coats, brogues, and battered hats, rushed forth from the various tents, flourishing their shillelahs, and shouting at the tops of their voices, some siding with the fallen man, others with the victor, till a hundred or more were ranged on either side, all battering away, as fast as they could move their arms, at each other’s heads. Now one party would scamper off as if in flight; then they would meet again, and begin cudgelling each other, apparently with the most savage fury, while the women and children stood around, the latter forming a squalling orchestra, which kept time to the blows. When matters were becoming serious, a number of the women, handing their babies to their companions, sprang into the fight, shrieking out, “Come out o’ that, Pat!”

“Come out o’ that, Tim!” and dragged their husbands, or sons, or lovers, away from each other.

The men mostly, however, endeavoured to release themselves by leaving their coats in the women’s hands, exclaiming—

“Let me get at them, Biddy. I’ll not be held back!”

The women succeeded in dragging but a very few out of the fray, and again the combatants went at it, till one after the other was stretched on the ground.

At length a priest arrived, and exhorted those who were of his flock to desist; and, rushing in among them, where words were ineffectual, dealt them pretty hard blows with his own cudgel. I was inclined to go and assist his reverence, but Fitzgerald advised me to do nothing of the sort.

“They treat him with some sort of respect,” he observed, “but they would treat you with none, and a broken head would be the consequence.”

The tumult and uproar had made our horses restive; and as a party of the combatants, with loud shrieks and clashing of shillelahs, came rushing against mine, he began to kick and plunge, and at length bolted with me, scattering the people in his course right and left.

Shouts and imprecations followed me, but though I pulled at the rein with all my might, I could not stop him. On he went, upsetting a booth of crockery and scattering the contents; he dashed in among a herd of pigs, which scampered off in all directions; when finally, attempting to leap over a tent in our course, he went through one side of it, pitching me before him, and down he came on to the middle of the table, with his hind legs under the bench, and very nearly on the top of me.

I scrambled out of the way, bruised and scratched, receiving no very friendly greeting from the owner of the booth. Larry, who had seen what was going on, followed, and assisted to extricate my steed as well as me.

Its knees were cut and hind legs sprained, and I felt as if every bone in my body was broken, though I managed to get on my feet, and, giving myself a shake, had the satisfaction of discovering that nothing of the sort had occurred.

My brothers-in-law, coming up, paid the men for the damage done to the crockery booth and the tent my steed had upset, out of the proceeds of their sale; and I, to show that I was not daunted, remounted my horse.

“Have you sufficiently enjoyed the humours of the fair, Terence?” asked Fitzgerald.

“Faith, indeed I have, and sufficient to last me a mighty long time,” I answered.

In one place there were a dozen fellows piled up, one upon another, struggling and kicking, with their heads cut and their noses bleeding; but few of them had lost their voices, and not one of them was mortally wounded.

I had charged Larry not to join in any of the fights; and though he confessed that he had been sorely tempted, he had become too well disciplined at sea to disobey me. He came out of the fair, therefore, with a whole skin, having employed himself for a good portion of the time in amusing the boys and girls with some tunes on his fiddle. I took care to see him clear of the fair, and free from danger, before we put our horses into a trot.

The whole scene gave me some idea of the state of my native country, to become still more unhappy before many more years were over, owing to the misguiding of hot-headed men, and the cruel treatment of a Government whose only notion of ruling was by stern suppression and terrorism.

We rode too fast to allow of Larry playing his fiddle, so he was obliged to put it in its case, and trot after us.

I felt dreadfully stiff for several days after this adventure, and but little inclined to ride, though I managed to walk about.

Denis begged me to go with him to fish in a stream which ran into the Shannon three or four miles from the house. I agreed, for the sake of having his society, although no adept in the art of throwing a fly. Larry accompanied us, to carry our baskets, and the fish we intended to bring home. We started later in the day than we had intended, so that the best part of it had gone by before we could reach the stream.

I was more successful than I had expected, and succeeded in hooking and landing a brace of tolerably-sized salmon,—Denis having caught twice as many. This encouraged us to go on, and the shades of evening had already begun to spread over the beautiful landscape before we thought of giving in. At length Larry came up to me.

“I wouldn’t be after wishing to frighten you, Mr Terence,” he said in a whisper, “but I have just now seen something I don’t like.”

“What is it, Larry?” I asked. “Is it in human shape, or with four legs, a couple of horns, and a tail?”

“Don’t be laughing at it, Mr Terence. I’m thinking you don’t know where we are, or you wouldn’t be after doing that,” he whispered.

“We are fishing in the stream of Corregan,” I said.

“But does your honour know what happened here?” he asked, in a low voice. “It’s his ghost I’ve seen, as sure as I’m a living man, just behind yon clump of trees there hanging over the water; and I’m thinking he’ll be showing himself again if we stop here longer.”

“I shall be very happy to make his acquaintance, whoever he is,” I said. “Does Mr Denis know anything about him?”

“Master Denis would be only laughing at me if I were to speak to him about it,” said Larry.

I called to Denis, and said that I was ready to put up my rod, as I wished to make the acquaintance of a suspicious individual who was said to be lurking about the stream. He replied that he would be ready to come as soon as he had landed a salmon he had lately hooked.

“Come, Larry, tell me all about this ghost, or spirit, or whatever it was, you fancy you saw just now,” I said, while engaged in winding up my line.

“Hish! your honour; we mustn’t speak loud about him, if you plaise, and I’ll tell you,” he answered. “It’s just this, your honour: while we were away in foreign parts, there was a broth of a boy,—I knew him well,—Dominic Brian. Well, Nick was one evening going home from reaping, along this very part of the stream, when what did he do but cut his own head off. Why he did it no one to this day can tell; but certain sure his body was found on the bank, with his bloody scythe beside him, but his head was gone. They say he comes every evening at the same hour to look out for his head, since he doesn’t rest quiet in his grave without it. When they told me about it I laughed, thinking it couldn’t be true; but seeing’s believing, and as sure as I’m a living man, I saw Dominic Brian this very evening with his head under his arm.”

“I thought you said that he always came to look for his head?” I observed.

“Shure so I did, Mr Terence; but the ghost I saw had his head tucked under his arm, just as if it had been a keg of potheen.”

“Whether he has his head under his arm or has got it on at all, I’ll rout him out,” I exclaimed.

“Oh, don’t, Mr Terence, don’t!” cried Larry. “No one can tell what he’ll be after doing to you. Shure it will be safer for us to be away from this as fast as our legs can carry us. Just shout to Master Denis to make haste, or we don’t know what will be happening.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

A Ghost and a Wedding.

Laughing at Larry’s fears, I, having just finished winding up my line and disconnecting my rod, bade him take up the fish, while I walked towards the clump of trees where he had seen the headless ghost.

I didn’t feel altogether sure that something would not appear. I had not gone many paces before I caught sight of a white object. Larry saw it also, and my gallant follower, who would have tackled a dozen Frenchmen with a cutlass in his hand, fairly turned tail and scampered away, shouting out—

“The ghost! the ghost! It’s Nick Brian himself, barring his head. Run, Mr Terence! Run, Mr Denis! or he’ll be taking hold of us, and carrying us off into the river to help him to look for it.”

In spite of Larry’s shouts, I still went on, although not feeling over comfortable, when, as I got nearer, out flew, with a loud hiss, a large white swan, whose nest was probably thereabouts. Though I might have defended myself with the end of my rod, I thought it prudent to beat a retreat and leave her in quiet possession of the locality. On seeing this she also returned to her nest. When I overtook Larry,—who, finding that I was not following him, had halted,—I assured him that the ghost was only a swan. He, however, still remained incredulous, declaring that it might have appeared like a swan to me in the gloom of the evening, but he felt sure it was Nick Brian, and no one else. In vain I endeavoured to induce him to return with me.

“I’d rather not, Mr Terence, if it’s the same to you,” he answered. “It’s not wise to be hunting up them sorts of things.”

Denis now joined us, and though he laughed at the idea of a ghost, he remarked that it would be as well, while there was sufficient light to see our way, to commence our return home, which, as it was, we should not reach till long after dark. I saw Larry every now and then turning his head round, evidently expecting that Nick Brian the headless would be following us.

We got home without any other adventure, where Larry gave a full account of our encounter with Nick Brian’s ghost, and the gallant way in which Mr Terence had faced him, though he was not ashamed to confess that he had not backed me up as he should have done, had I been attacked by a human foe.

Though Denis had not seen the ghost, and I assured every one that it was only a white swan, I found that Larry’s account was believed in preference to mine; the general opinion being that I fancied I had seen the bird, though it was a ghost notwithstanding.

To do honour to my return, and to keep up the dignity of the family, my mother and sisters considered it necessary to give a ball to the neighbours, and invitations were issued accordingly. The major was rather against the matter, on the score of expense, but he didn’t hold out as stoutly as usual. The preparations, however, were not on a very extensive scale. Such flags and banners as were to be found in the castle—many of them tattered and torn—were arranged so as to decorate the entrance hall. The furniture was carried out of the dining-room—the largest room in the house—and piled up in the dingy study. Supper-tables were placed on one side of the hall; and my mother and sisters, and all the females in the establishment, were engaged for some days in manufacturing pasties, tarts, and jellies; while at the same time sundry pieces of beef, ham, turkeys, and poultry were boiling and roasting at the kitchen fire.

At the usual hour the guests began to arrive,—some in family coaches, once covered with paint and gilt, but now battered and dingy; others came in cars and gigs, and a considerable number of the fair sex on horseback, having sent their ball dresses on before, by the invitation of my sisters, who had promised their assistance in bedecking them. My father complained that he was hurried away from the dinner-table that due time might be obtained for making the necessary preparations. He was left in his chair in the corner of the room, whence he watched the proceedings with an expression which showed that he could not make out exactly what was being done. I went up to him several times and tried to make him understand.

At last the O’Maleys, the O’Flahertys, the Frenches, the Fitzgeralds, the Burkes, the Geraldines, and the members of numerous other families began to arrive, and Larry, habited in a sky-blue coat, a huge frill to his shirt, pink breeches and green stockings, with four or five other musicians, similarly attired, playing various instruments, took their places on a raised platform which served as an orchestra.

A country dance was speedily formed, the couples standing opposite each other, reaching from the top to the bottom of the room, and I had the honour of leading out Miss Nora O’Flaherty, who was considered one of the beauties of the county, though in many respects I doubt whether Tom Pim would have looked upon her with the same eyes as he had done on Lucy Talboys. Taking my partner, I led her prancing down the centre, and proud enough I felt as I heard the remarks made upon us. Then we had to come back and turn each couple, and so on in succession till we reached the bottom. It was pretty hard work, though my fair partner seemed to enjoy it amazingly. Of course, as was the custom of those days, I could not take another partner, and I had every reason to congratulate myself on having obtained so good a one. I suspect that many envied me. I was naturally over head and ears in love with her before the evening was over. There was very little rest between the dances. As soon as one was over another was started, the musicians playing away with might and main. We got through a few minuets, but such dances were too tame for my fair countrywomen; indeed, but few of the men were able to perform them, whereas all took to the country dances as if by instinct.

While we younger ones were thus amusing ourselves, the older people passed the time playing cards, and afterwards did ample justice to the supper. Indeed, very few of the young ladies were very backward at that. Even Nora managed to discuss the wing and breast of a chicken, with ham and a slice of beef, not to speak of tartlets and other delicacies, without the slightest difficulty.

I saw her to her family coach, which conveyed her mamma, two sisters, and a he cousin besides, of whom I felt prodigiously jealous. I could think of nothing and talk of nobody but Nora O’Flaherty all the next day, and proposed riding over to pay my respects to the family.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Terence!” said my uncle. “I should be the first to say ‘Go,’ if I thought it would add to your happiness; but, to the best of my belief, the young lady is engaged to her cousin; and even supposing that she cared for you, and would consent to wait till you became a post-captain, you would then only have your pay, and she has not a stiver in the world, and you would thus be doing her a great injustice. Talk of her as you like, think of her as a perfect angel; but angels don’t make good wives down here on earth, whatever they might do in ethereal regions.”

In fine, my uncle talked and laughed me out of my first love. Instead of going over to Castle Moirty, I employed myself in fishing, shooting, and other rural sports with my brothers and my brothers-in-law, and occasionally with the major. This sort of life, however, didn’t suit my taste, and I began to wish myself once more afloat.

Among the young ladies present at the ball given in honour of my return was a Miss Kathleen O’Brien, to whom I observed my brother Maurice paid the most devoted attention, and I guessed, as I afterwards discovered, that he was over head and ears in love with her. It was not a matter of surprise, considering that she was among the prettiest of the very pretty girls present. As she was an only daughter, and heiress of a very fine estate, my family were highly delighted at the prospect of his winning her; and as he was supposed to be crowned with laurels, had a couple of honourable wounds in his arms, and our family was equal to hers, it was hoped that no impediment would be thrown in the way of their marriage, provided the young lady would accept him. Young ladies in those days in Ireland had a free will of their own, and Maurice acknowledged that he was not certain what way he had made in her affections. My mother and sisters, however, encouraged him, and, considering that there was no young man like him in that part of the country, assured him that he had no cause to fear. Thus it appeared to me that the battle was half won, and I had no doubt, when he set out the next morning, attired in his red military suit, to pay his respects at Castle Blatherbrook, that he would return back an accepted lover. We cheered him as he set forth.

“Good luck go with you,” cried Denis. “We will welcome you as an intended Benedict when you come back again. Kathleen’s tender heart will never stand that gay coat and clashing sword. Talk of your laurels, Maurice, and tell her how beautiful she will look with a wreath of orange-blossoms across that fair brow of hers.”

Maurice, a good-natured fellow, took all our jokes in good humour, and, waving his hand as he put spurs to his steed, galloped off; while Denis and I went to amuse ourselves with our fishing-rods, in hopes of obtaining some variety to our usual fare. On our return we found that Maurice had not come back from his wooing. This was considered a good sign, as it was hoped that he was detained at the castle as an accepted suitor. Our own meal was over, and evening was approaching; still Maurice did not appear. My mother and sisters were very positive that he had won the lady. At length, just as it grew dark, his horse’s hoofs were heard clattering up the avenue.

“You must not be disappointed,” said the major, as we were all rushing out to welcome him. “Girls are not always to be won by once asking.”

Maurice threw his rein to Larry, who had taken up his old office of groom, with what we thought a disconsolate air.

“Well, my dear boy, has she accepted you?”

“Yes, I’m sure she has. She could not have said no,” exclaimed my mother, taking him by the hand.

“Faith, then, she has,” cried Maurice, “and I ought to be, and fancy I am, the happiest man under the sun. But I am to quit the army, and turn my sword into a ploughshare, and gather oats instead of laurels; and I am not quite certain how I shall take to that sort of life.”

We all congratulated him on his good fortune, and assured him that he would soon get accustomed to a domestic state of existence.

After this I had very little of his society, as he rode off every morning to Blatherbrook. He used to look bright and happy enough when he came back, and Denis and I agreed that he was by degrees getting accustomed to the thoughts of his expected change of life. This was very good fun for Maurice, but I began to find it rather dull, and even to wish myself afloat again. However, I wanted to wait for the wedding, which, to my great satisfaction, I found was fixed for an early day. I managed to spend the intermediate time much as before,—fishing or sailing and shooting on the Shannon, with Larry as crew and old Mike O’Hagan as pilot, when we explored not only the banks of the beautiful river, but the various lochs which opened out of it. At last the happy day arrived which was to see my brother united to his lady love. The ceremony was to take place at her father’s house, as was the custom of those days among people of rank and fashion. Everything was arranged on a splendid scale. All our neighbours from far and near assembled at Castle Ballinahone, to see the bridal party set off, and to wish us good luck. We had wedding favours down from Dublin, and wedding clothes of resplendent hue, no one just then troubling themselves much as to how they were to be paid for. My sisters were adorned with silks and satins, and looked unusually handsome; but my mother, as became her position, was attired in a costume of silver satin, so that when she put it on the evening before, the light of the lamps made her resemble a moving constellation. My brother, as became his military character, was habited in a scarlet uniform, to which the tailor had added a sufficient amount of gold lace to adorn the coats of half a dozen field-marshals, white satin breeches, silk stockings, and diamond buckles in his shoes, setting him off to great advantage, and we all agreed that a more gallant bridegroom never set forth on a matrimonial expedition. The family coach had been burnished up for the occasion, and was drawn by four of the sleekest steeds in the stable, Larry and the other boys having been employed for many a day previously in currying them down. Dan Bourke was turned into coachman for the occasion, dressed in a magnificent bright blue coat and hat adorned with gold lace. The footboys, Mick Kelly and Tim Daley, were habited in new liveries, of the same colour as Dan’s, and stood behind the coach, in which were ensconced my mother, two sisters, and the happy bridegroom. My uncle, disdaining to enter a coach, led the way on horseback, dressed also in full uniform; and amid the shouts and good wishes of the assembled spectators, the family coach set off, those who had horses or vehicles immediately following at a respectful distance. Denis, my two brothers-in-law, and I had a vehicle to ourselves, which it had not been thought necessary to furbish up. It was an old travelling chaise, which had long rested in an out house, covered with dust and cobwebs, and often the roosting-place of poultry. It was drawn by two sorry hacks, and driven by Phil Kearney, the gamekeeper, for so he was called, though there was but little game on the estate to keep, he being our usual attendant on all sporting expeditions; while Larry, dressed in the attire in which he had appeared at our ball, mounted the rumble with his beloved fiddle, all ready, as he said, for setting the heels of the boys and girls going in the kitchen, while their betters were dancing in the hall. Denis and our two brothers-in-law were habited, as became the attendants of the happy bridegroom, in white cloth coats with blue capes, waistcoats and breeches of blue satin, spangled and laced all over, while their heads were adorned with large paste curls, white as snow, and scented with bergamot. I was more modestly attired in a new naval uniform, carefully made from the pattern of my last old one under my uncle’s inspection. As we wished to reach Blatherbrook Castle before the rest of the party, we took a short cut across the country, so as to get into another high road, which would lead us directly to our destination. Phil lashed on our steeds, when, with a pull and a jerk, our horses, not being accustomed to work together, dashed forward at a rapid pace over the stones, in a way calculated not only to dislocate our limbs, but to shake the vehicle to pieces, but we held on to the sides, trying to keep it together as best we could.

When we settled to take this route, we forgot that there existed a turnpike on the road, an institution to which Irishmen have a decided objection. The old turnpike-keeper, a discharged soldier, who had only lately been sent there, and was thus unacquainted with any of us, cautiously closed the gate, knowing that travellers often forgot to pull up and pay. We, as loyal subjects of His Majesty, were ready to disburse whatever was demanded of us. I accordingly put my hand in my pocket, but not a coin could I find in it, and, knowing that my brothers-in-law were not over-willing to draw their purse-strings if there was any one else ready to do it, I desired Denis to give the gate-keeper the toll.

“I quite forgot to put any money in my pocket,” he observed. “But you can pay him, Daley.”

“I have not a stiver,” said Daley, feeling first in one pocket, then in the other.

“Well, we must come upon you, Fitz,” I said.

“Faith, I left my purse in my other small-clothes,” he answered.

“Is there any cash in it?” asked Daley, with a wink.

“Well, but the man must be paid,” I said. “I’ll tell Phil Kearney,” and, looking out of the window, I called to him.

“Sorra a ha’p’orth of coppers there are in my pocket, seeing not a sight of coin have I got from the master this many a day,” he answered.

I then turned to Larry, hoping that he might be better off than the rest of us.

“Faith, Mr Terence, it’s a long time since I have had a coin to boast of, and if I had that same, I’d not be after chucking it to an old spalpeen for just opening a gate.”

Phil at this juncture, observing that the gate was swinging slowly back, lashed on his horses, and attempted to pass through, on which the old soldier seized them by their heads; but Phil, not inclined to be stopped, furiously flourishing his whip, bestowed his lashes, not only on their backs, but on the shoulders of the gate-keeper. Fitzgerald, who was the most peppery of the party, tried to get out to join in the fight, but fortunately could not open the carriage door. Just then the gate-keeper’s wife hurried out, and joined her husband in hurling abuse at us.

“I see who you are,” she exclaimed, “a party of vagabond stage-players running away from Cork, where you haven’t paid your bills, and going to wheedle the people at Limerick out of their money.”

“That’s true enough, mistress,” said Fitzgerald, who had a soft tongue in his head when he chose to use it; “but we’re coming back soon, and we’ll pay you double for the beating your husband has got, and remember, the next time he deserves it you’ll pardon him for our sakes, and it will save you the trouble of giving it to him. It’s not to Limerick we’re going, but only to Castle Blatherbrook, where we’re to play for the entertainment of the wedding guests, for it’s Mr Maurice O’Finnahan is to marry Miss Kathleen O’Brien; and Mr O’Brien, the lady’s father, will be after paying us well, for he’s as rich as Croesus, and we’ll bring away a bottle or two of the cratur to comfort your old soul.”

As Phil had by this time ceased beating his horses, which stood quietly enough while Fitz was giving this address, the old man let go their heads and came to listen.

“Shure then you look like dacent stage-players, for certain; and as I’m mighty fond of a good tune, now just give us one, and maybe if I like it, I’ll let you off this time, and thank you into the bargain,” said the old soldier.

“With all the pleasure in the world,” answered Fitz. “There’s our musician sitting behind the coach, and he’ll tune up his fiddle while we tune up our pipes, and just consider what’s likely to please you.”

Larry, on hearing this, shouted out—

“I’ll be after giving you what’ll make your old hearts bump right merrily, if it doesn’t set your heels agoing,” and, putting his riddle to his chin, he began playing one of his merriest airs.

“Arrah now, but that’s a brave tune,” cried the old woman, beginning to shuffle her feet, though she hadn’t much elasticity in her limbs.

“It’s a song we’re after wanting,” cried the gate-keeper; “shure you’ll give us a song, gentlemen?”

“Well, you shall have one to begin with, and you shall have a dozen when we come back from the wedding,” cried Fitz, and he struck up—

“As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,

Chapter Twenty Three.

A Middy Flogged.

On returning to the berth, I found poor Dicky blubbering, and looking very melancholy.

“It was not the loss of my breakfast, for I don’t care if I never have another with him, but it was the indignity with which I was treated,” he exclaimed. At this most of our messmates laughed.

“Indignity, do you call it, Dicky, to be kicked by a lord? It’s a high honour,” said old Grumpus, who had joined us just before we sailed, and did duty as mate of the lower deck. “Look out, youngster, that you don’t get treated with greater indignity before long. I took the skipper’s measure the day I first set eyes on him. With all his mincing manners and fine talk, depend upon it he’ll prove a Tartar at bottom.”

Besides Dicky, another youngster had come to sea for the first time, and was related, it was supposed, to the captain. Alfred de Lisle was somewhat older than Dicky Larcom, and a refined, nice fellow. I took a great liking to him, though he had his faults. He was excessively indignant when he heard how Dicky had been treated.

“It’s a great shame. I wouldn’t stand it,” he exclaimed. “If he treats me in the same way, I’ll leave the ship and go home.”

“Bravo, youngster,” cried Grumpus, backing him up. “There’ll be one less in the service to be placed over my head one of these days, and so I approve of your resolution; only just stick to it. When the captain next orders you to do anything you don’t like, just let it alone. Don’t say you won’t, or you’ll be guilty of mutiny.”

De Lisle took what Grumpus said in downright earnest, though I didn’t fancy he would have done so, or I should have given him better counsel.

As the gale increased, the captain, as we heard, sent for the first lieutenant, and said he should like to bear up for the Cove of Cork or Plymouth Sound.

“There’s just one objection to our doing that,” observed old Rough-and-Ready. “You see, my lord, they happen to be right away to windward, and we can no more get there until the wind shifts, than we can reach the moon. We’ll heave the ship to, if your lordship pleases, and she’ll be so much nearer Portsmouth than if we run on as we’re doing.”

“Oh, pray heave to; it is the best thing we can do under the circumstances,” answered his lordship.

The hands were accordingly turned up, and the ship brought to the wind at the risk of carrying away some of our bulwarks and boats. We thus rode, hove-to, for a couple of days, when, the gale moderating, we were able to make sail, and steer for the Channel.

As soon as the weather was fine enough, old Rough-and-Ready, according to promise, kept all hands exercising at the guns and shortening and reefing sails for hours together. He was in no hurry to get into port again, as he wanted before then to have a smart ship’s company.

This evidently gave the captain great satisfaction, for he knew he would gain the credit, and he was not above wishing that for himself, if it could be obtained without too much trouble. He had come on deck with his arms akimbo to give his orders, in a voice very different from that in which he spoke when in his cabin or ashore, introducing as many expletives and adjurations as the boatswain himself could have done. No sooner had the sails been again loosed, and tacks and sheets hauled down, than he sang out once more—

“Shorten sail. If you’re not smart enough about it, I’ll flog the last man in off the yards.”

The midshipmen had to furl the mizzen-topsail. We consequently flew aloft with the rest. De Lisle, though active enough in general, didn’t at all like this, and chose to take his time about it. He was consequently the last on deck. The captain had marked several of the men for punishment, which they got the next morning, and took it as a matter of course. The captain, however, said nothing to De Lisle, who did not dream, therefore, that he would carry out his threats. He was in the morning watch the next day, and had to turn out at eight bells to assist in holy-stoning and washing down decks. This was always done under the supervision of the first lieutenant, who appeared on such occasions in an old sou’-wester, a jacket patched and darned, a comforter round his throat, and a pair of blue trousers tucked up at the knee, without shoes or stockings. The midshipmen had also to go about with bare feet, as of course had the men. They, with buckets in hand, were dashing the water over the decks to carry off the sand through the scuppers, and then they had to dry the decks with huge swabs, which they swung about, now bringing them down on one side, now on another, with loud flops. When old Rough-and-Ready’s eye was off them, all sorts of larks would take place. One would heave a bucket of water over a messmate, the other would return it with interest, and a battle royal would ensue, till every one was soused through. Then one fellow would bring his swab across the back of another, and a swab fight would generally follow, till the first lieutenant would turn round and call them to order.

De Lisle on this morning had not made his appearance. At length Rough-and-Ready, recollecting him, sent below. He came up dressed in full uniform.

“What are you after?” exclaimed the first lieutenant staring at him. “Turn to at once, and attend to your duty.”

“I don’t consider it my duty, sir, to engage in such dirty work as washing down decks; I should spoil my dress if I did,” answered De Lisle.

“What I order you is your duty; and if I tell you to put your hands in the tar-bucket and black down the rigging, you’ll have to do it,” said the first lieutenant, for once in a way growing angry.

“I’ll go and change my clothes, then, sir,” said De Lisle.

He was so long about this that when he came on deck the operations were concluded, and the men were flemishing down the ropes. Rough-and-Ready said nothing at the time, and De Lisle attended to his duty as usual. Before noon, however, the captain sent for several of us youngsters into the cabin. Though I had been so long at sea I was still considered a youngster. The master-at-arms was standing with a small cat in his hand, a weapon of punishment capable of inflicting a considerable amount of pain, but not of so formidable a character as the large cat used on delinquents among the crew. By the captain’s side stood his clerk, with a printed document in his hand.

“Read the Articles of War,” said the captain, “and do you youngsters listen.”

When he came to the part referring to obedience to the orders of superior officers, he looked at De Lisle, and exclaimed in a thundering voice—

“Do you hear that, youngster? Prepare to receive the punishment you merit for disobedience to orders.”

On the port side was a gun which Lord Robert had chosen to have painted green, carriage and all, to make it harmonise with the furniture.

“Strip,” he said.

De Lisle, trembling, seemed disinclined to obey; but the master-at-arms seized him, and quickly had his jacket off, and his back exposed. He then, in spite of the boy’s struggles, secured him to the gun.

“Give him half-a-dozen lashes,” said the captain.

The cat descended till the blood came.

“I’ll tell my father and mother,” sang out poor De Lisle in his agony.

“Two more for that,” cried the captain.

“Oh! could my brothers and sisters see my disgrace!” cried out poor De Lisle, scarcely knowing what he said.

“Two more for that,” shouted Lord Robert.

Again the cat descended. He thus got ten instead of six lashes. He did not again speak. Overcome by his feelings rather than by the pain, he had fainted. The captain sent for the doctor, who soon brought him to, when he was led off to the surgery to have his wounds attended to.

“That’s a lesson for you all, young gentlemen,” said Lord Robert in a subdued tone, differing greatly from that which he had lately used. “I’m determined to maintain discipline aboard my ship; and you’ll understand that though I wish to treat you all with consideration, I will certainly punish any disobedience to orders.”

We looked at each other, and then at the captain, and, supposing that we were not required to stay longer, I led the way out of the cabin, followed by the rest, my feelings boiling over with indignation, for I had never before seen a midshipman flogged. Still I could not but acknowledge that De Lisle merited punishment, and he confessed as much to me afterwards, though he did not expect to receive it in that fashion. He harboured no ill-will towards the captain in consequence, and became far smarter than he had ever been before in attending to his duties. The lesson was not thrown away on any of us, and we took good care not to run the risk of incurring the captain’s displeasure. Notwithstanding the captain’s effeminate looks and manners, he managed to gain the respect of the men, who liked to have a lord to rule over them, though they knew well enough that it was old Rough-and-Ready who had got the ship into such prime order; and for him they would have gone through fire and water, though they might not have wished to have him in supreme command. The captain having abundance of stores on board, our cruise continued for a longer period than we had expected, and we in the midshipmen’s berth had run short of all our luxuries, and were condemned to exist on salt junk and hard biscuits. This gave old Grumpus, Nettleship, and other oldsters the opportunity of grumbling, which made them, as Tom said, perfectly happy. We enjoyed, however, an occasional blow-out, when we breakfasted or dined with the captain. We were beginning to wish, however, that another war would break out, or that we might return into port and have a spree on shore.

Besides making and shortening sail, we were constantly exercised at the guns, as well as the small arms. Our chief employment was firing at a cask with a flag at the top of it, in doing which we expended as much powder and shot as would have enabled us to fight a couple of pitched battles; but it made the men expert gunners, and would have enabled them, as old Rough-and-Ready observed, to take an enemy’s frigate in half the time they would otherwise have done.

At length we sighted the coast of Ireland, and, with a westerly breeze, stood up Channel under all sail. We expected to put into Plymouth, and Nettleship invited Tom and me to come and pay his mother and sister a visit, but, to our disappointment, we found the ship passing the Eddystone, and heard that we were to go on to Portsmouth, where the captain had his reasons for wishing to remain, namely, that he might be so much the nearer to London. On a fine bright morning we stood in through the Needles, and steered for Spithead, where the fleet was lying at anchor. We carried on in fine style as we stood up the Solent, between the Isle of Wight and the mainland, exciting the admiration of all beholders on shore.

“Now, my lads, let’s show the admiral how smartly we can shorten sail and bring the ship to an anchor,” said the captain, who appeared in full fig on deck.

We were all on the alert, and the moment “Away aloft!” reached our ears we flew up the rigging. The boatswain’s pipe sounded shrill, the topsails came down smartly with a loud whirr. The ship was rounded to, the men lay out on the yards and briskly handed the canvas, and the anchor was let go, a short distance from the flag-ship. Directly afterwards a signal was made for Lord Robert to go aboard her. I had the honour of accompanying him. The boats were newly painted, the men wearing white trousers and shirts, the oars without a speck; and in good style we dashed alongside.

The admiral received Lord Robert on the quarter-deck, and desired to compliment him on the splendid way in which he had brought his ship to an anchor. Lord Robert bowed, and, with a self-satisfied smile, replied he was glad to find that his efforts to bring his crew into a state of good discipline met with approval, and his only regret was that, it being peace time, he was unable to bring in a prize in tow, which, as he pleasantly observed, he should otherwise without doubt have done.

I thought that he might possibly refer to the assistance he had received from old Rough-and-Ready, but not a word escaped his lips to allow the admiral to suppose that all was not due to his own admirable system. He then hinted that the ship had been in some heavy weather, and that it might be necessary to go into harbour, to have her damages made good. The admiral made no objection, and we accordingly, the next morning, got under weigh, and stood in to Portsmouth harbour, where we brought up some distance from the dockyard. We found two or three other frigates lying there, and several sloops-of-war and corvettes and brigs.

We had not been there long before our captain received invitations from the residents in the neighbourhood, who had known him as a lieutenant and commander, and were accustomed to make much of him. He was acquainted with most of the captains of the other ships, and they were constantly dining on shore in each other’s company. They had all been invited to dinner at the house of a baronet some miles out of Portsmouth, and their boats were ordered to be in waiting for them at about half-an-hour after midnight. All the commanders and most of the post-captains were young men, full of life and spirits, two or three of them noted for their harum-scarum qualities.

I had been sent to bring off Lord Robert, and a midshipman was in each of the other boats belonging to the different ships. We waited and waited for our respective captains, sitting in the stern-sheets wrapped in our thick cloaks, afraid to go ashore lest our men should take the opportunity of slipping off into one of the public-houses on the Common Hard, standing temptingly open.

At last we heard the voices of a party of revellers coming along, and I recognised among them that of my captain, who seemed to be in an especially jovial mood.

In those days there stood on the Hard a sentry-box, furnished with a seat inside, on which the sentry was accustomed to sit down to rest his legs between his turns.

Presently I heard Lord Robert sing out—

“Hillo! where’s the sentry?”

He and the other captains then gathered round the box. The sentry was fast asleep. They shouted to him. He made no reply. There was a good deal of laughing and talking. Then they called several of the men, and in another minute they brought the sentry-box, with the sentry in it still fast asleep—or rather dead drunk—down to the boats. Securing two together, the sentry-box was placed across them, and, the order being given, we shoved off. Instead, however, of returning to our ships, we made our way across the harbour to the Gosport side, when the sentry-box was safely landed, and placed with the sentry, his head fortunately uppermost, and his musket by his side, on the beach.

We then left him, the boats casting off from each other amidst shouts of laughter, and we pulled back to the Jason. The captain didn’t say much, for the best of reasons, he was not very well able to use his tongue, but rubbed his hands, chuckling at the thoughts of what he had done. I helped him up the side, and assisted him to his cabin.

I believe most of the other captains were also, as he was, three sheets in the wind, or they probably would not have engaged in the proceeding.

Next morning, soon after daybreak, Nettleship and I were sent ashore by the first lieutenant to look out for three men who had not come off on the previous evening, and who, it was supposed, might have deserted.

“Something like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay,” said Nettleship, as we pulled towards the Hard. “The chances are we shall find them drunk in some house or other, or perhaps in the gutter with black eyes and broken heads. It’s not pleasant work, but it must be done.”

I said nothing about the condition in which the captains had come off the previous evening, but I thought to myself if captains set such an example, no wonder if the men follow it in their own fashion.

On landing we found an unusual number of people on the Hard for that early hour, while parties of soldiers, headed by sergeants, were passing at the double-quick march. We inquired of one of the men we met what had happened. He said that on the relief coming to the spot where the sentry-box had stood, and finding neither box nor sentry, they had been seized with alarm. The captain of the guard had immediately reported the circumstance to the fort major, and, forgetting that peace had been established, he roundly asserted that the French squadron was at Spithead, that the Isle of Wight had been captured, and that Portsmouth would be attacked. The whole garrison was aroused, and the telegraphs on the hills set to work to communicate the intelligence far and wide. As I was the only person in the boat who knew what had actually occurred, I thought it prudent to hold my tongue and let things take their course. Nettleship and I therefore proceeded in search of the men, and before long found them, much in the condition we had expected, though sufficiently recovered to walk. Helped along by their shipmates, we got them down to the boats. The excitement was still at its height, when, just as we were shoving off, a boat arrived from the Gosport side, with the astounding intelligence that the missing sentry-box, with the sentry in it, was standing upright on the beach. Immediately a number of boats, one of which contained the captain of the guard and several other officials, pulled across to investigate the matter.

“We may as well go to see the fun,” said Nettleship; “the first lieutenant won’t find fault with us when I explain the object.”

Away we pulled with the rest, and lay off the beach, while Captain Bouncer and his party landed.

The sentry, who was standing in his box, stepped out, and saluted in due form.

“How did you get here, my man?” inquired Captain Bouncer in an angry tone.

“Faith, captain, that’s more than I can be after telling you,” answered the sentry, whom I recognised as a countryman.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you don’t know how you and your sentry-box were transported across the harbour in the middle of the night!” exclaimed Captain Bouncer.

“That’s just what I’m saying I can’t do, captain dear,” replied the sentry.

“You must have been drunk as a fiddler,” shouted the captain.

“I can swear, your honour, by all the holy saints, that I was sober as a judge,” answered Pat. “Shure it’s my belief I was lifted up by a couple of witches riding on broomsticks, and carried across without so much as wetting my feet, for my boots are as dry as if they had been roasting before the fire.”

“If witches carried the man across, they must be hunted up and punished,” cried one of the bystanders.

“Witches be hanged!” exclaimed the captain; “the man must give a better account than that of the way he came across.”

“Then, captain, if it was not witches, it must have been a score of will-o’-the-wisps, who just upset the sentry-box and towed it across the harbour while I was sitting quiet, not dreaming of what was happening, and only just looking up at the stars shining brightly above me,” said Pat in a wheedling tone.

“You must have been asleep, at all events, or you would have discovered that your box was being moved,” said the captain.

“Asleep is it, your honour!” exclaimed the sentry; “shure Pat Donovan, and that’s myself, never went to sleep on guard since he listed in His Majesty’s army.”

“Whether the sentry was drunk or asleep, whether transported across by witches or imps, we must have the sentry-box back again,” said Captain Bouncer, and he gave orders to have it lifted into a boat. This was found, from its weight, not to be an easy matter, confirming the people in their belief that the sentry had been carried across as he stated, for if heavy when empty, it must have been much heavier with him in it.

Poor Pat meantime was placed under arrest, and carried away to be further examined by the town major, and dealt with as might seem expedient, while we pulled back to our ship. There were many among the crowd who believed that Pat Donovan, of her Majesty’s 3—th regiment, had been spirited across Portsmouth harbour by a couple of witches riding on broomsticks, though where they were to be found was more than one could say. We heard afterwards that a dozen old women had been seized and accused of the crime, and that had it not been for the interference of certain naval officers, whose names were not mentioned, they would have been subjected to the ordeal of being ducked in the harbour, or tossed in a blanket. It was reported that our captain had seen what he took to be a sentry-box floating across the harbour on the night in question, and he could swear that no such agency as was reported had been employed. Whatever the educated might have believed, the lower classes were still forcibly impressed with the idea that the sentry-box and sentry had been carried across by witches; but on board ship the real state of the case was soon known, and the men, who kept the secret, chuckled over the credulity of their friends on shore.

Portsmouth had become very dull, I was told, since the war was over, and we certainly at times found a difficulty in knowing how to pass our time. Our captain occasionally posted up to London, but, having no business there, received a hint from the Admiralty that he must remain on board his ship, and therefore had to post down again as fast as he could. He consoled himself by spending nearly all the day on shore, generally at the houses of people in the neighbourhood. He had one evening gone to dine at a house situated some way in the country, on the Gosport side, and he had ordered his boat to be waiting for him at the nearest landing-place to it, punctually at ten o’clock. As he had a picked crew, not likely to desert, no midshipman went in the boat. As it happened, the doctor, the second lieutenant, and the lieutenant of marines had been invited to spend the evening close to Gosport, and I was ordered to go and bring them off at half-past ten, not far from the place where the captain had intended to embark. When I got in I found his boat still there. The men had been talking and laughing, and had evidently managed to get some liquor on board. They did not see me, and as I was afraid that they might send over some to my men, I kept my boat as far off as I could get.

Presently the steward came down, and told the coxswain that his lordship had made up his mind to stay on shore, and that the boat was to return to the ship. Just then, however, I saw an animal of some sort, but what it was I could not distinguish through the gloom of night, come close down to the water. A couple of the men instantly jumped ashore, and, catching hold of it, lifted it into the boat, laughing and chuckling loudly. I had a short time longer to wait before the officers came down.

Of course I said nothing of what I had seen. We pulled alongside the frigate, the boats were hoisted up, and my watch being over, I turned in to my hammock. I had not been long asleep when my ears were saluted by the most unearthly sounds, so it seemed to me, that ever broke the stillness of night. A universal panic seemed to be prevailing. Men were rushing up on deck, shouting out that Old Nick himself had gained possession of the ship, some carrying their clothes with them, but others only in their shirts, leaving in their terror everything else behind.

The alarm which had begun forward extended aft; the marines, headed by their sergeant and corporal,—though the sentries still remained at their posts,—ever mindful of their duty, and ready to do battle with foes human or infernal. I and the other midshipmen, thus awakened from our sleep by the fearful sounds, jumped out of our hammocks, and began dressing as fast as we could. It was not until I was half-way up the ladder, and still not quite awake, that I recollected the occurrence at the landing-place. Again the sounds which had alarmed us came forth from the lower depths of the ship. Many of the men in their terror seemed inclined to jump overboard.

Before long, however, old Rough-and-Ready came hurrying on deck, with his small-clothes over his arm and night-cap on head; his voice rang out above the uproar, inquiring what was the matter. The drum beat to quarters, the boatswain’s whistle sounded shrilly, piping all hands on deck, though the greater number were there already. No one answered the first lieutenant’s question.

Again the sound was heard. The men who were at their stations seemed inclined to desert them, when it struck me that only one animal in existence could make that fearful noise, and as matters were getting serious, I went up to the first lieutenant and said—

“I fancy, sir, that it’s a donkey’s bray.”

“Of course it is,” exclaimed Mr Saunders. “How in the name of wonder came a donkey on board the ship?”

I thought it prudent not to reply; and the second lieutenant and other officers who had come off with me of course said that they knew nothing about it.

The first lieutenant, having now got into his breeches, calling the mate of the lower deck, the master-at-arms, and others, to bring lanterns, descended to the fore-hold. None of the men, however, except those who were summoned, appeared inclined to follow them. I, however, expecting to have my suspicions verified, went forward with Tom Pim. We heard old Rough-and-Ready shouting out for a tackle, and in another minute up came an unfortunate donkey. The poor brute, having fallen into the hold, had given expression to its dissatisfaction by the sounds which had driven the ship’s company well-nigh out of their wits.

How the donkey had come on board was still to be discovered. My boat’s crew knew nothing about the matter; and it was surprising that the captain’s crew, including the coxswain, were equally unable to account for the mysterious occurrence. As they had been engaged in transporting the sentry-box across the harbour, it was just possible that they might have taken it into their heads to imitate the example of their superiors, and play a trick on their own account.

Whatever the first lieutenant might have thought on the subject, he took no steps in the matter, but awaited the return of the captain. The first thing the next morning, however, he sent the poor donkey ashore.

Late in the afternoon Lord Robert came on board, and received due information of what had occurred. Perhaps he might have suspected how the donkey had entered the ship; at the same time it is possible that his conscience may have smote him for having set the example of practical joking. At all events, he made no strenuous attempts to discover the culprits. The next day he issued an order that, even if his satanic majesty and a thousand of his imps should come aboard, the men were not to turn out of their hammocks till piped up by the boatswain.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Trip to London.

While we lay in harbour, three ships of Sir Edward Hughes’ squadron from the East Indies came home and were paid off, the crew not only receiving their pay, but large sums for prize-money. Scarcely had they dropped their anchors than the ships were boarded by hundreds of harpies in all shapes, eager to fleece the crew,—or rather, to win their confidence, in order to fleece them as soon as they had received their hard-earned wages. Pinchbeck watches, copper chains which passed for gold, huge rings for the fingers and ears, trinkets of all sorts, and cutlery made of tin, were pressed upon Jack as loans, to be paid for as soon as he landed; and the moment he got his pay, no time was lost in commencing the operation of fleecing him. Some sturdy fellows, who had been played that trick often before, attempted to resist the importunities of their pretended friends, and kept their hands in their pockets, turning scornful glances on either side, as they rolled along; but most of them, unless they could resist the grog-shop, were very soon doomed to fall into more warily-laid traps.

Tom and I were on shore the day the Hero was paid off, one of the ships which had so often encountered the squadron of the French Admiral de Soufryen. The whole of Portsmouth was in an uproar. We met dozens of stout fellows rolling along, with massive chains hung from their fobs, rings on their fingers, their heads adorned with lovelocks, pigtails, and earrings, with female companions hung on to each of their arms, rolling and shouting as they went, paying no respect to anybody out of uniform, in the height of good humour as long as they could have their way, but evidently ready to quarrel with any one whom they might fancy wished to interfere with them.

At the door of one of the principal inns we found a couple of coaches, with four horses each, prepared for starting, and surrounded by some twenty or thirty seamen. Some quickly clambered up on the roof and into the front seats, and others behind; those who had climbed outside shouting out that the ship would be top-heavy if the rest did not stow themselves away below, the last half-dozen or so got inside.

“Drive on, coachee,” cried one of the men in front; “let’s see how fast your craft can move along.”

The coachman smacked his whip, and off galloped the horses, the men cheering and waving their hats at the same time, and throwing showers of silver among the boys in the street, who had gathered to look on, and who were soon engaged in a pretty scrimmage to pick up the coins thus profusely bestowed on them. Tom and I could with difficulty refrain from joining in the scramble.

The junior officers were at a paying-off dinner at the “Blue Posts,” to which Tom and I, and Nettleship, who afterwards joined us, were invited. The wine of course flowed freely. Before the feast was over, the larger number of the party scarcely knew what they were about.

At last it was proposed that we should sally forth, and out we went, arm-in-arm, in good humour with ourselves, and ready for anything that might turn up. One of the party commenced a sea-song, in the chorus of which we all joined at the top of our voices, awaking the sleeping inhabitants, who, however, were not unaccustomed to such interruptions to their slumbers. We were becoming more and more uproarious, when we encountered a party of watchmen in greatcoats, carrying lanterns and rattles. Having been lately reprimanded for allowing disturbances in the streets, they took it into their heads to disperse us, telling us in no very courteous manner to return on board our ships. They were received with shouts of laughter, and, as they still persisted in interfering, our leader cried out—

“Charge them, lads.”

At the word we rushed forward, scattering the old gentlemen right and left.

“Chase them, boys! chase them!” cried our leader.

As they went up one street, and then down another, this was no easy matter, and we became quickly dispersed.

“I say, Paddy, this sort of thing doesn’t do,” said Tom. “It may be all very well for those fellows who are paid off, and are going home, but we shall be getting into a row before long, and it would look foolish to return on board with broken heads and black eyes.”

Just then we met Nettleship, who had been looking for us, and who, being perfectly sober, fully agreed with Tom. We accordingly directed our course to the Point, where we knew we should find a boat to take us off.

Just as we were turning out of the High Street, however, we encountered three of the guardians of the night who had been assailed by our party. They instantly accused us of attacking them, and I fully expected that we should be carried off into durance vile.

“How dare you say anything of that sort?” said Nettleship. “We belong to the Jason, Lord Robert Altamont, and his lordship will take very good care to bring you to justice should you venture to detain us. Make way there. Let us pass.”

The watchmen were overawed by his manner, and we walked steadily on. Seeing that we were perfectly sober, they supposed that we did not belong to the party, as they had at first fancied, and we reached the water’s edge without further interruption.

“You see the dangerous consequences of being in bad company,” observed Nettleship. “We might have been kept locked up all night, and had our leave stopped for a month when we returned on board.”

“But you joined us,” said Tom.

“I know I did,” said Nettleship, “and I am more to blame than you are, in consequence of setting you so bad an example; but that does not prevent me from reading you a lecture. It’s easier to preach than to practise.”

“You are right, I see,” said Tom; “and I am very glad we haven’t lost our senses, as most of the other fellows have done.”

We roused up a waterman who was sleeping in the bottom of his boat, and got on board the frigate in time to keep the middle watch.

Lord Robert Altamont being fond of amusing himself on shore, was willing to allow his officers the same liberty, provided a sufficient number remained on board to maintain the discipline of the ship, for which he was at all times a great stickler.

“You have never been in London, Paddy,” said Nettleship to me one day. “I have some business that calls me up there. It’s a legal affair, and if I am successful it will add some fifty pounds or more a year to my mother’s income. I have obtained leave, and if you like to accompany me, I’ll ask leave for you to go, and promise to take charge of you.”

It was not likely that I should refuse such an offer, and, leave being obtained, we set off by the coach as Nettleship intended. We had inside places, for there was only room outside for four persons besides the coachman, and on the hinder part, on a little box of his own, sat the guard, arrayed in a scarlet coat, a three-cornered hat, a brace of pistols in his belt, a hanger by his side suspended by a sash over his shoulder, while a couple of blunderbusses were stuck into cases on either side of him ready to his hand.

“Why does the man carry all these arms?” Tasked.

“If he didn’t, the chances are that the coach, when passing over Hounslow Heath, would be attacked by highwaymen or footpads, and the passengers robbed, if not murdered,” answered Nettleship. “As it is, occasionally some bold fellows stop the coach and cry, ‘Your money or your lives,’ and the guard is either shot down or thinks it wise not to interfere, and the passengers have to deliver up their purses.”

“I hope that sort of thing won’t happen to us,” I said.

“When they look in and see two naval officers, with a brace of pistols and swords by their sides, the highwaymen will probably ride on. They are generally, I fancy, arrant cowards, and prefer pillaging old dowagers, who are likely to afford good booty without any risk,” said Nettleship.

Notwithstanding Nettleship’s assertions, I half expected to be stopped, but we reached London in safety. When he had time Nettleship accompanied me about to see the sights, but when he was engaged I had to go out by myself, and consequently very often lost my way. I always, however, managed to get back to our lodgings without having to obtain a guide. I will not here describe the adventures I met with. As, according to Nettleship’s advice, I looked upon every one who spoke to me as a rogue, I escaped being fleeced, as some of my shipmates were who ventured into the metropolis by themselves. Our leave had nearly expired, and we had to be down at Portsmouth the following evening. When we went to the coach office to secure our places, we were told that the whole coach had been engaged, it was supposed by a gentleman who was going to take down his family.

“But we must go,” said Nettleship to me, “even if we travel in the boot, for I’ve not got money enough left to pay for posting, and I should not like to expend it so even if I had.”

We waited until the coach drove up to the office, expecting to see a dignified gentleman with his wife and daughters inside, and his sons and servants on the outside. What was our surprise, then, to behold only a jovial Jack Tar, with his arms akimbo, seated on the roof, looking as dignified and independent as the Sultan on his throne.

“Come, there’s plenty of room,” I said to Nettleship. “No one else seems to be coming; the gentleman who took the coach has probably delayed his journey.”

Nettleship put the question to the coachman.

“There’s the gentleman who’s taken the coach,” he replied, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder. “He says it’s his, and that no one else is to ride, inside or out. He has paid his money, and we can’t interfere.”

All this time Jack was regarding us with supercilious glances. I felt very indignant, and proposed opening the door and getting inside, whatever the seaman might say, but the doors were locked, and the shutters drawn up.

“That will never do,” observed Nettleship. “Let me tackle him, though it won’t do to give him soft sawder. I say, my man, you lately belonged to the Hero, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, I did, but I’m free of her now,” answered Jack.

“You fought some pretty smart actions in her, I’ve a notion. We have heard speak of them. My young messmate and I were out in the West Indies, and belonged to the Liffy. She ran ashore. Then we joined the old Cerberus, which went down in the Atlantic; and then we went on board the Hector, which fought the two French frigates. We had a narrow squeak for our lives, for she went the way of our former ship. And now we belong to the Jason, and shall have to keep the middle watch to-night, which is what you’ll not have to do, I fancy. Now if we overstay our leave and don’t get down, you know what the consequences will be.”

“I’ve some notion of it,” said Jack. “What is it you’re driving at?”

“If you’ll just let us get inside your coach we’ll say you’re a mighty good fellow; and if you don’t, we’ll leave you to call yourself what you think you would be,” answered Nettleship.

“Come, I like an outspoken fellow,” said Jack. “Jump in, youngsters; I’ll give you a passage down, and nothing to pay for it. You guard there, with your long horn, open the door and let the young gentlemen in, but mind you, you take up nobody else, not if the First Lord and all the Admiralty come and axe for places.”

In we sprang with our valises, and we heard Jack shout—

“Make sail, coachee, and see how many knots you can run off the reel.”

The coachman smacked his whip, and away we rattled through the villages of Knightsbridge, Kensington, and Hammersmith. The coach pulled up at the “Green Dragon” at the latter place, and some parcels were offered, but Jack kept his eyes about him, and would not let one be taken on board. In an authoritative tone he ordered the landlord to bring us out a tankard of ale, and likewise treated the coachman and guard. As we knew it would please him, we did not refuse the draughts. He flung the landlord a sovereign.

“There’s payment for you, old boy,” he cried out. “Don’t mind the change; and, I say, you may treat as many thirsty fellows as you like with it. Now drive on, coachee.”

Thus Jack went on at each stage, sitting, while the coach was in motion, with his arms folded, looking as proud as a king on his throne. I thought at one time that he would have quarrelled with us because we declined to taste any more of the ale he offered. He was pretty well half-seas over by the time we arrived at Portsmouth. When he came to the door to help us out, Nettleship began to thank him.

“I don’t want your thanks, young masters,” he answered gruffly. “I’ve had my spree, and maybe before long I shall be at your beck and call; but I’m my own master now, and intend to remain so as long as the gold pieces jingle in my pocket. Maybe I’ll have another ride up to London in a day or two, and if you like the trip, I’ll give it you. You may thank me or not as you like.”

Nettleship and I saw that it would be no use saying more, so, wishing him good evening, we took our way down to the Hard. I turned for a moment, and saw our friend rolling up the middle of the street with his hands in his pockets, as proud as the grand bashaw.

A few nights after this Tom Pim and I, having leave on shore, took it into our heads to go to the theatre. In the front row of seats sat our friend who had given us so seasonable a lift down from London. The seats on either side of him were vacant, and when any one attempted to occupy them he told them to be off. He had taken three seats that he might enjoy himself. There he was, with his arms folded, looking as if he thought himself the most important person in the house. There were a good many more seamen on the other benches,—indeed, the house was more than half filled with them, some in the pit, others in the upper boxes and galleries. The play was “The Brigand’s Bride.” The lady evidently had a hard time of it, and appeared to be in no way reconciled to her lot, her great wish being clearly to make her escape. In this attempt she was aided by a young noble in silk attire, who made his appearance whenever the brigand, a ferocious-looking ruffian, was absent. The lady made piteous appeals to the audience for sympathy, greatly exciting the feelings of many of them, though Tom and I were much inclined to laugh when we saw the brigand and the lover hob-nobbing with each other behind a side scene, which, by some mischance, had not been shoved forward enough. At length the young count and the brigand met, and had a tremendous fight, which ended in the death of the former, who was dragged off the stage. Soon afterwards, the lady rushed on to look for him, and the brigand, with his still reeking sword, was about to put an end to her existence, when, stretching out her hands, she exclaimed—

“Is there no help for me on earth? Am I, the hapless one, to die by the weapon of this cruel ruffian?”

“No, that you shan’t, my pretty damsel,” cried our friend Jack, forgetting all the stern selfishness in which he had been indulging himself,—“not while I’ve got an arm to fight for you.”

Just as he was speaking, a dozen of the brigand’s followers had appeared at the back of the stage.

“Hurrah, lads! Boarders! repel boarders!” he exclaimed, starting up. “On, lads, and we’ll soon put this big blackguard and his crew to flight.”

Suiting the action to the word, he sprang over the footlights, followed by the seamen in the pit. The lady shrieked at the top of her voice, not at all relishing the interruption to her performance, and far more afraid of the uproarious seamen than of the robber from whom she had just before been entreating protection. Bestowing a hearty box on Jack’s ear, she freed herself from his arms, and rushed off the stage, while the brigand and his companions, turning tail, made their escape.

“Blow me if ever I try to rescue a young woman in distress again, if that’s the way I’m to be treated,” cried Jack. “Shiver my timbers, if she hasn’t got hold of that vagabond. There they are, the whole lot of them, carrying her off. No, it’s impossible that she can be wanting to go with such a set of villains. On, lads! on! and we’ll soon drive them overboard, and just bring her back to learn what she really wants.”

Saying this, Jack, followed by a score of seamen, rushing up the stage, disappeared behind the side scenes. We heard a tremendous row going on of mingled cries and shouts and shrieks. Presently the seamen returned, dragging with them the perfidious heroine, and well-nigh a dozen of the brigands whom they had captured. In vain the latter protested that they were not really brigands, but simply scene-shifters and labourers, who had been hired to represent those formidable characters. The lady also asserted that she was the lawful wife of the robber chief, and the mother of six children, and that she didn’t stand in the slightest fear of him, but that he was the kindest and most indulgent of husbands.

At length the manager came on the stage, leading forward the murdered youth and the brigand himself, who now, having laid aside his beard and wig, looked a very harmless individual. The manager, politely addressing the seamen, requested them to return to their seats and allow the performance to continue. After some persuasion they complied, but the illusion was gone, and by the loud remarks which issued from their lips they evidently took very little interest in the plot of the piece.

“I say, Smith, how are the babies at home?” shouted one.

“You know if you was such a villain as you say, you would be triced up to the yard-arm in quarter less than no time,” cried another.

The poor actress, as she reappeared, was saluted with, “How goes it with you, Mrs Smith? Have you been to look after the babies?” while the carpenters and scene-shifters were addressed as Jones and Brown and other familiar names.

In vain the manager protested against the interruption of the performance. He was desired to dance a hornpipe or sing a sea-song. To the latter invitation he at last acceded, and at length restored somewhat like order in the theatre. Tom and I, having to return on board, left the house before the performance was concluded, so I can give no further account of what happened on that memorable evening.

Some days after this, the boatswain, with a party of men, having gone ashore to obtain some fresh hands to fill up our complement,—there was no need of the press-gang at that time,—returned on board with six stout fellows. Among them I recognised the seaman who had given us a passage down in the coach from London, and who had taken so prominent a part in the defence of the brigand’s bride. They were at once entered, the man I speak of under the name of John Patchett. He looked at Nettleship and me as if he had never before seen us in his life, and I at first almost doubted whether he could really be the same man; but when I observed the independent way in which he went rolling along the deck, evidently caring for no one, and heard the tone of his voice, I was certain that he was the fellow I had supposed; so also was Nettleship, who said that he would have a talk with him some day, under pretence of learning what ships he had served aboard. He told me afterwards that he had done so, but that Patchett didn’t allude to his journey in the coach. His only answer when he asked him if he knew anything about it was—

“Well, the fellow had his spree, but he was a fool for all that.”

At last Lord Robert, whose name had appeared very frequently at balls and entertainments given in London, received peremptory orders from the Admiralty to put to sea. He came back in very ill-humour, complaining as before to Mr Saunders of the harsh treatment he received from the Admiralty. In a cheerful tone the following day old Rough-and-Ready, who was always happier at sea than in harbour, gave the order to unmoor ship. Visitors were sent on shore, and sail being made, we stood out of Portsmouth harbour to Spithead. We there dropped our anchor near the spot where, four years before, the Royal George with brave Admiral Kempenfeldt and upwards of four hundred men, went down. A large buoy marked the place where the stout ship lay beneath the waves.

Some cases of claret and other stores which Lord Robert expected had not arrived, and he declared that it would be impossible to put to sea without them. It was a matter of perfect indifference to us in the midshipmen’s berth how long we remained, or where we went, for in those piping times of peace we expected to have very little to do. In that respect we were not mistaken. After waiting three days, the expected stores, which had come down from London by waggon, were brought alongside, and, going out by Saint Helen’s, we stood down Channel. We put into Plymouth Sound, where we remained a whole week, while Lord Robert went on shore; but as it was impossible to say at what moment we might be ordered to sea, no leave was granted. We all wished for a gale of wind from the south-west, which might compel us to run into Hamoaze, as the Sound itself afforded no shelter. Lord Robert had better have kept at sea if he had wished to remain on the home station, for by some means or other information was sent to the Admiralty of our being at Plymouth, and a courier came down post haste from London, with despatches for the Jason to convey to the Mediterranean. We were well pleased when the news was brought aboard. The captain, however, looked in not very good humour at having to go so far from home. The wind being to the eastward, we immediately got under weigh, and proceeded on our course down Channel. Old Rough-and-Ready tried his best to restore the men to their former discipline, by exercising them at the guns, and repeatedly shortening and making sail. The despatches, I suppose, were of no great importance, as Lord Robert appeared not to be in a hurry to deliver them. We took it easily, therefore, and at times, when the wind was light or contrary, furling everything, and then making all sail again; that done, we had once more to reef and furl sails, and to brace the yards about. However, at last we got a strong breeze and continued our course. About a month after leaving Plymouth, we came in sight of the Rock of Gibraltar, and brought up in the bay. Lord Robert delivered the despatches he had brought out to the governor. We got leave to land and visit the wonderful galleries hewn out in the Rock, which had bid defiance to the fleets and armies of France and Spain when General Elliot was in command of the place, in 1782, while we were in the West Indies. We heard many particulars of the gallant defence. General Elliot had comparatively a small force of troops to garrison the fortress, but they were reinforced by the seamen of the fleet, who were landed, and formed into a brigade under the command of Captain Robert Curtis, of the Brilliant frigate. The French and Spaniards had a fleet of forty-seven sail of the line, besides floating batteries of a peculiar construction, frigates, zebecks, gun and mortar boats, and upwards of 40,000 troops, who besieged the fortress on the land side. The naval brigade had charge of the batteries at Europa Point, and so ably did they work their guns, that they soon compelled the Spanish squadron to retire out of the reach of their shot. Besides the vessels I have mentioned, the Spaniards had 300 large boats, collected from every part of Spain, which were to be employed in landing the troops. Early in the morning on the 13th September, the fleet, under the command of Admiral Moreno, got under way, and, approaching to a distance of about a thousand yards, commenced a heavy cannonade, the troops on the land side opening fire at the same time. It was replied to by the garrison with tremendous showers of red-hot shot, which, falling on board the Spanish ships, set that of the admiral and another on fire. The Spaniards were seen in vain attempting to extinguish the flames. The fiery shower was kept up, and during the night seven more vessels took fire in succession. The Spaniards were seen making signals of distress, and the boats of their fleet came to their assistance, but were so assailed by the showers of shot, that they dared no longer approach, and were compelled to abandon their ships and friends to the flames.

Chapter Twenty Five.

In the Mediterranean.

When morning broke, a scene of fearful havoc was exhibited. Numbers of men were seen in the midst of the flames imploring relief, others floating on pieces of timber; and even those on board the ships where the fire had made but little progress were entreating to be taken off. Captain Curtis, on seeing this, regardless of the danger he was running, or that those in distress were enemies, embarked with several of his boats to their assistance. They boldly boarded the burning ships and rescued the perishing crews. While engaged in this glorious service, one of the largest of the ships blew up, scattering its fragments far and wide around. One English gunboat was sunk, and another was considerably damaged. A piece of timber falling struck a hole in the bottom of the barge in which was Captain Curtis. His coxswain was killed, and two of his crew wounded, and the boat would have sunk had not the seamen stuck their jackets into the hole. By these means she was kept afloat till other boats came to their assistance. Don Moreno left his flag flying on board his ship, and it was consumed with her. The English garrison had sixty-five killed and four hundred wounded, and the naval brigade only one killed and five wounded. Soon after this a heavy gale from the southward sprang up, dispersing the enemy’s fleet. A fine seventy-four was driven close under the Rock, when, after a few shots, she struck. Others received much damage. The garrison was finally relieved by the fleet under Lord Howe, who attacked the French and Spaniards, and gave them a severe drubbing. They managed, however, to escape, and stood up the Mediterranean, where Lord Howe didn’t consider it prudent to follow them. Tom Pim and I agreed that we wished we had been there. When we had gone over the place, we were not so much surprised as we might have been at its having been able, with so small a garrison, to resist the enormous force brought against it. The Spaniards received a lesson at that time which they have never since forgotten.

All now looked peaceable and quiet. The country people came jogging on their mules across the neutral ground up to the forts, and seemed on perfectly good terms with their old enemies. After spending a week at Gibraltar, we steered for the Bay of Naples, Lord Robert intending, we heard, to pay his respects to the king and queen of that very insignificant state, and to give an entertainment to their majesties. Cork harbour is a fine place, but the Bay of Naples, we all agreed, beat it hollow.

Lord Robert went on shore, and was, we suppose, received by the king and queen, for two days afterwards we were ordered to dress the ship with flags, and to rig an awning over the quarter-deck, so as to turn it into what looked very much like a tent. Old Rough-and-Ready grumbled as if he were not at all pleased at what he had to do, but he did it notwithstanding. All the officers then turned out in full uniform, and shortly afterwards we saw a magnificent barge coming off, followed by a number of smaller boats. The barge came alongside, and the captain went down the accommodation ladder which had been rigged to receive his royal guests. They seemed highly pleased with the appearance of the ship, and, it was said, did good justice to the banquet which had been prepared for them. We then very quickly unrigged the tent and hauled down the flags, and, getting under weigh, took a cruise round the bay. As the water was perfectly smooth, their majesties seemed to enjoy themselves, and the king remarked that he was not surprised that the King of England’s son should become a sailor.

“I’ve a notion that the prince has a very different sort of life to this,” remarked old Rough-and-Ready, “though I have no doubt they make it as easy for him as they can.”

When we came to an anchor, their majesties, with their courtiers, went ashore, and we had the ship to ourselves. We got leave to visit a number of ruins and other places. As far as we could judge, we should have time to become well acquainted with the neighbourhood, as our captain was evidently intent on enjoying himself after his own fashion, and showed no inclination to put to sea. Lord Robert knew, however, that even he must not remain there for ever, and, fearing that the commodore might come in and send him off, with orders not to return, reluctantly came on board; the anchor was weighed, and we sailed on a cruise along the African coast. At that time the Barbary States, as they were called, were nominally at peace with England, but their cruisers didn’t object to capture English merchantmen when they could fall in with them, and carry off their crews into slavery. In the daytime we stood close to the coast, and at night kept at a respectful distance. We had one night been standing to the eastward, about nine miles off the land.

Just as day dawned the look-out from aloft shouted, “Two sail ahead!”

“What are they like?” inquired the first lieutenant.

“I can’t make out, sir,” was the answer. “One seems to me as if she had boarded the other, for she’s close alongside.”

Mr Saunders at once sent me aloft to have a look at the strangers. I was also at first puzzled, till the light increased, when I made out an English merchant vessel, and a foreign-looking ship alongside her. Soon after I came down, and had reported what I had seen, we made them out clearly from the deck.

“We must overhaul those fellows,” said the first lieutenant, and he instantly gave orders to make all sail.

The breeze was increasing, and we soon neared them. At last we saw the larger ship make sail, and stand in for the land, while the other remained, with her yards some one way some another. As she was not likely to move, we steered after the first. The captain had been called, and now made his appearance on deck. Our fear was that the stranger would run on shore, or get into some harbour before we could come up with her. That she was an Algerine pirate, and had been engaged in plundering the brig, we had no doubt. However, she was not a very fast sailer, and we soon got her within range of our guns.

“Give her a shot across the forefoot, and make her heave to,” cried the captain, who was more animated than I had ever yet seen him.

Our larboard bow-chaser was fired, but the Algerine took no notice of it. We now sent our shot as fast as our guns could be run in and loaded. Several struck her, and at last her main-yard was knocked away. Still she stood on, her object being, apparently, to induce us to follow till we ran ashore. The men were sent into the chains to heave the lead. Occasionally the chase fired at us, but her shot did us no damage.

“She will escape us after all,” cried the captain, stamping with impatience.

Scarcely had he uttered the words than there came a loud roar. Up rose the masts of the Algerine, with her deck, and fragments of wreck and human bodies, and then down they fell into the water, and, except a few spars and planks, the fine vessel we had just seen vanished from sight. The frigate’s head was at once put off shore; the boats were lowered, and pulled away to rescue any of the unfortunate wretches who had escaped destruction. I went in one of the boats, and we approached the scene of the catastrophe. We saw two or three people clinging to the spars, but as they perceived us they let go their hold and sank from sight, afraid, probably, of falling into our hands alive. As soon as the boats returned on board, the frigate’s sails were filled, and we stood for the brig alongside which we had seen the Algerine, hoping to find that her crew had escaped with their lives, even though the vessel might have been plundered. As we again caught sight of her, however, we observed that her yards were braced, some one way, some another, and she lay like a boy’s model vessel on a pond, without a hand to guide the helm.

“That looks bad,” observed Nettleship.

“Perhaps the poor fellows are below, thinking the Algerine still in sight, and are afraid to return on deck,” I remarked.

“Very little chance of that,” he replied; “however, we shall see presently.”

On getting near the brig, the frigate was hove-to, and I was sent in a boat with the second lieutenant to board her. A fearful sight met our eyes. On her deck lay stretched the bodies of her officers and crew, almost cut to pieces by the sharp scimitars of their assailants. We hurried below, hoping to find some still alive, but not a voice answered to our shouts. Finding a couple of lanterns, we explored the vessel fore and aft, but the wretches who had just met their doom had made certain work of it, having killed every human being who had attempted to resist them. Many of the sufferers whom they had captured must have perished when their vessel blew up. The lieutenant sent me back to report the state of things to the captain. After a short talk with Mr Saunders, Lord Robert sent for Nettleship.

“I put you in charge of the brig,” he said. “You may take Pim and Finnahan with you, and follow close in our wake, I intend to steer for Gibraltar, and will there ascertain whether it is necessary for me to send the brig to England or not.”

On receiving the captain’s orders through Mr Saunders, we immediately got our traps ready, and the boat carried us on board the brig, with eight hands to form our crew. Among them was Larry, who jumped into the boat in the place of another man, who was glad enough to escape having to go, and Jack Patchett, our coach friend, who proved himself, though a sulky, self-conceited fellow, a prime seaman. As we were short-handed we were not sorry to have him. On getting on board the brig we had first to bury the bodies of the murdered crew. Her ship’s papers showed her to be the Daisy of London, John Edwards, master. The pirates had rifled his pockets, and those of his mates, so that we were unable to identify them. We at once, therefore, set to work to sew the murdered men up in canvas, when, without further ceremony, they were launched overboard. We then washed down decks, to try and get rid of the dark red hue which stained them; but buckets of water failed to do that.

The lieutenant and his men having assisted us in knotting and splicing the rigging, and in bracing the yards the proper way, returned on board the frigate, which directly made sail, we following in her wake. The Daisy was not a fast craft, and though we made all sail we could carry, we found she was dropping astern of the frigate.

“It matters very little,” said Nettleship, who had brought his quadrant and Nautical Almanac; “we can find our way by ourselves.”

We saw the frigate’s lights during the early part of the night, but before morning they had disappeared. This being no fault of ours, we did not trouble ourselves about the matter. As daylight approached the breeze fell, and became so light that we scarcely made more than a knot an hour. As soon as it was daylight, we turned to with the holy-stones to try and get the blood-stains out of the deck before they had sunk deeply in. We were thus employed till breakfast. By this time the wind had completely dropped, and it became a stark calm, such as so often occurs in the Mediterranean. The brig’s head went boxing round the compass, and chips of wood thrown overboard lay floating alongside, unwilling to part company. The heat, too, was almost as great as I ever felt it in the West Indies. Still we tried to make ourselves as happy as we could. We were out of sight of the African coast, and were not likely to be attacked by Salee, Riff, or Algerine corsairs; and Tom observed that if we were, it would be a pleasing variety to our day’s work, as we should to a certainty beat them off.

“We must not trust too much to that,” observed Nettleship. “We have only six small pop-guns, and as we muster only eleven hands, all told, we might find it a hard job to keep a crew of one hundred ruffians or more at bay.”

We kept the men employed in putting the brig to rights, and setting up the rigging, which had become slack from the hot weather. As the vessel was well provisioned, and one of the men sent with us was a tolerable cook, we had a good dinner placed on the table. Nettleship and I were below discussing it, while Tom Pim had charge of the deck. I hurried over mine, that I might call him down, and was just about to do so, having a glass of wine to my lips, when there came a roar like thunder, and over heeled the brig, capsizing everything on the table, and sending Nettleship and me to the lee side of the cabin. We picked ourselves up, and rushed to the companion ladder, but it was upset.

While we were endeavouring to replace it, I heard Tom’s voice shouting—

“Cut, lads, cut!”

Just as he had uttered the words, a succession of crashes reached our ears, and the brig righted with a suddenness and force which threw us off our legs. We quickly, however, had the ladder replaced, and sprang up on deck. We found that both the masts had been carried away by the board and were trailing alongside. Tom Pim was holding on to the starboard bulwarks, while Jack Patchett was at the helm, steering the brig before the gale. None of the men appeared to have been lost or injured, but were standing forward, looking very much astonished at what had happened.

“The first thing to do is to clear the wreck,” cried Nettleship, and he called the men aft; while I ran down to get up some axes which we had seen in the cabin.

When I returned on deck, to my surprise I found that the wind had suddenly fallen. The brig had been struck by a white squall, which frequently occurs in the Mediterranean, and either whips the masts out of a vessel, or sends her to the bottom.

We accordingly, under Nettleship’s directions, began hauling the masts alongside, to obtain such spars as we could that might serve us to form jury-masts. We could scarcely hope, with the limited strength we possessed, to get the masts on deck. We were thus employed till dark. We had saved the spars and some of the sails, though it was rather difficult to avoid staving in the boats, which had been lowered that we might effect our object. The weather might again change, and it was important to get up jury-masts as soon as possible.

During the night, however, we could do but little, as the men required rest. One half, therefore, were allowed to turn in. The night was as calm as the greater part of the day had been. At dawn we all turned out and set to work. We were thus employed, when I saw several sail standing down towards us, and bringing a breeze with them. I pointed them out to Nettleship.

“It’s to be hoped the wind will continue moderate,” he said, “or we may be driven nearer to the African coast than may be pleasant.”

We were at this time just out of sight of land, to the northward of Algiers. As the ships got nearer, we made them out to be a large fleet, several being line-of-battle ships, others frigates, and vessels of various rigs. In a short time many more came in sight, till we could count upwards of one hundred. These appeared not to be all. The larger number had lateen sails and long tapering yards.

“What can they be about?” asked Tom.

“That’s more than I can say,” said Nettleship; “but I suspect they are bound upon some expedition or other,—perhaps to attack the Algerines.”

As we got near enough to make out their flags, we distinguished four to be Spanish ships, two had Maltese flags flying; there were two Portuguese, and one Sicilian.

“Then I have no doubt about it,” said Nettleship, “for the Dons and Portingales have the chief trade up the Levant, and are likely to suffer most from those rascally corsairs. Since Blake gave them a good drubbing they have generally been pretty careful how they interfere with English vessels; but we have strong proof in this unfortunate craft that they want another thrashing to keep them in order.”

As we had not as yet got up our jury-masts, we were unable to move out of their way, and there appeared to be some risk of our being run down. Every now and then Jack Patchett hailed with his stentorian voice, and warned the vessels approaching us that they might pass ahead or astern, as the case might be. At last a Spanish man-of-war, carrying an admiral’s flag, was sailing quite close to us, when a voice asked from her deck in English—

“Can we render you any assistance?”

“The best assistance you can give us, is to take us in tow, and carry us to Gibraltar,” answered Nettleship.

He said this without the slightest expectation of its being done.

“We’ll heave to and send a tow-rope on board,” was the answer; and presently the line-of-battle ship, shortening sail, hove-to under our lee. A couple of boats being lowered, came rowing towards us. Their object, we found, was to tow us close enough to receive a hawser on board.

As one of them came alongside, an officer stepped on to our deck, and, advancing towards Nettleship, said—

“I am an Englishman, and have joined an expedition to attack Algiers, for my hatred and detestation of the cruelty the Algerians inflict on the unfortunate Europeans they capture. An English vessel in which I sailed lately up the Levant was attacked, and not until we had lost several men did we succeed in beating off the Algerines.”

Nettleship explained that the Daisy had also been plundered and her people murdered.

“That is a good reason why you should join us in our proposed attack on Algiers,” said the officer. “I must introduce myself to you as Henry Vernon, a name not unknown to fame. I am a nephew of the admiral, and my desire is to emulate his deeds.”

Nettleship at once agreed to accompany the fleet, and expressed his readiness to take part in the expected engagement.

“We have no help for it,” he said to Tom and me; “and I think I am justified in agreeing to Mr Vernon’s proposal. We shall, I expect, see some heavy work. Algiers is a strong place, I’m told, and the Algerines are not likely to knock under without trying to defend themselves.”

Tom and I were of course well pleased with this.

The Spanish ship, the Guerrero having taken us in tow, continued her course after the fleet. We waited just out of sight of land till nightfall, when, some of the smaller vessels piloting ahead, we stood in towards the Bay of Algiers.

Before daybreak the troops were embarked on board a number of galleys and gunboats, which landed them a short distance from the town.

By Harry Vernon’s advice we dropped our anchor out of range of the Algerine guns, as the brig could not be of any assistance in the attack. Nettleship had resolved to go on board the flag-ship to assist. Tom and I asked him to take us with him. He replied that it was impossible for both of us to go, but that Tom Pim should remain in charge of the brig with four hands, while the rest of us should go on board the Guerrero to assist in working her guns. Tom did not at all like this arrangement, but Nettleship replied that as he was senior to me, he was the proper person to take charge of the brig. We shook hands with him as we went down the side to go on board the flag-ship.

“Never mind, Tom,” said Nettleship, “you’re doing your duty by remaining where you are.”

The Admiral Don Antonio Barcelo expressed his pleasure, through Harry Vernon, at having the assistance of so many English officers and men, whose noted courage, he said, would animate his crew.

The wind being fair at daybreak, the line-of-battle ships stood slowly in, each having to take up an appointed position before the town. The ships were stationed as close as they could venture, the gun and mortar boats being placed in the intervals between them, but still closer to the shore.

Scarcely had the anchors been dropped and the sails furled, than the Algerines began blazing away along the whole line of their batteries, the ships discharging their broadsides at the same moment. The troops had been ordered to make an assault at the same time; and it was hoped by the combined efforts of the land and sea forces that the pirates would soon be compelled to yield.

After some hours of firing, however, news was brought to the admiral that the assault made by the troops had failed, and as far as we could judge from what we could see through the wreaths of smoke which enveloped the ships, no impression had been made on the walls of the city, though the flames bursting forth here and there showed that some of the houses inside had been set on fire. Don Antonio Barcelo, thus finding that his efforts were unavailing, the wind having shifted, ordered the ships to get under weigh, and stand out of the reach of the Algerine shot.

We had lost a few men, but had not been at sufficiently close quarters to receive much damage. Vernon was much disappointed, and so were we; but the admiral assured him that he would go at it again the next day, after the troops had had a little breathing-time.

He was as good as his word; and soon after dawn the fleet again stood in, and recommenced the attack. The Algerines, however, kept up so tremendous a fire, that some of the ships, being much damaged, withdrew to a safer distance. The admiral also received information that the enemy had made a sortie on the troops, and had driven them back with fearful slaughter. Still he was undaunted, and declared his intention of succeeding.

“If he would dismiss a few of the Maltese and Sicilian ships, he would have a better chance of doing so,” said Vernon. “The Spaniards and Portuguese are brave enough, but they are not much given to coming to close quarters, while the others would keep out of the fight altogether if they could.”

Another attack was accordingly planned, and Don Antonio ordered the smaller craft to stand closer in than before. The other ships, however, brought up at a respectful distance when they found the Algerine shot came rattling aboard them. Judging by the thunder of the guns and the amount of the smoke, it seemed to me impossible that the Algerines could long stand out against our assaults. In all directions houses were seen in flames; and I thought that the whole city must be burned down, for the flames were extending, yet the guns and batteries replied with as much briskness as at first. Again news was brought from the shore that the troops had made another assault, but that the Algerines had sallied out, and were cutting them fearfully up. On this Don Barcelo notified his intention of going himself to lead them, and invited Vernon to accompany him.

“If you like to come and see what is going on, I can give you a seat in the boat,” said Vernon, an offer I was delighted to accept.

We at once pulled off from the side of the flag-ship. The admiral had promised Vernon the command of one of the ships, the captain of which had shown the white feather, and he expected to have the honour of leading the attack and taking the ships in closer. Away we pulled, but we had not gone very far when a couple of shots struck the boat herself, killing three men. I remember hearing two distinct crashes, and the next moment found myself in the water, and about to sink. I believe I should have gone down, had not a friendly hand held me up; and, looking to see who it was, I recognised the face of my faithful follower, Larry Harrigan.

“It’s all right, Mr Terence, and I’ll not let you go while I can keep my feet moving,” he cried out, energetically treading water. “We will swim back to the big ship, and there’ll be plenty of ropes hung over the sides by this time.”

The distance, however, was considerable, and, independent of the chances of being hit by the round shot which were plunging into the water around us, I doubted whether we could swim as far, even though I did my best to second his efforts to keep me afloat. We were now joined by Patchett, who came swimming up, and offered to assist Larry in supporting me.

“Hurrah! here comes a boat,” cried Patchett.

Looking round, I saw one approaching, and soon made out Nettleship standing up in the stern-sheets; but as the shots from the Algerine batteries came plunging into the water close to her, it seemed doubtful whether she would reach us. She soon, however, got up uninjured, and I and my companions were taken on board. We then went on to where two persons were still floating. The one was Vernon. He had been gallantly supporting the Spanish admiral.

“Take him aboard first,” cried Vernon; “he’s unable to help himself.”

We accordingly hauled in the Don, while Vernon held on with one hand to the gunwale of the boat. Nor till the admiral was safe would Vernon allow us to lift him in. He sat down, looking very ghastly.

“Why, my dear fellow, you are yourself wounded,” said Nettleship, examining his shoulder, from which the blood was flowing.

“Yes, I fancy I was hit,” answered Vernon, though I have not had time yet to think about it.

“The sooner you’re under the doctor’s care the better,” said Nettleship, as he got the boat round. “Now give way, lads.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

A Miraculous Escape.

The Spanish crew understood his gestures more than his words, and with might and main pulled back to the flag-ship. As we went on, the shot fell like hail around us, but providentially none of us were hit. On getting to the opposite side of the ship, the admiral and Vernon were lifted on board. The rest of us quickly followed. Vernon was at once carried below to be placed under the care of the surgeon; while, without waiting to change our wet clothes, we hurried to the guns, to encourage the Spanish crew, some of whom appeared to think they had had enough of it. Don Barcelo, however, retired to his cabin, and, having changed his uniform, shortly afterwards reappeared. He showed no wish, however, to make another attempt to land, but sent off despatches by an officer to the commander of the land forces. What were their contents did not at the time transpire. He continued, however, pacing the deck, watching, as far as the smoke would allow, the other ships, and the forts opposed to us.

“I very much doubt whether we shall thrash the Algerines after all,” said Nettleship to me. “The villains fight desperately, and I can’t see that we have made a single breach in any part of the walls. See! two more of our galleys have sunk; and I have seen half-a-dozen gun or mortar boats go down. Several of the ships and frigates are already tremendously cut about. The old Don is a plucky fellow, or he wouldn’t keep at it so long.”

While he was speaking the admiral came up, pointing first towards a sinking vessel, and then at one of the boats alongside.

“Just ask him, Paddy, if he doesn’t want me to go and rescue the fellows,” said Nettleship. I addressed the admiral in French, which he understood tolerably well.

“Yes, I shall be obliged to him if he will. My officers and men are required to fight the ship,” answered the admiral.

“They don’t exactly like the sort of work,” observed Nettleship; “but I’ll go willingly.”

“And I will go with you,” I said.

We ran down and got into the boat, followed by Larry and Patchett, the rest of our crew being made up of Spaniards, who were ordered by their officers to man the boat. Away we pulled, and had time to save a good many people from the vessel, which had sunk before we reached her. We were exposed all the time to the shot, which came splashing into the water close to us. I heartily hoped that none would come aboard, for, crowded as the boat was, a number of the people must have been killed. There was no necessity to tell the Spanish crew to give way, for they were eager enough to get back.

Soon after returning on board, the admiral, having received intelligence from the shore that the attack had again failed, threw out a signal to his ships to discontinue the action. Fortunately the wind enabled us to stand off the shore, in spite of the shattered condition of many of the ships, when we anchored out of range of the enemy’s guns. As soon as we had brought up, Nettleship and I went down to see Vernon. Though the surgeon had told him that the wound was a bad one, he didn’t complain.

“I fear, after all, that we shall not succeed, and I advise you, Nettleship, to return on board your brig, and get her into a condition to put to sea,” he said. “The admiral may not be able to help you as I could wish, and you will have to look out for yourself.”

Nettleship thanked him for his advice, saying that he intended to follow it, as we could not further assist the cause, and that it was our duty to get the brig to Gibraltar as soon as possible.

The admiral had invited both of us to supper in the cabin. He spoke in the highest terms of Vernon, and said that he had intended to give him command of one of his ships, that he might lead the next attack.

“I wish, gentlemen, also to show you my high sense of the assistance you have rendered me by coming on board,” he added.

When I translated this to Nettleship, he said—

“Tell the old fellow that I shall be obliged to him if he’ll send a dozen of his best hands, with such spars and rigging as we require, to set up jury-masts.”

“It shall be done to-morrow,” replied the admiral. “I intend to give the crew of my ships a short breathing-time before I again renew the attack.”

Though we were ready enough to fight, we were not sorry to find the next day that the old Don was as good as his word, and had sent us on board a sufficient number of spars, which, with the aid of his men, enabled us to set up jury-masts, and to get the brig into condition for putting to sea. The Spaniards worked very well, and as soon as their task was accomplished, Larry offered to give them a tune on his fiddle.

When, however, he began scraping away, instead of jumping up, and toeing and heeling it as Frenchmen would have done, they stood with their arms folded, gravely listening to his strains.

“Arrah, now, my boys, there is no quicksilver in your heels,” he exclaimed, observing their apathy. “What’s the use of playing to such grave dons as you?” We then tried them with a song, but with no better effect. At last their officer, who took supper with us in the cabin, ordered them into the boat, and they pulled back to their ship.

“I say, Paddy,” said Tom, “I wish that you would let me go instead of you to-morrow, if the dons make another attack on the city. I daresay Nettleship will consent, if you ask him.”

I did not like to disappoint Tom, but at the same time, as I should thereby be avoiding danger, it was just the request to which I could not well agree.

Nettleship, however, settled the matter. “To tell you the truth,” he answered, “I have been thinking over what is our duty, and have arrived at the conclusion that, now the brig is ready for sea, we ought to make the best of our way to Gibraltar. As far as I can judge, no impression has been made on the city; and if the Spaniards and their allies could not succeed while their ships were in good order, they are less likely to do anything now. Had the Spanish admiral requested our assistance, we should have been bound to afford it; but as he said nothing on the subject, I don’t feel called upon to offer it again.”

We, however, remained at anchor during the night. The next day the fleet showed no signs of renewing the attack, though righting was taking place on shore. Nettleship, however, having desired me to accompany him, we pulled on board the flag-ship to bid farewell to Don Barcelo and Henry Vernon. The admiral again thanked us, but, from the remarks he made, I judged that he was rather anxious than otherwise that we should go away, so as not to witness his defeat. When I wished him success, he looked very gloomy, and made no reply. Having paid him our respects, we went down into the cockpit to see Vernon, who was, we were sorry to find, suffering greatly. The surgeon, however, who was present, assured me that his wound was not mortal, though it would be some time before he recovered. When Nettleship told him his intention of leaving the fleet, he replied that it was the wisest thing he could do.

“If you could speak Spanish you might have taken the command of the ship which was to have been given to me; but as it is, the men would not place confidence in you, and you could do nothing with them; so, to tell you the truth, I think you are well out of it. Our success is very uncertain. The troops on shore have again been defeated with heavy loss, and I suspect have been so demoralised that they’ll take to flight whenever the enemy rush out upon them.”

These remarks strengthened Nettleship in his resolution, and, wishing our new friend good-bye, we pulled back to the brig. The wind was from the south-east, and Nettleship thought it prudent to get a good offing before night, lest it should again shift and blow us back towards the land. The brig sailed under her reduced canvas tolerably well, and before daybreak the next morning we had made fair progress towards Gibraltar. As the sun rose, however, the weather gave signs of changing. The wind veered round to the north-west, and blew heavily directly towards the Bay of Algiers.

“Don Barcelo and his fleet will catch it, I’m afraid, if they don’t manage to get out of the bay before this gale reaches them,” remarked Nettleship. “I’m very thankful that we put to sea, or we should have fared ill.”

As it was, we ran a great risk of losing our masts; but they were well set up, and we shortened sail in good time, and were able to keep our course. Our chief anxiety, however, was for the gallant Henry Vernon; for should the flag-ship drive on shore, he would to a certainty lose his life.

“We must hope for the best,” observed Nettleship; “the Guerrero was less damaged than many of the other ships, and may be able to ride it out at anchor, or claw off shore.”

As we could never manage to get more than four knots an hour out of the brig, we were a considerable time reaching Gibraltar. To our satisfaction we found the Jason was still there. We were warmly congratulated on our return on board, as from our non-appearance for so long a time it was supposed that we had either been lost in a squall, or that the brig had been taken by another pirate. We were much disappointed to find that the brig had to be delivered up to the authorities at Gibraltar, as we fully expected that Nettleship would have been ordered to take her home. Though she was an especially detestable craft, yet he and Tom Pim and I were very happy together, and we had enjoyed an independence which was not to be obtained on board the frigate. When Lord Robert got tired of Gibraltar, we sailed to the eastward, and again brought up in the Bay of Naples. We here heard of the failure of the expedition against the Algerines. Nearly half the troops had been cut to pieces in the repeated and resolute sallies made by the Moors. During the gale we had encountered, the ships narrowly escaped being wrecked. Several smaller vessels sank, and all were severely damaged. The troops were finally embarked, and the ships got back to the ports from which they had sailed, with neither honour nor glory to boast of. Their ill success encouraged the pirates in their warfare against civilised nations. The people of Tripoli, Tunis, and other places imitated their example, so that the voyage up the Straits became one of considerable danger in those days. After leaving Naples we stood up the Mediterranean to Alexandria, where we saw Pompey’s Pillar and Cleopatra’s Needle, and other wonderful things in the neighbourhood, of which I will not bother my readers with a description. On our way we kept a sharp look-out for Tunisian or Algerine rovers; but as we were known to be in those seas, they took good care that we should not get a sight of them, and our cruise was bootless as far as prizes were concerned. Lord Robert managed to eke out a few more weeks at Naples, the pleasantest place, he observed, at which he could bring up. Thence we sailed to Gibraltar, where we found orders awaiting us to return to England.

“I have managed it very cleverly,” said Lord Robert to Mr Saunders. “When I was last here, I wrote to some private friends in the Admiralty, telling them I was getting heartily tired of the Mediterranean, and requesting that we might be sent home; and you see how readily their Lordships have complied with my wishes. Their willingness arose from the fact that I’m going to stand for one of our family boroughs, and have promised the Ministry my support.”

“It would be a good job for Dick Saunders if he had a friend at court to look after his interests,” said the first lieutenant; “but as he knows not a soul who would lift a finger to help him, he must be content to remain at the foot of the rattlins, till a lucky chance gives him a lift up them.”

“Don’t be down-hearted, my dear fellow,” said Lord Robert in a patronising tone. “When once I’m in Parliament I’ll look after your interests. The First Lord is sure to ask me to name some deserving officers for promotion, and I’ll not forget you.”

We had contrary winds, and then we were hove-to for two or three days, during a heavy gale in the Bay of Biscay. After that we were kept knocking about in the Chops of the Channel for a week, when, the wind shifting, we ran for Plymouth Sound, and came to an anchor in Hamoaze.

Lord Robert immediately went on shore, and we all wondered what would next happen to us.

We had no reason to complain. We got plenty of leave. Tom and I accompanied Nettleship to pay a visit to his family. I won’t describe it just now, except to say that we were received in as kind a way as before.

We guessed that if Lord Robert was returned to Parliament we should have no further chance of seeing any foreign service while the ship remained in commission. Nettleship, indeed, was of opinion that before long she would be paid off.

I wrote home to say where we were, and in the course of a fortnight received a letter from the major, telling me to come to Ballinahone if I wished to see my father alive. I with difficulty obtained leave on urgent family affairs, and next day, going to the Catwater, I found a small hooker belonging to Cork, just about to return there. Although she was not the sort of craft aboard which I should have chosen to take a passage, yet as she was likely to afford the most speedy way of getting to my destination, I forthwith engaged berths for myself and Larry, for whom I also got leave.

Nettleship and Tom went on board with me. There was a little cabin aft, about eight feet square, with a sleeping place on either side, one of which was occupied by the skipper, while I was to enjoy the comforts of the other. The crew, consisting of three men and a boy, were berthed forward, in a place of still smaller dimensions, and only just affording room for Larry.

“I would rather you had gone to sea in a stouter craft,” said Nettleship; “but as the skipper tells me he has made the passage a dozen times a year for the last twenty years, I hope he’ll carry you across in safety.”

The wind was light, and my messmates remained on board, while the hooker towed their boat some way down the Sound.

Wishing me farewell, they then pulled back to Hamoaze, and we stood on, fully expecting to be well on our voyage by the next morning. During the night, however, a strong south-westerly breeze sprang up, and the skipper considered it prudent to put back to Cawsand Bay, at the entrance to the Sound.

Here, greatly to my disgust, we lay the best part of a week, with a number of other weather-bound vessels. I dared not go on shore lest the wind should change, and had nothing to do but to take a fisherman’s walk on deck,—three steps and overboard.

Larry had, of course, brought his fiddle, with which he entertained the crew, who were as happy as princes, it being a matter of indifference to them where they were, provided they had the privilege of being idle.

The skipper, who had remained on board all the time, at last one day went ashore, saying that he must go and buy some provisions, as our stock was running short. We had hitherto been supplied by bumboats with vegetables and poultry, so that I had not supposed we were in want of any.

I had fortunately brought two or three books with me, and had been sitting reading by the light of the swinging lamp in the small cabin, when, feeling sleepy, I went to bed. I was awakened by hearing some one entering the cabin, and, looking out of my berth, I observed that it was the skipper, who, after making a lurch to one side, then to another, turned in, as far as I could see, all standing. This, however, did not surprise me, as I thought he might be intending to sail early in the morning.

Soon after daylight I awoke, and, having dressed, went on deck, when what was my surprise to find that all the other vessels had got under weigh, and were standing out of the bay.

I tried to rouse up the skipper, but for some time could not succeed. When he opened his eyes, by the stupid way he stared at me, it was very evident that he had been drunk, and had scarcely yet recovered. I told him that a northerly breeze had sprung up, and that we had already lost some hours of it. At last, getting up, he came on deck, and ordered his crew to heave up the anchor and make sail; but this they could not have done without Larry’s and my assistance.

As I hoped that the skipper would soon recover, I did not trouble myself much about the matter. He had brought the stores he had procured in a couple of hampers, which I found on deck. They contained, as I afterwards discovered, not only provisions, but sundry bottles of whisky.

There being a fresh breeze, the little hooker ran swiftly along over the blue ocean; the Eddystone being soon left astern and the Lizard sighted. The skipper told me he intended to run through the passage between the Scilly Islands and the main.

“If the wind holds as it does now,” he said, “we’ll be in Cork harbour in a jiffy. Shure the little hooker would find her way there if we were all to turn in and go to sleep till she gets up to Passage.”

“As I’m not so confident of that same, captain, I must beg you to keep your wits about you till you put me ashore,” I observed.

He gave me a wink in reply, but said nothing.

During the day I walked the deck, going into the cabin only for meals. The skipper spent most of his time there, only putting up his head now and then to see how the wind was, and to give directions to the man at the helm. From the way the crew talked, I began to suspect that they had obtained some liquor from the shore, probably by the boat which brought the skipper off. Not being altogether satisfied with the state of things, I offered to keep watch. The skipper at once agreed to this, and suggested that I should keep the middle watch, while he kept the first.

Before I went below the wind veered round almost ahead. The night, I observed, was very dark; and as there was no moon in the sky, while a thick mist came rolling across the water, had I not supposed that the skipper was tolerably sober I should have remained on deck; but, feeling very sleepy, I went below, though thinking it prudent not to take off my clothes. I lay down in the berth just as I was. I could hear the skipper talking to the man at the helm, and it appeared to me that the vessel was moving faster through the water than before. Then I fell off to sleep.

How long I had slept I could not tell, when I was awakened by a loud crash. I sprang out of my berth, and instinctively rushed up the companion ladder. Just then I dimly saw a spar over me, and, clutching it, was the next moment carried along away from the deck of the vessel, which disappeared beneath my feet. I heard voices shouting, and cries apparently from the hooker. The night was so dark that I could scarcely see a foot above me. I scrambled up what I found must be the dolphin striker of a vessel, and thence on to her bowsprit.

“Here’s one of them,” I heard some one sing out, as I made my way on to the forecastle of what I supposed was a ship of war.

My first thought was for Larry.

“What has become of the hooker?” I exclaimed. Has any one else been saved?

The question was repeated by the officer of the watch, who now came hurrying forward.

No answer was returned.

“I fear the vessel must have gone down. We shouted to her to keep her luff, but no attention was paid, and she ran right under our bows,” said the officer.

“I’m not certain that she sank,” I answered. “She appeared to me to be capsizing, and I hope may be still afloat.”

“We will look for her, at all events,” said the officer; and he gave the necessary orders to bring the ship to the wind, and then to go about.

So dark was the night, however, that we might have passed close to a vessel without seeing her, though eager eyes were looking out on either side.

Having stood on a little way we again tacked, and for three hours kept beating backwards and forwards; but our search was in vain.

The vessel which had run down the hooker was, I found, H.M. brig of war Osprey, commander Hartland, on her passage home from the North American station.

“You have had a narrow escape of it,” observed the commander, who came on deck immediately on being informed of what had occurred. “I am truly glad that you have been saved, and wish that we had been able to pick up the crew. I have done all I can,” he said at length, “and I feel sure that if the hooker had remained afloat, we must have passed close to her.”

“I am afraid that you are right, sir,” I said, and I gave vent to a groan, if I did not actually burst into tears, as I thought of the cheery spirits of my faithful follower Larry being quenched in death.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

A visit to France.

“What is the matter?” asked the commander in a kind tone.

“I had a man on board who had been with me ever since I went to sea,” I answered. “We had been through dangers of all sorts together, and he would have given his life to save mine.”

“Very sorry, very sorry to hear it,” he said in a kind tone. “Come into my cabin; I’ll give you a shake-down, and you must try to go to sleep till the morning.”

I gladly accepted his offer. The steward soon made up a bed for me; but after the dreadful event of the night, I found it more difficult than I had ever done before to close my eyes. I kept thinking of poor Larry, and considering if I could have done anything to save him. I blamed myself for turning in, when I saw the half-drunken condition of the skipper. His crew probably were in the same state, and had neglected to keep a look-out. I at last, however, went to sleep, and didn’t awake till the steward called me, to say that breakfast would be on the table presently.

I jumped up, and, having had a wash, went on deck. The officers of the brig received me very kindly, and congratulated me on my escape. Presently a master’s mate came from below, and looked hard at me for a moment, and then, stretching out his hand, exclaimed, “Why, Paddy, my boy! is it yourself? I’m delighted to see you.”

I recognised Sinnet, my old messmate on board the Liffy.

“Why, I thought you were a lieutenant long ago,” he said, after we had had a little conversation. “For my part I have given up all hopes of promotion, unless we get another war with the French, or Dutch, or Spaniards; but there’s no use in sighing, so I take things as they come.”

“That’s much as I must do, and as we all must if we would lead happy lives,” I answered.

It cheered me up to meet Sinnet, and we had plenty of talk about old times. A strong north-westerly breeze was blowing, and the brig, under plain sail, was slashing along at a great rate up Channel. I hoped that she would put into Plymouth, but somewhat to my disappointment I found that she was bound for Portsmouth. I was now summoned by the captain’s steward to breakfast, and a very good one I enjoyed. When I told the commander where I was going when the hooker was run down, he said that he thought it very likely he should be sent round to the Irish coast, and that if I liked to remain on board he would land me at the first port we might touch at near my home. Next day we ran through the Needles’ passage, and brought up at Spithead, where the Osprey had to wait for orders from the Admiralty. As we might sail at any moment, we were unable to go on shore. Though I was the commander’s guest, I several times dined with the midshipmen, or spent the evening in the berth.

Our berth in the Liffy was not very large, but this was of much smaller dimensions, and had in it the assistant-surgeon, two master’s mates, the master’s assistant, all grown men, besides two clerks and four midshipmen. It was pretty close stowing, when all hands except those on watch were below, and the atmosphere, redolent of tobacco-smoke and rum, was occasionally somewhat oppressive. As the brig had been some time in commission, the greater part of the glass and crockery had disappeared. There were a few plates of different patterns, which were eked out with platters, saucers, and two or three wooden bowls. The bottoms of bottles, two or three tea-cups without handles, and the same number of pewter mugs, served for glasses. Three tallow dips stuck in bottles gave an uncertain light in the berth. Salt beef and pork with pease-pudding, cheese with weevilly biscuits, constituted our fare till we got to Spithead, when we obtained a supply of vegetables, fresh meat, and soft tack, as loaves are called at sea. The ship’s rum, with water of a yellowish hue, formed our chief beverage; but the fare being what all hands were accustomed to have, no one, except the assistant-surgeon, a Welshman, who had lately come to sea, grumbled at it.

I wrote to my uncle to tell him I was safe; for, having said I was coming by the hooker, as she would not arrive, my family, I conjectured, might be alarmed at my non-appearance. I also mentioned the loss of poor Larry, and begged the major to break the news to his family. Their great grief, I knew, would be that they would not have the opportunity of waking him. I also wrote to Nettleship to tell him of my adventure, and enclosed a letter to the captain, begging that in consequence my leave might be prolonged.

After we had been three days at anchor, the commander, who had been on shore, told me on his return that he had received orders to proceed at once to Cork, and that he would land me there. We had a quick passage, and as soon as we had dropped our anchor in the beautiful bay, Captain Hartland very kindly sent me up, in a boat under charge of Sinnet, to Cork.

Having fortunately my money in my pocket when the hooker went down, I was able to hire a horse through the help of the landlord of the “Shamrock” hotel, and as I knew the road thoroughly I had no fear about finding my way. Having parted from my old messmate Sinnet, I started at dawn the next morning, intending to push on as fast as my steed would carry me. I had somewhat got over the loss of Larry, but it made me very sad when I had to answer the questions put to me about him by the people of the inns where we had before stopped.

“And to think that him and his fiddle are gone to the bottom of the say! Och ahone! och ahone!” cried Biddy Casey, the fair daughter of the landlord of the inn, the scene of our encounter with the irate sow.

It was late in the evening when I reached Ballinahone, and as I rode up the avenue I saw a tall figure pacing slowly in front of the house. It was my uncle. I threw myself from the saddle, and led my knocked-up steed towards him. He started as he turned and saw me.

“What, Terence, is it you yourself?” he exclaimed, stretching out his hands. “You have been a long time coming, and I fancied your ship must have sailed, and that you could not obtain leave.”

I told him that I had twice written, but he said that he had not received either of my letters.

“You come to a house of mourning, my boy,” he continued, “though I doubt not you’ll have been prepared for what I have to tell you.”

“My father!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, he’s gone; and really from the condition into which he had fallen, it was a happy release, at all events to the rest of the family, who could not watch him without pain.”

“And my mother?” I answered anxiously.

“She is slowly recovering, and I think that your arrival will do her good,” he said. “Maurice and his young wife have come to live at the castle, and they get on very well with your sisters and their husbands. But what has become of Larry?” he asked, looking down the avenue, expecting to see him following me.

When I told him, and had to mention how I had been so nearly lost, he was greatly grieved.

“I am thankful we did not get your letter saying you were coming, or we should have been very anxious about you,” he said. “Now take your horse round to the stables, while I go in and prepare your mother for your arrival. It’s better not to give her a sudden surprise.”

I did as my uncle told me. As soon as I had entered the courtyard I met Tim Daley, who gave a loud shout as he saw me, and at once, as I knew he would do, inquired for Larry.

“Don’t be asking questions,” I said, fearing that there would be a wild hullaballoo set up in the kitchen, which might reach my mother’s ears before my uncle had time to tell her of my arrival.

“But isn’t Larry come with your honour?” asked Tim.

“Seamen can’t always get leave from their ships,” I answered, wishing to put him off. “I’ll tell you all about it by and by. And now just take that poor brute into the stable. Rub him down well, and give him some oats, for he’s scarcely a leg left to stand on.”

“Ah! shure your honour knows how to ride a horse smartly,” said Tim, as he led off the animal, while I hurried round to the front door. One of my sisters let me in, and I had the opportunity of talking to her before I was summoned to my mother. She appeared sad and much broken, but the sight of me cheered her up, and as I talked on with her I was inclined to hope that she would recover her usual health and spirit. As soon as I could I mentioned my own narrow escape, and Larry’s loss, for I knew that, should my uncle tell any one, there would soon be an uproar of wild wailing in the kitchen, which might alarm her if she did not know the cause. I was right, for, as the major had thought it best to mention what had happened, the news soon spread throughout the house. As I went down-stairs a chorus of shrieks and cries reached my ears, expressive of the domestics’ grief at Larry’s loss. It was some time before I ventured down among them to give an account of what had happened; and as I narrated the circumstances, between each sentence there arose a chorus of cries and sighs.

“Och ahone! och ahone! and we’ll never be after seeing Larry Harrigan again,” cried Biddy and Molly together.

Similar exclamations burst from the lips of the other domestics, and I confess that my feelings were sufficiently sensitive to make me thankful to get away to the parlour. The supper was more cheerful than I expected it would be. Maurice and his young wife did the honours of the house with becoming grace. Of course I had plenty of accounts to give of my adventures in the Mediterranean. They were highly amused at my account of Lord Robert; and Fitzgerald exclaimed that he wished he could get him to Ballinahone, and they would soon knock his dignity out of him. As Maurice had sheathed his sword, Denis had determined to take his place as one of the defenders of his country. My uncle told me that he hoped soon to get a commission for him in the same regiment.

“Maurice stood well among his brother officers, and that will give Denis a good footing as soon as he joins,” he observed to me. “He is a steady, sensible boy, and with his Irish dash and pluck he is sure to get on in the army. We have plenty of fellows with the latter qualities, but too few with the former, for they fancy if they’re tolerably brave they may be as harum-scarum, rollicking, and careless as they like. I wish that Denis had seen something of the world before he joins his regiment, for he’s as green as a bunch of shamrock. If it could be managed, I should like him to take a cruise with you, Terence, and to run up to Dublin for a few weeks, but funds are wanting for the purpose, though, as you observe, we have managed to get the house into better order than it has been of late years.”

“I have some prize-money, though not much pay, due to me,” I answered, “and I shall be very glad to hand it over to Denis for the purpose you name.”

“No! no! I could not allow that. It’s little enough you’ll get out of the estate, and you mustn’t deprive yourself of funds, my boy,” answered the major. “We will think of some other plan.”

I observed the next day a great improvement in the general state of things about the house. The furniture had been repaired and furbished up. There were clean covers to the sofas and chairs in the drawing-room, and a new carpet in my mother’s chamber, while the servants had a less dingy and untidy look than formerly, showing that they had received their wages.

I had spent a few pleasant days with my relations, when I received a letter from old Rough-and-Ready, peremptorily ordering me to return. I concluded that the letter I wrote from Portsmouth had not reached Nettleship, and consequently that my request for prolonged leave of absence had not been received.

As there was no time if I wrote to receive an answer, which very probably would not reach its destination, my uncle advised me to set off at once. I must pass over my parting with my mother and other members of my family. My mother had greatly recovered, and I had no reason to be apprehensive about her health. The major announced his intention of accompanying me, with Denis, as far as Cork.

“I wish that we could make the journey with you to Plymouth; but to say the truth, I find it prudent not to be longer away from Ballinahone than can be helped,” he observed. “My superintendence is wanted there as much as ever.”

We accordingly the following morning set out, Denis in high spirits at having to make the journey, for hitherto his travels had not extended farther than Limerick. The major rode ahead, and he and I followed, talking together, though occasionally we rode up when we thought that our uncle wanted company. A journey in those days was seldom to be made without some adventures. None, however, occurred that I think worth mentioning. On our arrival at Cork, I found a vessel sailing direct for Bristol. My uncle advised me to go by her as the surest means of reaching Plymouth quickly.

Wishing him and Denis, therefore, good-bye, I hurried on board, and two days afterwards was on my journey from the great mart of commerce to Plymouth.

Part of the distance I performed by coach, part by post-chaise, the rest on horseback.

I felt somewhat anxious lest my ship should have sailed, and I might have to kick my heels about Plymouth until she came back, or have to make another journey to get aboard her. Great was my satisfaction, therefore, when I saw her at anchor in Hamoaze. I at once went aboard. Old Rough-and-Ready received me with a somewhat frowning brow when I reported myself. On my explaining, however, what had happened, he said that he would make things all right with Lord Robert, who was expected on board every hour. As soon as his lordship appeared, we went out of harbour. We found that Parliament being prorogued, we were to take a short summer cruise. It was shorter than we expected.

After knocking about for a couple of weeks, we put back again into the Sound, where we received a packet of letters, which had been waiting for us at the post office. I got one from my uncle, stating that all things were going on well at Ballinahone, and enclosing another in an unknown hand, and bearing a foreign post-mark. On opening it I found that it was from La Touche, reminding me of my promise to pay him a visit when peace was restored, and inviting me over to his château in the neighbourhood of Vernon. It appeared to me that I had but little chance of being able to accept his invitation. I at once wrote him a letter, stating that I was still on board, but that, should I be at liberty, I would without fail endeavour to go over and see him; that though we had been fighting with his nation, I had met so many brave men among them, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to become acquainted with La Belle France, and to see him again. I at once sent the letter on shore to be posted. The same mail brought despatches to the captain. Their tenor was soon announced. It was that the ship was to sail immediately for Portsmouth, where she had been fitted out, to be paid off.

As his lordship was never addicted to doing anything in a hurry, he waited, before obeying the order he had received, till he could get a supply of fresh butter and eggs and other comestibles on board. We therefore did not sail till the next day. We had a fair breeze going out of the Sound, but the wind headed us when we got into the Channel, and we made a tack towards the French coast. The wind continued light and baffling, and we were three days before, having gone round by Saint Helen’s, we came to an anchor at Spithead. Here we had to wait until the wind again shifted, when we ran into Portsmouth harbour.

I have already given a description of the scenes which occurred when I was last paid off, so I need not repeat it. Lord Robert made us a speech, promising to attend to the interests of all the officers who had served with him, and especially to bear in mind the strong claims of his first lieutenant to promotion. He took down all our addresses, saying we should hear from him before long.

“I’ll buy a golden frame to put his letter in, if I receive one,” growled old Rough-and-Ready.

“I doubt whether he’ll put pen to paper for my sake,” said Nettleship.

Most of the rest of us made similar remarks. We were not wrong in our conjectures, and, as far as I could learn, his lordship forgot all about us and his promises from the moment he started for London; and we were cast adrift to shift for ourselves.

Nettleship intended to go down to Plymouth, and wanted Tom Pim and me to accompany him; but Tom’s family were expecting him at home, and I hoped to get round direct from Portsmouth to Cork by sea.

The Osprey, which had returned to Portsmouth, was paid off at the time we were, and as there was no vessel sailing for Cork, I accepted an invitation from Sinnet to go over to Cowes, where his family were staying. We ran across in a wherry he had engaged.

As we were entering the harbour, we saw a fine-looking lugger at anchor, and while passing I inquired where she was bound to.

“Over to France, to the port of Grisnez or thereabouts,” answered a man who was walking the forecastle with his hands in his pockets.

“When do you sail?” I asked.

“May be to-morrow, may be next day,” was the answer.

“I say, Sinnet, I’ve a great mind, if the lugger remains here long enough, to take a passage in her, and go and pay my promised visit to La Touche. I wish you could come too; I am sure he will be glad to see you.”

“I wish I could, for I’m certain we should have good fun; but you see I have not been with my family for a long time, and they would look upon me as destitute of natural feeling if I went away so soon. If you, however, have a wish to go, don’t stand on ceremony. Should the lugger, however, remain long enough, I’ll take advantage of your proposal,” he said, as I accompanied him up to his house.

I was introduced to his father and mother and sisters, who were all such nice people that I was half inclined to give up my idea. Sinnet, however, mentioned the matter to the old gentleman, who at once told me not to stand on ceremony.

“You could not have a better opportunity of seeing France; and perhaps before long we shall be at loggerheads again, when no Englishman will be able to set foot in the country except as a prisoner; therefore go, and come back to us when you have got tired of frogs’ legs and soup maigre.”

In the evening I went down with Sinnet to the quay, where a man was pointed out to us as skipper of the lugger. We at once went up to him, and I told him that I wished to get across to France.

“I have no objection to take you, young gentleman, though we do not generally like having king’s officers on board our craft,” he answered.

“But I’m not on service now,” I observed, guessing the meaning of his allusion. “What sum do you expect for passage money?”

“Five guineas,” he answered. “I do not care to take less.”

“Five guineas you shall have, if you land me where I wish to go,” I said. “Now, when shall I be on board?”

“To-morrow morning at six o’clock. The tide will serve to carry us out at the Needles; and I don’t intend to wait a moment longer.”

“At six o’clock I will be on board, then; and, by the by, what is your name, captain?”

“Jack Long, though some call me little Jack,” answered the skipper, with a laugh.

“And your vessel, that there may be no mistake?”

“The Saucy Bet,” he said; “and now you know all you need know about her.”

“Then, Captain Long, I’ll be aboard the Saucy Bet at the hour you name,” I said, as I took Sinnet’s arm.

We strolled back to his house, and a very pleasant evening I spent with my messmate’s family. We had music and singing. Two or three girls and some young men came in, and we got up a dance. Altogether, I began to regret that I had not arranged to remain longer.

My old messmate turned out at an early hour to accompany me down to the quay. As soon as I got on board the lugger, the anchor was hove up, and we made sail. I found a roughish looking crew, several of them being Jerseymen or Frenchmen. We soon got a fresh breeze from the northward, when the Saucy Bet walked along at a great rate, with large square topsails set above her lower lugs. She had a small cabin aft, neatly fitted up, and a large hold, but now perfectly clear. She could mount eight guns, all of which were now below. Soon after we got outside the Needles, however, they were hoisted up and placed on their carriages.

“What sort of a cargo do you generally carry, Captain Long?” I asked.

“That depends on what we stow away in the hold,” he answered, with a knowing wink. “Silks, satins, and ribbons, sometimes; and at others tobacco and brandy, a few cases of gloves or lace, and such articles as English ladies are fond of, and are glad to get without paying duty.”

“Then you acknowledge yourself to be a smuggler, captain?”

“I intend to be as long as I can make an honest living by it,” he answered, laughing. “I’m not ashamed of it. It is fair play, you see. If I’m caught I lose my goods and vessel, and am sent to prison, or serve His Majesty on board a man-of-war. If I land my cargo, as I generally contrive to do, I make a good profit.”

As he was thus open I argued the point, trying to show that the Government must have a revenue to pay their expenses, and that his proceedings were lawless.

“That’s their business, not mine,” he answered, not in the least degree moved by my observations. “The Government could not think very ill of us,” he remarked; “for if they want information about what is going on in France, or have to send over anybody secretly, they are ready enough to apply to me, and pay well too. Why, in the war time, if it hadn’t been for us smugglers, they couldn’t have managed to send a messenger across Channel. Bless you! I’ve carried over a queer lot of characters now and then. But you must be getting hungry, young gentleman, and it’s time for dinner. Come below.”

I found a plentiful repast, which, though somewhat roughly cooked, I did ample justice to. The skipper produced a bottle of claret and another of cognac, and pressed me to drink, but he himself, I observed, was very moderate in his potations.

“If I did not keep a cool head on my shoulders, the Saucy Bet would soon get into trouble,” he remarked; “still, that need not stop you from making yourself happy if you like.”

He seemed very much surprised when I told him that I had no fancy for making myself happy in that fashion.

In the afternoon the wind fell, and we lay becalmed, floating down Channel with the ebb. The smugglers swore terribly at the delay, as they were in a hurry to get over to the French coast.

In the evening I walked the deck some time with the skipper, who was full of anecdotes. In the war time he had commanded a privateer, which had been tolerably successful, but his vessel had been captured at last, and he had spent some months a prisoner in France. He had on that occasion picked up a fair knowledge of French, which much assisted him, he said, in his present vocation. He was always on good terms with the mounseers, he told me, though he amused himself sometimes at their expense.

“Some of my chaps and I were ashore one night, not long ago, taking a glass at a wine shop near the harbour, when a frigate came in, and a beauty she was, no doubt about that.” He continued: “The Frenchmen began to praise her, and says one of them to me—

“‘There, you haven’t got a craft like that in the whole of your navy.’

“‘I don’t know what we’ve got,’ says I; ‘but if there comes a war we should precious soon have one, for we should have she.’

“You should have seen the rage the Frenchmen were in when I said that, and heard how they sacréd and swore. But I calmed them down by reminding them that they had taken some of our frigates, and that it was only to be expected that we should take some of theirs in return.”

The captain gave me a side-berth in the little cabin, occupied generally, I found, by one of the mates. It was somewhat close, but I was soon asleep, and slept soundly until daylight the next morning.

By noon a breeze sprang up from the eastward, and under all sail we stood away to the southward. By nightfall we were well in with the French coast, but farther to the west than I expected.

“The tide will soon make in shore, and we must beat back to the eastward,” observed the skipper. “You mustn’t hope, howsomdever, young gentleman, to get ashore till to-morrow morning.”

This mattered little to me, as I had no great objection to spend a few hours more on board.

During the night I awoke, and found the vessel perfectly motionless.

“Can another calm have come on?” I thought.

I was going off to sleep again, when I heard a footstep in the cabin, and, looking out of my bunk, by the light from the swinging lamp I saw the skipper examining some papers at the table.

“Has the wind dropped again?” I inquired.

“No, we are at anchor; we have been chased by a chasse-marée, and so, to escape her, we slipped in here; and here we shall remain perhaps for some days, till the coast is clear,” he answered.

“In that case, captain, I shall prefer going on shore, and making my way overland to my friend’s house. I shall find conveyances of some sort, I suppose?” I said.

“As to that I can’t say. It isn’t much of a place, but you may get along in a country cart, or hire a nag.”

As I had no objection to seeing something of the country, I did not complain of this, and as soon as it was daylight I turned out.

Being anxious not to lose time, I got Captain Long to send me ashore with my valise. A small cabaret being open, I intended to take up my quarters there until I could obtain some means of conveyance to the Château La Touche. A cup of coffee, which was at once offered me, enabled me to wait until a more substantial breakfast was prepared.

In the meantime I took a stroll through the village. It was a small place, and, as far as I could judge, primitive in the extreme. It was the first time I had been in France, yet, as I spoke the language pretty well, I felt myself perfectly at home. Indeed, the people I addressed took me for a Frenchman, and were extremely civil.

On getting back to the inn, the landlady asked me if I had been to see the wonderful animal which had been landed some time before by a fisherman, who had found him, she said, on board a vessel, navigating her all by himself.

“What sort of an animal?” I inquired.

“Ah, monsieur, they say it is a bear. It certainly looks like one, for it has a bear’s head and claws, and a tail; but it does all sort of things that no other bear that I have heard of can do; and what is more strange, it can talk, though no one can understand what it says.”

“I must go and have a look at this bear after breakfast,” I said.

“Certainly monsieur would not leave our village without seeing so great a wonder,” she replied. “My boy Pierre can show you the way. Jacques Chacot, who is the fortunate possessor of the bear, lives not more than a quarter of a league away to the west. He charges half a franc to each person to whom be shows his wonder, and the people come from far and near. He talks of taking his bear to Paris to exhibit it, and if he does he will surely make a fortune.”

Though I was somewhat incredulous as to whether the bear could really speak, and had also a doubt as to the way the woman said the animal had been found, I felt curious to see it; and as soon as I had breakfasted, conducted by Pierre, I set out for the cottage of Jacques Chacot. On the way the boy amused me by giving further accounts of the strange animal we were to see.

We found a number of other people going in the same direction, for my landlady had given no exaggerated account of the curiosity which it had excited. Jacques Chacot evidently possessed the talent of a showman. He had enlarged the front of his cottage so as to form a sort of theatre, the inner part serving as a stage. We found him standing at the door with a couple of stout young fellows, his sons, ready to receive visitors, for he allowed no one to go in until he had obtained payment. A strong bar was run across in front of the stage, which Jacques Chacot explained was to prevent the spectators from approaching too close to the bear, who, he observed, was sometimes seized with sudden fits of ferocity, and might, he was afraid, do some injury. The room was already half full when Pierre and I entered, and a considerable number of people came in afterwards. They were all country people, decently dressed, who behaved with the usual politeness the French exhibit when not excited by any special cause.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Larry’s disguise.

At last Jacques Chacot, looking round the room, gave notice that his bear would at once commence his performance. In a short time a door opened, and he appeared, leading out what looked like a large brown bear, followed by one of his sons, carrying a couple of chairs. Jacques Chacot, who had in his hand a long pole with a sharp point to it, took his seat on one chair, and made signs to the bear to sit down on the other, which it immediately did. The lad then handed a glass of wine to the bear, which, making a bow to the audience, it drank off, putting the glass, it seemed to me, almost down its throat, in a very curious fashion.

Its keeper then ordered it to stand on its head, which it did with seeming unwillingness, kicking its hind legs up in the air.

“Now show mesdames and messieurs how you can dance,” cried Chacot. “Strike up, Jean,” he added to his son, who, getting down a riddle from the wall, commenced scraping away, and producing a merry tune. Up got the bear, and began shuffling and leaping about, in a fashion which strangely resembled an Irish jig, at the same time singing in a voice which sounded remarkably like that of a human being. The audience applauded; but the bear at length, getting tired from its exertions, took a chair and sat itself down in a corner. On this Chacot shouted to it to go on; but the bear, being seized with sulkiness, refused, till the fellow, giving it a poke with his pole, the bear sprang up and recommenced its performance, Jean fiddling away as before.

“Now address the company, and give them an account of your adventures,” said Chacot.

The bear on this got up, and, making another bow, uttered some words which certainly no one present could have understood. Listening attentively, I caught several words which sounded remarkably like Irish.

“Who are you, and where in the world do you come from?” I exclaimed in my native tongue.

No sooner had I uttered the words, than the bear made a spring right off the stage, and rushed towards me, exclaiming, “Arrah! I’m Larry Harrigan, Mr Terence dear! and shure you’ve found me at last?”

At the first movement the bear made the audience rushed from all parts of the room, trying to effect their escape through the door, while Jacques Chacot endeavoured to seize it, and to drag it back on the stage. Larry, however, was not to be hindered, and, grasping my hand, he held it in his shaggy paws, his voice alone assuring me who he was.

“Hands off from him, Chacot!” I cried out. “He is an honest Irishman whom I know well. If you injure him it will be at your peril. Stop, friends, stop!” I shouted to the people as they were escaping. “The bear will do you no harm; come and assist me.” Jacques Chacot, however, fearing that the chance of making further gains by his prisoner would be lost, dragged him back by main force, while poor Larry, closely encased as he was in a skin, and padded out with pillows, was unable to help himself. At the same time, one of the sons, seizing his pike, threatened to run me through if I interfered.

I in vain called to the people to help me; they seemed to think that I was as mad as the bear, or that I was a mere bearish Englishman, who had lived so long amongst animals of that description that I very naturally took it for an old friend Larry continued to shout out to me for help, until Jacques Chacot seized his jaws, and, closing them, prevented his voice from coming out, while the young Frenchmen dragged him away.

“Keep up your spirits, Larry,” I cried. “If there’s justice in the country, I’ll obtain it for you.” As I found it would be impossible at that moment to set Larry free, I followed the people out of the show, and endeavoured to explain to them that the bear was no bear at all, but a human being, whom I had known all my life. This, however, I found they were by no means inclined to believe. It was a very strange bear, they acknowledged, but they had no reason to doubt that bears could speak; and the words he had uttered were just such as might be expected to proceed from a bear.

Young Pierre had bravely stuck by me all the time, and was more inclined to believe me than any one else.

“I have heard say that Jacques Chacot is a great rascal, and if monsieur will take my advice he will go to Monsieur Jules Pontet, the mayor, who will compel him to allow the bear to be properly examined, and if it proves to be a man have him set at liberty,” he observed.

“You are a sensible little fellow,” I answered; “and if you will show me the way to the mayor’s house, we will go to him at once. But don’t let any one know, or Chacot will take means to hide the bear, or carry him off, or perhaps throw him into the sea and drown him, so that there may be no evidence of his knavery.”

“That’s just what I was thinking, monsieur,” said Pierre, as he led the way. We hurried on, for I was very anxious about Larry’s safety, fearful that Chacot would play him some trick. In about twenty minutes we reached the most respectable-looking house in the village.

“Monsieur the mayor lives here,” said Pierre. “He is at home, I know, for he never leaves so early in the day.”

I knocked at the door, and, being admitted by a neat-looking woman in a high cap, was ushered into a room, where I found Monsieur Jules Pontet, the mayor, seated, with number of papers before him. I explained that, having been induced to go and see a strange animal said to be a bear, I had discovered a countryman, an old acquaintance of my own, who had been compelled by some means or other to play the part, that he was being cruelly treated, and desired to be set free.

The mayor listened politely.

“I have heard of this strange animal, and suspected that there was some trick,” he observed; “I will accompany you forthwith, and if you are right in your conjectures, we will have the man set free.”

“They are more than conjectures, they are certainties, monsieur,” I answered.

I then thanked him for his courtesy, when, getting his hat and cane, he immediately set out with me, followed by Pierre, who was eager to see the end.

We found a number of people collected round Chacot’s cottage, which made me hope that during my absence he had not been able, had he contemplated violence, to carry his intention into effect.

“I wish to see this strange animal I have heard of,” said the mayor in an authoritative tone. “Go, some of you, and tell Chacot that I desire him to bring the creature out on the stage, and let him perform his tricks before me. Come, my friends, come in, you shall see the sight without payment this time.”

Whether Chacot was aware or not that I had brought the mayor, I could not tell, as he might not have observed me among the crowd.

In a short time the door of the stage opened, and Chacot appeared, dragging in the bear, who came very reluctantly, urged on by one of the young fellows from behind with a pike.

Larry was going through his performances, when the mayor said, turning to me—

“Speak to him, and tell him to come down quickly. I see the whole trick; no bear would walk as that creature does.”

No sooner did Larry hear my voice than he sprang off the stage, before Chacot or his sons could stop him, and I rushed forward to meet him, followed by Monsieur Pontet.

“Have any of you a knife?” asked the worthy magistrate. “Hand it to me at once.”

A knife was given him, and he began forthwith to cut away at the bear-skin, Larry standing patiently while the operation was going forward.

He soon got the head off, when Larry’s honest countenance was displayed beneath it.

Loud shouts of laughter burst from the people, mingled with no small amount of abuse hurled at Chacot for the trick he had played them.

As the mayor proceeded, a quantity of hay tumbled out, which had served to stuff out poor Larry to the required proportions.

“Faith, Mr Terence dear, you’d better not take it off altogether before so many decent people; for, to say the truth, I’ve got nothing under it but my bare skin,” said Larry to me in a subdued voice.

Such, indeed, I perceived to be the case, as did the mayor.

“Bring the man’s clothes at once, and let him have a room in which he may dress himself properly,” he exclaimed to Chacot, who had, by the mayor’s orders, remained on the stage, and had been watching our proceedings.

Chacot, with no very good grace, obeyed, and I, fearing that some violence might be offered, accompanied him into the room.

Chacot soon appeared with a seaman’s dress, which Larry, jumping out of his bear-skin, quickly put on.

As yet he had had no time to tell me how he had come into the power of the French fisherman; and as I also did not wish to keep the mayor waiting, as soon as Larry was ready, we hurried out to join him.

“I’ll have my revenge on you one of these days,” I heard Chacot exclaim, but I thought it as well to take no notice of his remark.

“Come with me to my house,” said Monsieur Jules Pontet. “I want to hear how that fellow Jacques Chacot got hold of the English seaman. He must have been a stupid fellow to have allowed himself to be so ill-treated.”

“I have not yet had time to make inquiries, monsieur,” I said, “but I will, if you wish it, at once ask him how it happened.”

“By all means,” replied the mayor; so I desired Larry to tell me how he had escaped from the hooker, and been turned into a bear.

“It is a long yarn, Mr Terence, but I’ll cut it short to plase the gintleman. You’ll remember the night we were aboard the hooker. I was asleep forward, just dreaming of Ballinahone, an’ thinking I was leading off a dance with Molly Maguire, when down came the whole castle tumbling about our heads. Opening my eyes, I jumped out of my bunk, and sprang up the fore hatchway, just in time to see that the masts had been carried away, and that the hooker was going to the bottom. How it all happened I couldn’t for the life of me tell. I sang out at the top of my voice for you, Mr Terence, and rushed aft to the cabin, where I expected to find you asleep. But though I shouted loud enough to waken the dead, you didn’t answer, and not a soul was aboard but myself. For a moment I caught sight of the stern of a vessel steering away from us, which made me guess that we had been run down. The water was rushing into the little craft, and I knew that she must go to the bottom. Her masts and spars were still hanging to her side, an’ so, thinks I to meself, I’ll have a struggle for life. I had seen an axe in the companion hatch, and, getting hold of it, I cut away the rigging, and had time to get hold of a cold ham and some bread and a bottle of water, which I stowed in a basket. Thinks I, I’ll make a raft, and so I hove overboard some planks, with part of the main hatch and a grating, and, getting on them, lashed them together in a rough fashion, keeping my eye all the time on the hooker, to see that she didn’t go down, and catch me unawares. I was so mighty busy with this work, that if the vessel which had run the hooker down had come back to look for us I shouldn’t have seen her. I had just got my raft together, when I saw that the hooker was settling down, so I gave it a shove off from her side; and faith I was only just in time, for it made a rush forward, and I thought was going down with the vessel, but up it came again, and there I was, floating all alone on the water.

“During the night a light breeze from the northward sprang up, and I began to fear that I might be drifted out into the Atlantic. However, I couldn’t help myself, and was not going to cry die. I was mighty thankful that the sea was smooth, and so I sat on my raft, trying to be as happy as I could; but the thinking of you, Mr Terence, and not knowing if you had escaped, often made me sad. I wished, too, that I had had my fiddle, when I would have played myself a tune to keep up my spirits. I can’t say how many days I spent on the raft, sleeping when I could not keep my eyes open, till all the provisions and the water I had brought were gone. Then I got very bad, and thought I was going to die. The weather, too, was changing, and the sea getting up. I was just lying down on the raft, not long before the bright sun sank into the ocean, and not expecting to see it rise again, when I heard a shout, and, opening my eyes, I saw a small craft, which I guessed was a French fishing-boat from her look, coming towards me. She having hove-to, presently a boat was lowered from her deck, and I was taken on board, more dead than alive. The Frenchmen gave me some food, and, taking me down into the cabin, put me to bed.

“It came on to blow very hard that night. For some days we were knocking about, not able to get back to port. From the heavy seas which broke over the little vessel, and from the way I heard the Frenchmen speaking, I thought that after all we should be lost, but I was too weak to care much about the matter just then.

“However, at last the weather moderated, and after several days I found that we were at anchor in smooth water. I was still very bad, so the French skipper carried me ashore to his cottage. He fed me pretty well, and I at last got strong enough to walk about. By this time I had managed somehow to make him understand me, and I asked him to tell me how I could cross over to Ireland, as I wanted to get home and learn if you had escaped. He laughed at me, however, and said that I owed him a hundred francs for taking care of me, and that I must pay him. I answered that I would be glad enough to pay him, like an honest man, as soon as I could get any prize-money, and that I would send it over to him. To this, however, he would not agree, but said that if I would help him in a trick he wanted to play off on the people, he would be satisfied. He then explained that I must dress up like a bear, and that he would show me off as a wonder. As I had no help for it, I consented. He at once made me get into the bear-skin which you, Mr Terence, cut me out of, and showed me how I was to behave myself. After I had had some days’ practice, he sent round to let it be known that he had picked up a bear at sea, which could talk and play all sorts of tricks; and in a short time people came to look at me. At first I thought it a good joke, but at last he treated me so like a real bear, for he chained me up at night and never let me get out of my skin, that I began to grow heartily tired of the fun; and it’s my belief, if you hadn’t found me out, he’d have been after making away with me, lest the people should discover the trick he had played them.”

I translated Larry’s story to the mayor, who, being a humane man, was very indignant, but said that he had no power to punish Chacot, as Larry confessed that he had consented to be dressed up.

When I told this to Larry, he said that he should be very sorry to have Chacot suffer, as, whatever his motive, he had certainly saved his life.

In a couple of days Larry was fit to set out. With the aid of Monsieur Pontet, I purchased two horses. They were sorry steeds to look at, but had more go in them than I expected from their appearance. Larry carried my valise, and I had my sword and a brace of pistols, though Monsieur Pontet assured me I should have no necessity for their use. I had become intimate with him, and he kindly gave me a letter of introduction to a friend of his at Vernon, a Monsieur Planterre, who, he said, would dispose of my horses for me, and afford me any other assistance I might require, in case La Touche should be absent from home.

Bidding farewell to Monsieur Pontet, I started on my journey at an early hour in the morning, fully expecting to enjoy the trip, as all was new and strange to me. The people I met with were primitive in their habits, and invariably treated me with civility. The inns I stopped at were small, and not over comfortable, but as they afforded sufficient accommodation for man and beast, I did not complain.

I must pass over the incidents of the journey. It was towards evening when the towers of Vernon, situated on the banks of the Seine, appeared in sight, and, passing across the boulevards which surrounded the town, I entered the narrow, crooked streets, with timber-framed houses on either side, and kept clean by running streams. On my way I inquired for the house of Monsieur Planterre, which I found situated at the entrance of an avenue which leads to the Château de Bizy, belonging to the Duc de Penthièvre.

The house, though of a primitive style of architecture, was better than most of those I had passed. Being admitted, Larry having taken charge of my horse, Monsieur Planterre received me with much courtesy, and, telling me that I could not possibly reach the Château La Touche that evening, invited me to take up my quarters at his house. I of course was glad to accept his invitation, and Larry was at once sent round to the stables with the horses. I took no further concern for him, being well aware that he could make himself at home wherever he was.

Monsieur Planterre told me that he was acquainted with my friend La Touche, and should be happy to accompany me to the château the next day. I learned from him more of the state of things in France than I had before known. He told me that republican principles were gaining ground in all directions, and that the people were everywhere complaining of the taxes imposed on them by the Government.

“Discontent indeed prevails everywhere, and unless reforms take place, I know not what will be the result,” he said, with a deep sigh. “Even in this place the people are in an unsatisfactory state of mind.”

I was introduced to Madame Planterre and her daughters, bright, pretty young ladies, who seemed much attached to their parents. They gave me a very pleasant idea of a French family of the upper middle class.

Next morning Monsieur Planterre asked me to defer starting for a couple of hours, as he had to attend a meeting at the Town Hall, where he hoped to propose some measure for the benefit of the poorer inhabitants. He suggested that I should pass the intermediate time in taking a turn through the town, and visiting an ancient tower and hospital founded by Saint Louis, and other objects of interest.

Giving Larry directions to have the horses ready, I set out. Having spent nearly two hours in visiting different parts of the town, I ascended to the top of the ancient tower I have mentioned, from which I obtained a fine view, not only of the picturesque old town, but along the Seine for a considerable distance up and down, and also of the Château de Bizy, with the fine avenue leading to it. I was about to descend, when I saw a vast number of people emerging from the various streets into a broad space called the Place, a short distance below me. From their movements they appeared highly excited, for loud cries and shouts reached my ears. The greater number were armed, either with muskets, pikes, scythes, swords, or other weapons. As I was curious to know what they were about, I hastened down, and made my way along the street leading to the Place. I had no fear of going among the people, for I did not suppose that they would interfere with me. Many of those I passed were of respectable appearance, and as I got into the Place I inquired of one of them what they were about to do.

“They have just tried and condemned to death one of our principal citizens, Monsieur Planterre, who has always proved himself one of their best friends,” was the reply.

“Monsieur Planterre!” I exclaimed. “Where is he?”

My friend was pointed out to me, in the midst of a band of ruffians, who were dragging him forward, shouting, “A la lanterne! à la lanterne!”

Seized with an impulse I could not control, to preserve, if I could, the life of my kind host, I dashed forward through the crowd. The people made way for me, until I reached his side.

“Good people of Vernon, what are you about to do?” I exclaimed. “I hear every one speaking in favour of Monsieur Planterre, and yet you threaten him with instant death.”

My friend, whilst I was speaking, stood pale and trembling; the rope was round his neck, and the ruffians had hold of the end, as if eager to strangle him.

“What has he done to outweigh his kind deeds?” I asked.

No answer was vouchsafed, the mob only shouting the louder, “A la lanterne! à la lanterne!”

“Who are you, young stranger? Be off with you, or you shall share his fate,” cried out a big ruffian; and many of them pressing on, shoved me aside, endeavouring to separate me from their intended victim.

I saw that it was a moment for action,—that should I exhibit the slightest hesitation the life of a worthy man would be sacrificed; and, regardless of the danger I myself ran from the fury of the excited crowd, again dashing forward, I succeeded in reaching Monsieur Planterre, round whom I threw my arms, and held him fast.

“You shall not injure him. Back, all of you!” I shouted. “I will not allow you to destroy an honest man. There must be some mistake. You are not executioners, you are assassins, and are about to commit a deed of which you will repent.”

Notwithstanding what I said, the ruffians still pressed upon us, and attempted to drag Monsieur Planterre away, shouting, “A la lanterne!” but I held him fast.

“My friends,” I cried,—“for I will not call you enemies,—if you hang this man you must hang me, for alive I will not be separated from him, and you will be guilty of the murder of two honest men instead of one.”

As I spoke a reaction suddenly took place; my words had even more effect than I expected on the volatile crowd. One of them rushed forward and removed the rope from Monsieur Planterre’s neck.

“You have saved his life!” cried another.

“You are a brave fellow!” shouted a third. “Long live the noble Englishman! he is worthy of our regard.”

These and similar cries burst from the throats of numbers standing round, and were echoed by the would-be executioners. Before I knew what was about to happen, a number of them, rushing forward, lifted me on their shoulders, and carried me along in triumph, shouting and singing, while Monsieur Planterre’s friends, who had been watching the opportunity, pressing forward, hurried him away in another direction. To my infinite satisfaction, I saw him carried off, while I was borne along by the crowd, who shouted and sang in my praise until their voices were hoarse.

I thought it wise to submit to the honours paid me; at the same time I could not tell at what moment the feelings of the fickle mob might change, and perhaps they might carry me to the lanterne instead of the man I had rescued. I made the best of my position, and kept bowing to the mob right and left, expressing my admiration for France and Frenchmen in the most glowing terms I could command.

This seemed to please them mightily; but I was curious to know what they were going to do with me. They appeared highly delighted at having an object on which to bestow their admiration. First they carried me round and round the Place, shouting and cheering, while they told all who came up what I had done. Perhaps they found it quite as amusing as hanging their townsman.

At last some one proposed that they should carry me to the Hôtel de Ville. The proposal was received with acclamations by the crowd, and my bearers set off, several of them going before cheering and gesticulating, while, as we passed through the narrow, crooked streets, the people looked out from the windows, waving coloured handkerchiefs and shawls, for by this time the whole town had heard, with perhaps a few exaggerations, of the act I had performed. On arriving at the Town Hall, I saw a number of gentlemen in full dress, with various insignia, whom I suspected to be the civic authorities, standing on the steps, drawn up to welcome me. My bearers halted when a small gentleman, in a powdered wig and cocked hat, who was, I found, the mayor, stepping in front of the rest, made me a long oration, at which the mob cheered and cheered again. I then found, from all eyes being turned towards me, that it was expected I should say something in return. I accordingly expressed, in the best French I could command, my sense of the honour done me, and my satisfaction at having been the means of saving the life of one who, from his many virtues, was esteemed by his fellow-citizens; and I added I felt sure that those who had intended to put him to death were under an erroneous impression, as was shown by the generous way in which they treated me. I now begged to thank my bearers for having carried me so long on their shoulders, and, unwilling though I was to descend from so honourable a position, I requested that they would have the goodness to put me down on my feet that I might see their faces, so that I might be able at any future time to recognise them, which I owned I should at present be unable to do.

After some demur, they at last acceded to my request, letting me down on my feet. When I did see their countenances, it struck me that they were as hideous a set of ruffians as any of those I had before seen.

Concealing my feelings, however, I shook each of them by the hand, calling them my dear brothers, and assuring them that I should never forget the honour done me. After they had shaken themselves and stretched their brawny limbs, they appeared inclined to get hold of me again and carry me off on another round of the Place. Feeling especially unwilling, for the reason I have before given, to undergo another ovation, I stepped back among the civic authorities, and got inside the Town Hall, conducted by a gentleman, who whispered that he was a friend of Monsieur Planterre’s, and that he had been sent by him to escort me back to his house.

“Monsieur Planterre is anxious to get out of the town as soon as possible, and advises you to do the same, for we cannot tell at what moment the mob may change their minds, and perhaps take it into their heads to hang you and him together,” he said, as, leading me through the Town Hall, he conducted me out by a back door.

“We are going by a somewhat circuitous route to the house of Monsieur Planterre, where he himself is waiting for us,” he continued, as we walked on together. “Your horses are in readiness, and he has had one prepared for himself, so that you may start as soon as you arrive.”

As we passed through the streets we could hear the shouts of the people in the distance, but what they were about we could not tell. My guide appeared to be in a somewhat agitated state, as if he feared that they would commit some other deed of violence, to recompense themselves for losing the pleasure of hanging Monsieur Planterre.

On arriving before the house I found Larry holding three horses. Presently a serving-man came out and took hold of the rein of one of the animals. On looking at him, to my surprise I recognised Monsieur Planterre himself.

“I think it wise to leave the town in this disguise, lest the mob should suddenly regret having allowed me to escape, and, seeing me go, pursue me,” he said.

I immediately mounted, and Monsieur Planterre, pointing out the road I was to take, I moved forward, followed by him and Larry, they appearing in the characters of my two lackeys. They kept close behind me, in order that Monsieur Planterre might tell me when to turn to the right or left. He evidently expected that we should be pursued, but though I looked round occasionally, I could see no one following us.

Upon the road Monsieur Planterre rode up to my side, and gave me a good deal of information, both about my friend’s family and that of other families in the neighbourhood.

“I am grateful to you,” he continued, “for the service you have rendered me, and I am anxious for your safety. I would advise you, therefore, to make no long stay in France. The whole country is, I can assure you, like a volcano, ready to burst forth at any moment. The people are generally imbued with republican principles, and they have lost all respect for the priests; they complain of the heavy taxes which go to support a profligate court; and are weary of the tyranny under which they have so long groaned.”

“But has not the king a powerful army to keep them in order?” I inquired.

“The army cannot be depended on,” answered my friend. “It is thoroughly disorganised, and at any moment may side with the people. The only reliable troops are the Swiss, and other foreigners. We are coming upon troublous times, of that I am confident.”

Until now I had known nothing of France, and had fancied that Frenchmen were a light-hearted race, thoroughly contented with themselves and their country; indeed, I even now scarcely believed what Monsieur Planterre told me.

In less than a couple of hours we caught sight of an ancient mansion, with a high roof, and towers at the corners, standing up amid the trees.

“There is the Château la Touche,” said my companion. “I will not present myself in this disguise at the front gate, but when you descend will accompany your servant, who has not discovered who I am, and takes me for one of his fellows.”

On arriving at the gate, Monsieur Planterre, having given his horse to Larry, went up the steps and rang the bell, and then came down and held my steed whilst I dismounted. As soon as the door opened he led my horse off.

La Touche, who had been advised of my arrival, hurried out to meet me, and embraced me affectionately according to the French fashion.

“Overjoyed to see you, my dear friend,” he exclaimed. “I have been long looking for you, and am delighted that you have been induced to come. I have been preparing various entertainments, as I wish to show you how we Frenchmen enjoy life.”

I said everything that was proper in return, when, after he had made many inquiries as to how I had come to France, and the adventures I had met with on my journey, he added—

“Now I must introduce you to madame ma mère and my young sister. They are prepared to receive you as a friend, and are delighted to find that you possess the accomplishment of speaking French.”

He forthwith led me into a handsome salon, or drawing-room, in which I saw two ladies seated, engaged in embroidery work. They both rose as we entered. The eldest was a stately and handsome dame, but my eyes were naturally attracted by the younger. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Monsieur Planterre had described her, or I do not know how I should have behaved myself. She was in truth the most lovely little damsel I had ever seen, fair, and of exquisite figure, with blue, laughing eyes. They received me without any form, as if I had been an old friend, and I at once felt myself perfectly at home. Without speaking of my adventures at Vernon, I told them of my landing, and highly amused them with the description of the way in which I had found my follower Larry compelled to act the part of a bear. I said how grateful I felt to the worthy mayor for the assistance he had given me, as also for his introduction to Monsieur Planterre. While I was speaking, La Touche was summoned out of the room by a servant. He in a short time returned, and then, to my surprise, gave his mother and sister a full account of the way I had rescued Monsieur Planterre from the hands of the mob.

Mademoiselle Sophie appeared to be highly interested, and kept looking at me while her brother was speaking, and, although she did not join in the praises her mother lavished upon me for what she called my gallant conduct, evidently regarded me as a hero.

“You have come into our country in what I fear will prove troublous times,” observed La Touche, as we were seated at the supper table. “The people are inclined to take the law into their own hands in other places besides Vernon, and are specially ill-disposed towards the noblesse, who, they declare, have been living on the fat of the land, while they have been starving. Our friend Monsieur Planterre, after what has occurred, not considering his life safe in the town, has come out here, but thought it wiser not to appear as a guest, lest it should be reported that I have entertained him. My people suppose him to be a lackey, as he acts the part to admiration; and he will take his departure to-morrow morning, without, I hope, being discovered, so that they will all be ready to declare that Monsieur Planterre has not come to the château.”

“Yes, there is a sad time coming for France, from what I hear is taking place in Paris,” said Madame La Touche. “The people have already got the upper hand, and the king himself is, I fear, in hourly peril of his life.”

“Ah! we must not think or talk about such things too much,” said La Touche. “My object at present is to make our guest’s stay in France pleasant, and not to speak of disagreeable subjects. Sophie will, I am sure, aid me in that object.”

Sophie smiled, and said that such an occupation would afford her much pleasure.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Conclusion.

As the supper was at a comparatively early hour, we retired to the drawing-room, where the young lady played and sang, with much spirit, several lively airs, which her brother selected. She then chose one for herself of a more plaintive character, which had, as she intended it should have, a strange effect upon me. I listened in raptures, for her voice was sweet and melodious.

“I am indeed glad that you understand French so well,” she said. “When I heard that an Englishman was coming some day, I thought that we should have had to carry on a conversation by signs, and that would have been very stupid.”

“I fear that I do not speak it very correctly, but I must try to improve myself,” I remarked.

“You do make a few mistakes now and then, but I shall be delighted to instruct you, and to correct your errors, if you will allow me to do so.”

That night, although somewhat tired from the exertions I had gone through in the morning, it was some time before I felt inclined to turn in; and when I did at length go to bed, I remained awake far longer than usual, thinking of the beautiful Sophie, her sweet voice still sounding in my ears.

I was awakened next morning by Larry, who accompanied one of the servants to my room.

“I did not see you last night, Mr Terence, and I couldn’t tell what had become of your honour,” he exclaimed. “Faith, I tried to tell the people of the house that I wanted to find you, but not a word of my best French did they understand.”

I told Larry how well I had been treated, and that he need not have any apprehensions about me. The servant had brought a cup of coffee, which I found was the custom of the French to take in the morning, and he told me that breakfast would not be ready for an hour or more. As soon, therefore, as I had dressed I descended to the garden, which was of considerable extent, with lawns, fish-ponds, fountains, statues, and labyrinths. I had not gone far, when I saw a small figure tripping on lightly before me. I was tempted to hasten my steps. She turned—it was Sophie.

“I will show you the garden,” she said, “and my favourite spots. You might lose yourself without my guidance, and perhaps you will accept it.”

I of course had but one answer to give. We walked on in the fresh morning air. I thought her lovely in the evening, but she appeared still more so now, looking as fresh and bright as the gay flowers which adorned the parterres. I felt that I had entered into a new existence; it was no wonder, for we were both young, and she had lived a secluded life, she told me, since her father’s death. We very naturally forgot all about breakfast, and when we arrived at the house Madame La Touche chided her for her thoughtlessness in allowing me to starve.

Such was the commencement of my stay. My friend insisted that I should go out with him to shoot, believing that such was the only amusement I was likely to care for; but the preserves were full of game, and we had to do little more than stand still and shoot the birds as they were put up by the dogs. We returned to dinner, and as La Touche gave me the choice, I preferred a stroll in the garden with him and his sister to a more extended excursion.

The following days were spent in the same delightful manner. Every hour I became more and more attached to Sophie. I could not but feel a desire that she should return my affection. I forgot my poverty, and that until I could obtain my promotion, I should have nothing on which to support a wife, as the Ballinahone property had been entailed on my brother. I ought, I knew, to have assumed an indifference to the young lady, and speedily taken my departure, and I was in consequence much to blame. Still La Touche should not have invited me to the château; but in throwing me into the society of so charming a being as his sister, he did no perhaps think of the consequences, or, if he did, fancied that I was possessed of wealth, or at least a competency.

We were living all the time a peaceful secluded life, for we never went beyond the walled grounds of the château, and few visitors came to the house. We heard occasionally, however, what was going forward both in Paris and other parts of the country. Matters were growing more and more serious. Risings had occurred in various places, and lives had been lost. An army of fishwives, and other women of the lowest orders, had marched to Versailles, and threatened the King and Marie Antoinette, if food was not given them.

We were one evening seated at supper when a servant rushed into the room, with terror depicted in his countenance.

“Oh, monsieur! oh, madame!” he exclaimed, “I have just received notice that a vast array of people are marching this way, threatening to destroy all the châteaux in the neighbourhood, and the Château La Touche in particular. They declare that you are an aristocrat.”

“Are you certain that this is true?” exclaimed La Touche, starting from his seat.

“If monsieur will come to the northern tower, he will hear the voices of the people in the distance,” replied the servant.

“Do not be alarmed, my mother and sister,” said La Touche. “The report may be exaggerated, but it is as well to be prepared. We will close all the lower doors and windows, and set the ruffians at defiance if they come. Will you accompany me, Finnahan, and as we go give me your advice as to the best way of defending the house?”

I would willingly have stopped to try and tranquillise the alarm of Madame La Touche and Sophie, but I could not refuse my friend’s request. I set off with him, and we soon reached the tower. We looked out from a narrow window towards the north, but at first could see no one approaching, though on listening attentively we fancied that we could distinguish the murmur of voices far off.

Presently a bright light appeared on the left, rising, it seemed, out of the midst of a forest at some distance from the banks of the Seine. The light rapidly increased in size, and flames began to ascend, while clouds of smoke darkened the sky.

“Ah! that must come from the Château l’Estrange!” exclaimed La Touche. “The rabble have attacked the house, and set it on fire. Fortunately, none of the family are at home except the old domestics, and they, poor people, will too probably be sacrificed. The villains would like to treat my château in the same way, and will before long make the attempt.”

“But we will defend it, and drive them back,” I exclaimed. “Have you a sufficient supply of arms and ammunition for its defence? We must barricade all the doors and windows; and, unless they have cannon, they will not succeed in getting in, I trust.”

“We have plenty of arms, and I obtained a supply of ammunition a short time since,” said La Touche. “I doubt, however, the courage of some of my domestics; they would rather yield to the rabble than risk their lives in the defence of my property.”

“Larry and I will try to make up, as far as we can, for their want of bravery,” I said.

“Thank you, my friends; you will be a host in yourselves. Now let us see about preparing to give the insurgents a warm reception should they attack the château.”

On descending from the tower, La Touche entered the supper room singing and laughing.

“There is not much to be afraid of, so you need not be anxious, ma chère mère; or you either, Sophie,” he said in a cheerful tone of voice. “We are going to shut the doors and windows in case any of the rabble may try to creep in at them. You can retire to your rooms or stay here, as you think best. You will oblige me, however, by keeping the women quiet, or they may be running about and interfering with our proceedings.”

“We will do more than keep them quiet,” exclaimed Sophie; “we will make them useful by setting them an example; only tell us what you want us to do.”

“The best thing you can do is to close all the shutters and windows looking to the front in the upper storey, and to place chests of drawers and bedding against them, so that if bullets are fired they will do no harm.”

“That we will do, my son,” said Madame La Touche, rising from her seat; and she hurried off, accompanied by Sophie.

La Touche at once summoned his maître d’hôtel and the other servants.

“My friends,” he said, “I have no intention of letting the insurgents destroy my château, as they have done those of other persons, and I will trust to you to defend it to the last.”

A party of Englishmen would have cheered. They, however, merely said, “Oui! oui! monsieur; we are ready to do what you tell us.”

Among the servants came Larry. I told him what we expected would happen, and what he was to do.

“Shure we’ll be after driving the ‘spalpeens’ back again,” he answered. “I was little thinking that we should have this sort of fun to amuse us when we came to France.”

We lost no more time in talking, but immediately set to work to shut all the doors on the ground floor, and to nail pieces of timber and strong planks against them. The windows were closed with such materials as could be obtained. There were more forthcoming than I expected; and La Touche acknowledged that he had laid in a store some time before.

He then summoned the maître d’hôtel and two other servants, and led the way—accompanied by Larry and me—down a steep flight of stone steps to a vault beneath the house. Opening the door of what was supposed to be a wine cellar, he showed us a stand of twenty muskets, with pistols and pikes, several casks of powder and cases of bullets. Larry, at once fastening a belt round his waist, and tucking a couple of muskets under each arm, hurried off, the servants following his example. La Touche and I each took as many more, and returned to the hall.

His first care was to place his men two and two at each of the parts of the building likely to be attacked.

“These countrymen of mine fight better together than singly,” he observed. “And now let us go round and examine our defences, to ascertain that no part is left insecure.”

Some time was spent in making these various arrangements. Every now and then La Touche ran in to see his mother and sister, and to assure them that they need not be alarmed.

“I have no fears,” said Sophie, on one of these occasions, when I accompanied him. “With the help of this brave Englishman and his follower, I am sure that you will drive back the insurgents.”

“Ma foi! I hope so,” said La Touche to me, as we left the room. “But they are the same sort of ruffians as those who destroyed the Bastile.”

The news of that event had a short time before reached us.

“Now let us return to the watch-tower, and try to make out what the canaille are about.”

The mob, as far as we could observe, were not as yet approaching. They were probably dancing and singing round the burning château, the flames from which were ascending in all directions, its towers forming four pyramids of fire.

“They are waiting to see the result of their handiwork,” said La Touche. “When the roof has fallen in and the towers come to the ground, they will be satisfied, and will probably make their way in this direction. Ah! what are those lights there?” he suddenly exclaimed.

I looked towards the spot he pointed at, when I saw advancing along the road a number of men bearing torches.

“They are coming, as I expected, fully believing that they will destroy this château as they have the Château l’Estrange,” said La Touche. “Now, my friend, it is possible that they may succeed, notwithstanding all our preparations. I will therefore have a carriage prepared, and the horses put to, with two others for riding. I know, should I be unable to go, that you will protect my mother and sister, and endeavour to conduct them to a place of safety, either to the coast or to the house of a friend whom they will name to you.”

“You may trust me indeed, although I hope for your sake that there will be no necessity for such a proceeding,” I answered, my heart beating strangely at the thought of having Sophie and her mother committed to my charge. I resolved, of course, to protect them to the last, and I hoped that in my character as a foreigner I might be able to do this more effectually than La Touche himself. Madame should pass as my mother, and Sophie for my sister, and I hoped that we might thus pass through the fiercest mob, whose rage, being turned against the aristocrats, would not interfere with an Englishman, whom they would imagine was merely travelling through the country for the sake of seeing it, as many had been doing for some time past. We had very little longer time to wait, when some hundreds of persons appeared coming along the road directly for the château. We could see them from the tower, where we had remained. A large number were carrying torches. The entrance gate was locked and barred, and the château itself, all lights being concealed, must have appeared shrouded in darkness.

“Let them exhaust their strength in breaking down the gate,” said La Touche.

Scarcely a moment after, the mob reached the gate, waving their torches, and shrieking and shouting out—

“Down with the aristocrats! Down with the tyrants! Down with those who pillage us, and live upon the product of our toil?”

“Let them shout themselves hoarse,” remarked La Touche. “They will not find it a very easy matter to break down that stout old gate, or to climb over the wall.”

On discovering the impediment in their way, their shouts and threats increased in fury. A number of them, rushing against the bar of the gate, endeavoured to force it from its hinges.

Not a word all this time was uttered by any of our garrison. The insurgents, finding that the gate would not yield, shouted for some one in the château to open it. No one replied. Again and again they shook it. At last we heard the sound of loud blows, as if it were being struck by a sledge hammer, while several figures appeared on the top of the wall, ladders having been procured to assist them up.

“Why do you come here, my friends?” demanded La Touche abruptly. “The gate is locked as a sign that I wished to be in private.”

“It is the residence of an aristocrat, and all such we have resolved to level to the ground,” shouted one of the mob.

“I warn you that you will pay dearly if you make the attempt,” cried La Touche. “We are well-armed, and are resolved to defend the place.”

“We are not to be stopped by threats. On, comrades, on!” exclaimed another voice among those who were clambering over the wall. “If one of our number falls, remember that every one of those inside the house will be destroyed.”

“You have been warned,—the consequence will be on your own heads if you attack us,” said La Touche.

By this time a considerable number of persons had got into the yard by clambering over the wall, but the stout iron gate had hitherto resisted all attempts to force it open.

“We might kill or wound all the fellows in front of the house,” said La Touche to me, “but I am unwilling to shed the blood of my countrymen if it can be avoided; I will give them another chance. You are in our power, friends,” he shouted out; “if we fire, not one of you will escape. Go back to where you came from, and your lives will be spared.”

Derisive shouts were the only answers given to what La Touche had said. More people were all the time clambering over the wall, while continued blows on the gate showed that the mob had not given up the idea of forcing an entrance. Presently there was a loud crash, the gate was thrown open, and in rushed a number of savage-looking fellows, all armed with some weapon or other, many of them carrying torches, which they waved wildly above their heads, shouting all the time, “Down with the aristocrats! Revenge! revenge for the wrongs they have done us!”

“They are in earnest, of that there can be no doubt,” said La Touche. “We must drive them back before they become more daring. It is useless to hold further parley with them;” and he gave orders to our small garrison to open fire.

Loud shrieks and cries rent the air, several people were seen to fall, but this only increased the rage of the rest, who, running up to the front door with axes and other weapons, began hacking away at it, probably expecting quickly to force it open.

More and more people followed, until the whole yard was full of men surging here and there, some firing, others waving their torches, apparently to distract our attention, while the more determined assailed the doors and windows.

“Are there no troops likely to come to our assistance?” I asked, seeing that matters were growing serious.

“No; we must defend ourselves, and I fear that if these ruffians persevere, they will succeed at last,” whispered La Touche to me. “We must endeavour to save my mother and sister, for the mob, if they once get in, will sacrifice them as well as the rest of us. I am resolved to stop and defend my house to the last, but I must provide for their safety by committing them to your charge. The carriage is in readiness, and there are two faithful servants to whom I have given orders how to act. Go, I beseech you, at once, and request my mother and Sophie to enter the carriage and set out without a moment’s delay. Two saddle-horses are in readiness for you and your servant. You will go as their escort. Tell them I will retreat in time to follow them. Take the road towards Paris, and wait for me. Should any one attempt to interfere with you, say that you are an English officer, and that the ladies are under your charge. I do not apprehend that you will be molested; go, therefore, lose no time.”

He wrung my hand as if he would take no denial. I of course, although unwilling to leave him, was ready to carry out his wishes. I hastened to the room where I had left Madame La Touche and Sophie, and explained to them what La Touche wished them to do.

“But will he follow us?” asked Madame La Touche in an agitated tone.

“He has promised to do so, madame,” I answered; “but let us not delay, lest the mob should get round to the other side of the house and cut off our retreat.”

Madame La Touche hesitated no longer, but allowed me to lead her and her daughter down to the yard at the back of the house, where we found the horses already put to, and I handed the ladies into the carriage. The coachman mounted the box; another servant was holding the two riding horses; and I was preparing to mount, when Larry, sent by La Touche, came springing down the steps and was in his saddle in a moment. The French servant mounted behind the carriage; and the coach drove off down an avenue which led along the banks of a stream running through the pleasure-grounds. I was in hopes that La Touche would have followed at once, for I saw that there was very little probability of his being able successfully to defend the house against the savage mob who had resolved to destroy it. I could hear the wild shrieks and shouts and cries of the assailants, the rattle of musketry, and the loud thundering against the doors and windows; but, anxious as I felt about my friend, my duty was to push on with my charges, and with all possible speed to convey them out of danger. The coachman was equally desirous to preserve his mistress, and lashed on his horses at their utmost speed. Fortunately he knew the road, which was an unusually good one.

We were soon outside the grounds belonging to the château. Proceeding along a road which ran parallel with the river, we soon got beyond the sounds of the strife; but on looking round I saw a bright light suddenly appear in the direction of the château. It increased in size. Another and another appeared; and I could distinguish the flames bursting out from several windows. Could the mob so soon have broken into the château, and set it on fire? I feared the worst, and that my gallant friend and his servants had been overwhelmed, and too probably massacred. I felt thankful, however, that Madame La Touche and Sophie had escaped in time. Had they remained a few minutes longer, they might have been too late. Had I been alone, I should have been unable to restrain myself from galloping back to ascertain what had occurred; but to protect them was now my great object. I kept as close as possible to the carriage, not knowing what might at any moment occur. I was afraid that they might look out of the window and see the flames; but they were too much overcome with grief and terror to do that, and sat back in the carriage, clasped in each other’s arms. When the road would allow, I rode up and spoke a few words to try and comfort them, although it was no easy matter to do that.

“When will Henri come?” exclaimed Madame La Touche. “He ought to have overtaken us by this time.”

“You forget, madame, we have been travelling at a rapid rate,” I observed. “He promised to retreat in time, should he find it necessary to abandon the château. He will probably overtake us when we stop for the night. There is no fear that the mob will follow him to any distance.”

The coachman said he knew of an inn about six leagues on the Paris road, where madame and Sophie might rest securely, as the mob could not get so far that night. It was where Monsieur La Touche had ordered him to remain. I bade him therefore go on as his master told him, although he proceeded at a slower rate than at first, for fear of knocking up his horses.

I was very thankful when the little inn was reached. It was kept by a buxom dame, who received Madame La Touche and Sophie politely, and offered the best accommodation her house would afford. I handed the ladies from the carriage. Madame entered the house at once, but Sophie lingered for a moment.

“Oh, tell me, Monsieur Finnahan, has Henri come yet? I dread lest he should have done anything rash, and lost his life. It would break mamma’s heart if he were to be killed; and she will not rest, I am convinced, until she knows he is safe. I cannot ask you to go back to look for him, but will you send your servant to gain intelligence, and bring it to us?”

“I would go back myself, but my duty is to remain and guard you,” I said. “What do you wish?—tell me.”

“We shall be perfectly safe here, and I desire for my mother’s sake to know what has happened to Henri,” she answered.

I thought that Sophie was right, and my own anxiety made me desire to ride back.

I accordingly mounted my horse, leading Larry’s. I left my faithful retainer with instructions that in the event of the mob approaching, he was to drive off with the ladies. I galloped on at full speed, anxious without loss of time to reach the château. If La Touche had escaped, he would probably require my assistance. I had no expectation of finding he had beaten back the insurgents; indeed, I was not free from the fearful apprehension that he and his people had been surprised by them, and massacred before they could make good their retreat; still, as the insurgents, when I left the château, appeared to have no intention of making their way round to the back of the building, I hoped that he would have contrived to escape in time. That they would have murdered him if caught I had not the shadow of a doubt.

I had marked the road as I came along, and had no fear as to finding my way. The moon, too, had risen, which enabled me to do this with less difficulty. As I galloped on, I looked carefully about on either side, for I knew that the clatter of my horses’ hoofs would attract the attention of any one coming along the road. But I met no one along the whole length of my ride. At last I could distinguish the tall towers with the flames bursting out from their summits, and I knew that the château was doomed to destruction. Suddenly both horses started, and I heard a voice say—

“Who goes there?”

It was La Touche. He was wounded badly, and unable to proceed farther. Had I not gone to look for him, he would most probably have perished.

“The château will be burned to the ground,” he observed. “But I care not for that, now that I know, thanks to you, Finnahan, that my mother and Sophie have escaped.”

Having bound up his wounds, I assisted him to mount the spare horse, and we set out for the inn where I had left Madame La Touche and her daughter.

We met with many adventures and hair-breadth escapes before I ultimately succeeded in escorting them on board the Saucy Bet, and seeing them safely landed in England I shortly afterwards obtained my promotion. And though I have much more to narrate which my readers may like to hear, I was now lieutenant, and my adventures as a midshipman therefore come to a conclusion at this period of my life.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Paul Gerrard"

Chapter One.

Darkness had set in. The wind was blowing strong from the southwest, with a fine, wetting, penetrating rain, which even tarpaulins, or the thickest of Flushing coats, would scarcely resist. A heavy sea also was running, such as is often to be met with in the chops of the British Channel during the month of November, at which time of the year, in the latter part of the last century, a fine frigate was struggling with the elements, in a brave attempt to beat out into the open ocean. She was under close-reefed topsails; but even with this snug canvas she often heeled over to the blast, till her lee-ports were buried in the foaming waters. Now she rose to the summit of a white-crested sea; now she sunk into the yawning trough below; and ever and anon as she dashed onward in spite of all opposition, a mass of water would strike her bows with a clap like that of thunder, and rising over her bulwarks, would deluge her deck fore and aft, and appear as if about to overwhelm her altogether. A portion of the officers and crew stood at their posts on deck, now and then shaking the water from their hats and coats, after they had been covered with a thicker shower than usual of rain or spray, or looking up aloft at the straining canvas, or out over the dark expanse of ocean; but all of them taking matters very composedly, and wishing only that their watch were over, that they might enjoy such comforts as were to be found below, and take part in the conviviality which, in spite of the gale, was going forward.

It was Saturday night, and fore and aft the time-honoured toast of “sweethearts and wives” was being enthusiastically drunk,—nowhere more enthusiastically than in the midshipmen’s berth; and not the less so probably, that few of its light-hearted inmates had in reality either one or the other. What cared they for the tumult which raged above their heads? They had a stout ship and trusted officers, and their heads and insides were well accustomed to every possible variety of lurching and pitching, in which their gallant frigate the Cerberus was at that moment indulging. The Cerberus, a fine 42-gun frigate, commanded by Captain Walford, had lately been put in commission, and many of her officers and midshipmen had only joined just before the ship sailed, and were thus comparatively strangers to each other. The frigate was now bound out to a distant station, where foes well worthy of her, it was hoped, would be encountered, and prize-money without stint be made.

The midshipmen’s berth of the Cerberus was a compartment of somewhat limited dimensions,—now filled to overflowing with mates, midshipmen, masters’-assistants, assistant-surgeons, and captain’s and purser’s clerks,—some men with grey heads, and others boys scarcely in their teens, of all characters and dispositions, the sons of nobles of the proudest names, and the offspring of plebeians, who had little to boast of on that score, or on any other; but the boys might hope, notwithstanding, as many did, to gain fame and a name for themselves. The din of tongues and shouts of laughter which proceeded out of that narrow berth, rose even above the creaking of bulkheads, the howling of the wind, and the roar of the waves.

The atmosphere was somewhat dense and redolent of rum, and could scarcely be penetrated by the light of the three purser’s dips which burned in some battered tin candlesticks, secured by lanyards to the table. At one end of the table over which he presided as caterer, sat Tony Noakes, an old mate, whose grog-blossomed nose and bloodshot eyes told of many a past debauch.

“Here’s to my own true love, Sally Pounce,” he shouted in a husky voice, lifting to his lips a stiff glass of grog, which was eyed wistfully by Tilly Blake, a young midshipman, from whose share of rum he had abstracted its contents.

“Mrs Noakes that is to be,” cried out Tilly in a sharp tone. “But I say, she’ll not stand having her grog drunk up.”

“That remark smells of mutiny, youngster,” exclaimed Noakes, with a fierce glance towards the audacious midshipman.

“By the piper, but it’s true, though,” put in Paddy O’Grady, who had also been deprived of the larger portion of his grog.

Most of the youngsters, on finding others inclined to stand up for their rights, made common cause with Blake and O’Grady. Enraged at this, Noakes threatened the malcontents with condign punishment.

“Yes, down with all mutiny and the rights of man or midshipmen,” exclaimed in a somewhat sarcastic tone a good-looking youth, who himself wore the uniform of a midshipman.

“Well said, Devereux. We must support the rights and dignity of the oldsters, or the service will soon go to ruin,” cried the old mate, whose voice grew thicker as he emptied glass after glass of his favourite liquor. “You show your sense, Devereux, and deserve your supper, but—there’s no beef on the table. Here boy—boy Gerrard—bring the beef; be smart now—bring the beef. Don’t stand staring there as if you saw a ghost.”

The boy thus summoned was a fine lad of about fourteen, his shirt collar thrown back showing his neck, which supported a well-formed head, with a countenance intelligent and pleasant, but at that moment very pale, with an expression denoting unhappiness, and a feeling of dislike to, or dread of, those on whom he was waiting. A midshipmen’s boy has seldom a pleasant time of it under any circumstances. Boy Gerrard, as he was called, did his best, though often unsuccessfully, to please his numerous masters.

“Why do you stand there, staring like a stuffed pig?” exclaimed Devereux, who was near the door. “It is the beef, not your calf’s head we want. Away now, be smart about it.”

The sally produced a hoarse laugh from all those sufficiently sober to understand a joke.

“The beef, sir; what beef?” asked boy Gerrard in a tone of alarm.

“Our beef,” shouted old Noakes, heaving a biscuit at the boy’s head. It was fortunate that no heavy missile was in his hand. “Take that to sharpen your wits.”

Devereux laughed with others at the old mate’s roughness. The boy gave an angry glance at him as he hurried off to the midshipmen’s larder to execute the order.

Before long, boy Gerrard was seen staggering along the deck towards the berth with a huge piece of salt beef in his hands, and endeavouring to keep his legs as the frigate gave a heavy lurch or pitched forward, as she forced her way over the tumultuous seas. Boy Gerrard gazed at the berth of his many masters. He thought that he could reach it in another run. He made the attempt, but it was down hill, and before he could save himself he had shot the beef, though not the dish, into the very centre of the table, whence it bounded off and hit O’Grady, the Irish midshipman, a blow on the eye, which knocked him backward. Poor Gerrard stood gazing into the berth, and prepared for the speedy punishment which his past experience had taught him would follow.

“By the piper, but I’ll teach you to keep a taughter gripe of the beef for the future, you spalpeen,” exclaimed O’Grady, recovering himself, and about to hurl back the joint at the head of the unfortunate boy, when his arm was grasped by Devereux, who cried out, laughing,—“Preserve the beef and your temper, Paddy, and if boy Gerrard, after proper trial, shall be found to have purposely hurled the meat at your wise caput, he shall be forthwith delivered over to condign punishment.”

“Oh, hang your sea-lawyer arguments; I’ll break the chap’s head, and listen to them afterwards,” cried O’Grady, attempting to spring up to put his threat into execution.

Devereux again held him back, observing, “Break the boy’s head if you like; I have no interest in preserving it, except that we may not find another boy to take his place; but you must listen to my arguments before you commence operations.”

“Hear, hear! lawyer Devereux is about to open his mouth,” cried several voices.

“Come, pass me the beef, and let me put some of it into my mouth, which is open already,” exclaimed Peter Bruff, another of the older mates, who having just descended from the deck, and thrown off his dripping outer coat, had taken his seat at the table. His hair and whiskers were still wet with spray, his hands showed signs of service, and his fine open countenance—full of good-nature, and yet expressive of courage and determination, had a somewhat weather-worn appearance, though his crisp, curling, light hair showed that he was still in the early prime of manhood.

“Listen, gentlemen of the jury, and belay your jaw-tackles you who have no business in the matter, and Bruff being judge, I will plead boy Gerrard’s cause against Paddy O’Grady, Esquire, midshipman of his Majesty’s frigate Cerberus,” cried Devereux, striking the table with his fist, a proceeding which obtained a momentary silence. “To commence, I must go back to first causes. You understand, gentlemen of the jury, that there is a strong wind blowing, which has kicked up a heavy sea, which is tossing about our stout ship in a way to make it difficult for a seaman, and much more for a ship’s boy, to keep his legs, and therefore I suggest—”

“Belay all that, Master Long-tongue,” shouted Noakes; “if the boy is to be cobbed, why let’s cob him; if not, why let him fill the mustard-pot, for it’s empty.”

Others now joined in; some were for cobbing poor Gerrard forthwith; others, who had not had their supper, insisted on the mustard-pot being first replenished.

Devereux had gained his point in setting his messmates by the ears, and Peter Bruff seeing his object, sent off Gerrard for a supply of the required condiment. It was O’Grady’s next watch on deck; and thus before Gerrard returned, he had been compelled to leave the berth. Devereux, however, immediately afterwards turned on Gerrard and scolded him harshly for not keeping steady while waiting at the door of the berth. At length the master-at-arms came round, the midshipmen were sent to their hammocks, and Paul Gerrard was allowed to turn into his. He felt very sick and very miserable. It was the commencement of his sea life, a life for which he had long and enthusiastically yearned, and this was what it proved to be. How different the reality from what he had expected! He could have cried aloud for very bitterness of heart, but that he was ashamed to allow his sobs to be heard.

“He treat me thus! he by birth my equal! to speak to me as if I was a slave! he who might have been in my place, had there been justice done us, while I should have been in his. A hard fate is mine; but yet I chose it, and I’ll bear it.”

With such thoughts passing through his mind, the young ship-boy fell asleep, and for a time forgot his cares and suffering. He dreamed of happier times, when he with his parents and brothers and sisters enjoyed all the luxuries which wealth could give, and he was a loved and petted child. Then came a lawsuit, the subject of which he could not comprehend. All he knew was, that it was with the Devereux family. It resulted in the loss to his father of his entire fortune, and Paul remembered hearing him say that they were beggars. “That is what I will not be,” he had exclaimed; “I can work—we can all work—I will work.”

Paul was to be tried severely. His father died broken-hearted. It seemed too probable that his mother would follow him ere long. Paul had always desired to go to sea. He could no longer hope to tread the quarter-deck as an officer, yet he still kept to his determination of following a life on the ocean.

“I will enter as a cabin-boy; I will work my way upwards. Many have done so, why should not I?” he exclaimed with enthusiasm; “I will win wealth to support you all, and honours for myself. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’ I don’t see the way very clearly just now; but that is the opening through which I am determined to work my way onward.”

Paul’s mother, though a well-educated and very excellent person, knew nothing whatever of the world. She would, indeed, have hesitated, had she known the real state of the case, and what he would have to go through, ere she allowed her son to enter before the mast on board a man-of-war; but she had no one on whom she could rely, to consult in the matter. Mrs Gerrard had retired to the humble cottage of a former servant in a retired village, where she hoped that the few pounds a year she had left her would enable her to support herself and her children, with the aid of such needlework as she might obtain. Little did she think, poor woman, to what trying difficulties she would be exposed. Not only must she support herself, but educate her children. She had saved a few books for this purpose, and some humble furniture for her little cottage; everything else had been sold to raise the small sum on the interest of which she was to live.

“Mother! mother! do let me at once go to sea!” exclaimed Paul, who understood tolerably well the state of affairs. “I can do nothing at home to help you, and only eat up what should feed others; if I go to sea, I shall get food and clothing, and pay and prize-money, and be able to send quantities of gold guineas home to you. Reuben Cole has been telling me all about it; and he showed me a purse full of great gold pieces, just the remains of what he came ashore with a few weeks ago. He was going to give most of it to his sister, who has a number of children, and then go away to sea again, and, dear mother, he promised to take me with him if you would let me go. Mary and Fred will help all the better, when I am away, to teach Sarah and John and Ann, and Fred is so fond of books that he is certain to get on some day, somehow or other.”

What could the poor widow say to these appeals often repeated? What could she hope to do for her boy? There was a romance attached in those times to a sea life felt by all classes, which scarcely exists at the present day. She sent for Reuben Cole, who, though a rough sailor, seemed to have a kind heart. He promised to act the part of a father towards the boy to the best of his power, undertaking to find a good ship for him without delay. The widow yielded, and with many an earnest prayer for his safety, committed Paul to the charge of Reuben Cole. The honest sailor was as good as his word. He could scarcely have selected a better ship than the Cerberus. He volunteered to join, provided Paul was received on board; his terms were accepted, and he thought that he was doing well for his young charge when he got him the appointment of midshipmen’s boy. The employment was very different from what Paul had expected, but he had determined to do his duty in whatever station he might be placed. The higher pay and perquisites would be of value to him, as he might thus send more money to his mother, and he hoped soon to become reconciled to his lot. One day, however, the name of a midshipman who had just joined struck his ear,—it was that of Devereux, the name of the family with whom his father had so long carried on the unsuccessful lawsuit.

From some remarks casually made by one of the other midshipmen while he was waiting in the berth, Paul was convinced that Gilbert Devereux was a son of the man who had, he conceived, been the cause of his father’s ruin and death. Paul, had he been asked, would have acknowledged how he ought to feel towards young Devereux, but he at times allowed himself to regard him with bitterness and dislike, if not with downright hatred. He well knew that this feeling was wrong, and he had more than once tried to overcome the feeling when, perhaps, some careless expression let drop by Gilbert Devereux, or some order given by him, would once more arouse it. “I could bear it from another, but not from him,” Paul over and over again had said to himself after each fresh cause of annoyance given by young Devereux, who all the time was himself utterly ignorant that he had offended the boy. Of course he did not suspect who Paul was; Paul had determined to keep his own secret, and had not divulged it even to Reuben. Reuben was somewhat disappointed with Paul. “I cannot make out what ails the lad,” he said to himself, “he was merry and spirited enough on shore; I hope he’s not going to be afraid of salt-water.”

Poor Paul was undergoing a severe trial. It might prove for his benefit in the end. While the frigate was in harbour, he bore up tolerably well, but he had now for the first time in his life to contend with sea-sickness; while he was also at the beck and call of a dozen or more somewhat unreasonable masters. It was not, however, till that Saturday night that Paul began really to repent that he had come to sea. Where was the romance? As the serpent, into which Aaron’s rod was changed, swallowed up the serpents of the Egyptian magicians, so the stern reality had devoured all the ideas of the romance of a sea life, which he had till now entertained.

Yet sleep, that blessed medicine for human woes, brought calm and comfort to his soul. He dreamed of happier days, when his father was alive, and as yet no cares had visited his home. He was surrounded by the comforts which wealth can give. He was preparing, as he had long hoped to do, for sea, with the expectation of being placed as a midshipman on the quarter-deck. His uniform with brass buttons, his dirk and gold-laced hat, lay on a table before him, with a bright quadrant and spy-glass; and there was his sea-chest ready to be filled with his new wardrobe, and all sorts of little comforts which a fond mother and sisters were likely to have prepared for him. He heard the congratulations of friends, and the prophecies that he would some day emulate the deeds of England’s greatest naval heroes. He dreamed on thus till the late events of his life again came into his thoughts, and he recollected that it was not his own, but the outfit of another lad about to go to sea which he had long ago inspected with such interest, and at length the poor ship-boy was awakened to the stern reality of his present condition by the hoarse voice of a boatswain’s mate summoning all hands on deck. Paul felt so sea-sick and so utterly miserable that he thought that he would rather die where he lay in his hammock than turn out and dress. The ship was tumbling about more violently than ever; the noise was terrific; the loud voices of the men giving utterance to coarse oaths as they awoke from their sleep; their shouts and cries; the roaring of the wind as it found its way through the open hatches down below; the rattling of the blocks; the creaking of timbers and bulkheads, and the crash of the sea against the sides of the ship, made Paul suppose that she was about to sink into the depths of the ocean. “I’ll die where I am,” he thought to himself. “Oh, my dear mother and sisters, I shall never see you more!” But at that instant a kick and a blow inflicted by Sam Coulson, one of the boatswain’s mates, made him spring up.

“What, skulking already, you young hedgehog,” exclaimed the man; “on deck with your or your shoulders shall feel a taste of my colt.”

Although Paul was as quick in his movements as his weak state would allow, a shower of blows descended on his back, which brought him on his knees, when, ordering him to pick himself up and follow, on pain of a further dose of the colt, Sam Coulson passed on. The sharp tattoo of a drum beaten rapidly sounded at the same time through the ship; but what it signified Paul in his ignorance could not tell, nor was there any one near him to ask. Bewildered and unable to see in the darkness, he tried in vain to gain the hatchway. He groped his way aft as fast as he could, for fear of encountering the boatswain’s mate. “If the ship sinks I must go down with her; but anything is better than meeting him,” he thought to himself. “Besides, I cannot be worse off than those on deck, I should think.”

He worked his way aft till he found himself near the midshipmen’s chests; there was a snug place between two of them in which he had more than once before ensconced himself when waiting to be summoned by his masters. “Here I’ll wait till I find out what is happening,” he said to himself as he sank down into the corner. The din continued, the frigate tumbled about as much as before, but he was very weary, and before long he forgot where he was, and fell fast asleep.

He was at length awoke by a crashing sound, as if the timbers were being rent apart. What could it be? He started up, scarcely knowing where he was. Had the ship struck on a rock, or could she be going down? There was then a loud report; another and another followed. The reports became louder; they were directly over his head. The main-deck guns were being fired. The ship must be engaged with an enemy, there could be no doubt about that. The light from a ship’s lantern fell on the spot where he lay. The gunner and his crew were descending to the magazine. His duty he had been told would be in action to carry up powder to the crew; he ought to arouse himself. The surgeon and his assistants now came below to prepare the cockpit for the reception of the wounded. More lights appeared. The carpenter and his crew were going their rounds through the wings. Men were descending and ascending, carrying up shot from the lockers below. All were too busy to discover Paul. The sea had by this time gone down, and the ship was less tumbled about than before. Sleep, too, had somewhat restored his strength, and with it his spirits and courage.

“What am I about, skulking here? I ought to be ashamed of myself; have all my once brave thoughts and aspirations come to this? I will be up and do my duty, and not mind Sam Coulson, or the enemy’s shot, or anything else.” Such were the thoughts which rapidly passed through his mind; he sprang to his feet, and, as he hoped, unobserved reached the main-deck. He fortunately remembered that his friend Reuben Cole was captain of one of the main-deck guns, and that Reuben had told him that that was the gun he was to serve. The deck was well lighted up by the fighting-lanterns, and he had thus no difficulty in finding out his friend. The men, mostly stripped to their waists, stood grouped round their guns with the tackles in their hands, the captains holding the slow matches ready to fire. Paul ran up to Reuben, who was captain of his gun.

“What am I to do?” he asked; “you said you would tell me.”

“So I will, lad; and I am glad to see you, for I was afraid that you had come to harm,” answered Reuben, in a kind tone. “I said as how I was sure you wasn’t one to skulk. Where was you, boy?”

Paul felt conscience-stricken, and he dared not answer; for utter a falsehood to excuse himself he would not. “Tell me what I am to do, and I’ll try to do it,” he said, at length.

“Why, then, do you go down with Tom Buckle to the powder-magazine with that tub there, and get it filled and come back and sit on it till we wants it,” replied his friend, who possibly might have suspected the truth.

“Then I am about to take part in a real battle,” thought Paul, as, accompanying the boy Tom Buckle, he ran down to the magazine. In a moment, sickness, fatigue, and fear were banished. He was the true-hearted English Boy, and he felt as brave as he could wish, and regardless of danger. Paul knew he was doing his duty. His tub was quickly filled, and he was soon again at Reuben’s gun, behind which he was told to sit—one of a row of boys employed in the same manner. Many of his companions were laughing and joking, as if nothing unusual was occurring, or as if it was impossible that a shot could find them out.

Paul was now, for the first time, able to make inquiries as to the state of affairs. Reuben told him that, at about midnight, the lights of two ships had been seen. It was possible that they might be those of the look-out frigates of an enemy’s squadron, at the same time as they might be British, and as Captain Walford had resolved that nothing should drive him back, the Cerberus was kept on her course. Whatever they were, the strangers seemed determined to become better acquainted. As they drew nearer, signals were exchanged; but those of the stranger’s were not understood. The drum on this beat to quarters, and the ship was prepared for battle. The two ships approached, and soon gave the Cerberus a taste of their quality by pouring their broadsides into her; but, in consequence of the heavy sea which was then running, very few of their shot had taken effect. Two, however, which had struck her hull, had passed through the bulwarks and killed two of her men, whose bodies now lay stark and stiff on the main-deck, near where they had stood as their mates were now standing, full of life and manly strength. Paul’s eyes fell on them. It was the first time he had seen death in its most hideous form. He shuddered and turned sick. Reuben observed the direction in which his glance was turned.

“Paul, my lad, you mustn’t think of them now,” he cried out. “They’ve done their duty like men, and it’s our business to try to do ours. We’ve got some pretty sharp work before us; but it’s my belief that we’ll beat off our enemies, or take one or both of them, maybe. Hurrah! lads. That’s what we’ve got to do.”

The crews of the guns within hearing uttered a cheerful response. “All ready!”

“Let ’em come on!”

“The more the merrier!”

“We’ll give ’em more than we’ll take!”

These, and similar expressions, were heard from the seamen, while now and then a broad joke or a loud laugh burst from the lips of the more excited among them. But there was no Dutch courage exhibited. One and all showed the most determined and coolest bravery. The officers whose duty it was to be on the main-deck kept going their rounds, to see that the men were at their stations, and that all were supplied with powder and shot and all things necessary. Then the first-lieutenant, Mr Order, came down.

“My lads,” he exclaimed, “the captain sends to you to say that we have, perhaps, tough work before us; but that he is sure you all will do your duty like men, and will help him to thrash the enemy, as he hopes to do by daylight, when he can see them better.”

A loud cheer rang out from the throats of the seamen, fore and aft. Mr Order felt satisfied that they were in the right temper for work. He returned again on deck. It was still very dark, and nothing could be seen through the open ports. Every now and then, however, the crest of a sea washed in and deluged the decks, washing from side to side till it could escape through the scuppers. Any moment the order to fire might be heard, or the shot of the enemy might come crashing through the sides. It was a trying time for old salts, who had fought in many a previous battle; much more so for young hands. Paul sat composedly on his tub. Not far off from him stood Gilbert Devereux, in command of a division of guns.

“If a shot were to take his head off, there would be one of our enemies out of the way,” thought Paul; but directly afterwards his conscience rebuked him. “No, no; that is a wicked feeling,” it said; “I would rather be killed myself, if it were not for my poor mother and all at home—they would be so sorry.”

Still, Paul could not help eyeing the aristocratic-looking young midshipman, who, with a firm, proud step, trod the deck, eager for the fight, and little aware that he was watched with so much interest by the humble ship’s boy. Peter Bruff, who had the next division of guns under his charge, came up to Gilbert.

“Well, Devereux, how do you like this fun?” he asked. “Have you ever before been engaged?”

“Never; but I like the idea of the sport well enough to wish to begin,” answered Devereux. “Where are our enemies?”

“Not far off, and they will not disappoint us,” answered Bruff. “We shall have pretty tough work of it, depend on that.”

“The tougher the better,” answered Devereux, in a somewhat affected tone. “I’ve never been in a battle, and I really want to see what it is like.”

“He’s wonderfully cool,” thought Paul. “He hasn’t seen the dead men there, forward. It would be some satisfaction if he would show himself to be a coward, after all. I could throw it in his teeth when he attempts to tyrannise over me.”

Paul’s feelings were very far from right; but they were natural, unfortunately. Gilbert’s firm step and light laugh showed that there was little chance of Paul’s wishes being realised. Now a rumour spread from gun to gun that the enemy were again drawing near. The men took a firmer hold of the gun-tackles, hitched up their trousers, drew their belts tighter round their waists, or gave some similar sign of preparation for the coming struggle.

“Silence, fore and aft!” cried the officer in command of the deck.

He was repeating the order which the captain had just given above. The frigate plunged on heavily through the seas. The awful moment was approaching. There was neither jest nor laughter now. The men were eagerly looking through the ports. The lights from two ships were seen on the weather beam. In smooth water the enemy having the weather-gauge would have been to the disadvantage of the Cerberus; but with the heavy sea which then ran it mattered, fortunately, less.

“Starboard guns! Fire! fire!” was shouted by the officers.

“Hurrah, lads! We have the first of it this time, and it’s my belief we hit the mounseer,” cried Reuben Cole, as he discharged his gun.

Scarcely had the smoke cleared off from the deck when the roar of the enemy’s guns was heard, and several shot came crashing against the side. One, coming through a port, passed close above Paul’s head, and though it sent the splinters flying about in every direction, no one was hurt.

“I’ve an idea there’ll be work for the carpenters, to plug the shot-holes,” cried Reuben, as the guns, being rapidly run in, loaded, and run out again, he stood ready for the command to fire.

It soon came, and the whole broadside of the Cerberus was poured, with good aim, into the bows of the leading Frenchman, which had attempted to pay her the same compliment. For a few moments at a time Paul could catch sight of the lights of the enemy’s ships through the ports; but the smoke from their own guns quickly again shut out all objects, except the men standing close to him. Paul had plenty to do; jumping up to deliver the powder, and running down to the magazine for more when his tub was empty. He discovered that, small as he was, he was taking a very active part in the battle, and doing considerably more than the midshipmen, who had to stand still, or only occasionally to run about with orders. This gave him infinite satisfaction.

“After all, I am doing as much as he is,” he thought, looking towards Devereux.

The firing became very rapid, and the enemy were close to the frigate; for not only round-shot flew on board, but the rattle of musketry was heard, and bullets came pattering through the ports. Such a game could not be played without loss. Fore and aft the men were struck down,—some never to rise again; cut in two, or with their heads knocked off. Others were carried below; and others, binding up their wounds, returned eagerly to their guns. Now there was a cessation of firing. The smoke cleared off. There stood Devereux, unharmed, and as cool as at the commencement of the action, though smoke-begrimed as the rest of the crew; but as Paul glanced round and saw the gleam of the lanterns on the blood-stained decks, and the pale faces of the dead, and the bandaged heads and limbs of the wounded, he again turned sick, and wished, as many a person has wished before, that there was no such thing as fighting and slaughtering one’s fellow-creatures.

It was supposed that the enemy had hauled off to repair damages. The crew of the Cerberus were accordingly called away from their guns to repair those she had received, as far as could be done in the darkness. Not much time was allowed them. Again their enemies returned to the attack. Each ship was pronounced to be equal in size to the Cerberus, if not larger than it. She had already suffered severely; the men were again ordered to their quarters. The suspense before the firing should recommence was trying,—the very silence itself was awful. This time it was broken by the enemy, but their fire was speedily returned by a broadside from the Cerberus. Now, as rapidly as the guns on both sides could be loaded, they were run out and fired, for the British had an enemy on either beam, and each man knew that he must exert himself to the utmost to gain the victory. When did English sailors ever fail to do that? There could be no doubt, however, that the Cerberus was hard pressed.

Dreadful was the scene of havoc and carnage; the thunder of the guns; the rattle of the musketry; the crashing of the enemy’s shot as they tore the stout planks asunder; the roar of the seas as they dashed against the sides, and the cries of the wounded, while the shouts of the men, who, as the fight grew more bloody, were more and more excited, became louder and louder; bright flashes, and wreaths of dark smoke, and splinters flying about, and men falling, and blood starting from their wounds, made up that horrid picture. Paul had seen old Noakes carried below; O’Grady followed, badly hurt; others of his masters were killed or wounded. Devereux seemed to bear a charmed life. No! no man’s life is charmed. One moment he was standing full of life, encouraging his men; the next he lay wounded and bleeding on the wet and slippery deck. As he saw the handsome youth carried writhing in agony below, Paul’s feelings of animosity instantly vanished. He would have sprung forward to help him, but he had his own duty to attend to, and he knew that he must not neglect it, even though it was only to sit on a tub.

From the exclamations of the men, Paul thought that the battle was going against them; still the crew fought on as bravely as at first. “Fire! fire!” What dreadful cry is that? “The ship is on fire!”

“All is lost!” No; the firemen leave their guns and run forward to where some hay is blazing. The enemy have discovered what has occurred and redouble their efforts. The fire must be got under in spite of shot and bullets. The men rush up to the flames fearlessly. Buckets upon buckets of water are thrown on them; the burning fragments of timber are hove overboard. The fire is reported to be got under. The British seamen cheer, and good reason have they to do so now, for flames are seen bursting from the ports and hatchways of their most determined opponent. Still all three ships tear on over the foaming ocean. Thus closes that fearful night, and so must we our first chapter.

Chapter Two.

The Cerberus, stout frigate that she was, plunged onward across the foam-covered ocean. On one side was the burning ship, at which not a shot had been fired since her condition was discovered; on the other was a still active enemy. With the latter, broadside after broadside was rapidly exchanged, but without much damage being sustained. From the burning ship a few shots continued for a short time to be fired, but as the fire increased, the crew must have deserted their guns, and as the flames gained the mastery, they burned through the ropes and attacked the sails, and the ship fell off and rolled helplessly in the trough of the sea, where the two combatants soon left her far astern.

“I wish as how we could heave-to and send a boat to help them poor fellows,” cried Reuben Cole, looking at the burning ship.

“To my mind, the mounseer out there would be doing better if he was to cry, Peccavi, and then go and look after his countrymen, instead of getting himself knocked to pieces, as he will be if he keeps on long at this game.”

The sentiment was highly applauded by his hearers. There was not a man indeed on board the frigate who was not eager to save the lives of the hapless crew of the burning ship, which they had till now striven so hard to destroy.

The firing had ceased; the grey dawn broke over the waste of waters; astern was seen the smoke from the burning ship, with bright flashes below it, and away to leeward their other antagonist making all sail to escape. The battle was over, though the victor could boast but of a barren conquest. The guns were run in and secured, and the weary crew instantly set to work to repair damages. As the wind had fallen and the sea had considerably gone down, the work was performed without much difficulty. Captain Walford had narrowly watched his flying foe, in the hopes that she might go to the assistance of her late consort. Her royals had not long sunk below the horizon when once more the Cerberus was in a condition to make sail.

Captain Walford considered whether he should go in pursuit of the enemy, or attempt to save the lives of the unfortunate people from the burning ship. In the first case he might possibly capture an enemy’s ship, but ought he for the chance of so doing to leave his fellow-creatures to perish miserably?

“No, I will risk all consequences,” he said to his first-lieutenant after a turn on deck. And the Cerberus stood towards the wreck.

The wind had fallen so much that her progress was very slow. The English now wished for more wind, for every moment might be of vital consequence to their late enemies. Not a man on board felt the least enmity towards them; even the wounded and dying when told of their condition looked on them as brothers in misfortune.

War is sad work, sad for those at home, sad for those engaged in it, and the only way to mitigate its horrors is to treat the fallen or the defeated foe as we should ourselves wish to be treated.

While the frigate sailed on, the crew were repairing as far as possible the damages she had received; for at that season of the year it was probable that another gale might spring up, which she was as yet ill-prepared to encounter. The men were nearly dropping with fatigue, but they worked on bravely, as true-hearted seamen always do work when necessity demands their exertions.

Meantime Paul was summoned below. The midshipmen who were not required on deck were again assembled in the berth; but the places of several were vacant. They were eating a hurried meal which Paul had placed on the table, and discussing the events of the fight. One or two of the youngsters were rather graver than usual, but Paul thought that the rest took matters with wonderful indifference. He was anxious to know what had happened to Devereux, whom he had seen carried below badly wounded. Nobody mentioned him; perhaps he was dead; and he did not feel sorry at the thought. After a time, though, he had some compunctions of conscience. He was thinking that he would find his way towards the sick bay, where the wounded midshipmen and other junior officers were placed, when one of the assistant-surgeons came towards the berth.

“Here, boy Gerrard, I can trust you, I think,” he exclaimed. “I want you to stay by Mr Devereux, and to keep continually moistening his lips, fomenting his wound as I shall direct. He is very feverish, and his life may depend on your attention.”

Paul felt as he had never felt before, proud and happy at being thus spoken to, and selected by the surgeon to perform a responsible office, even though it was for one whom he had taught himself to look upon in the light of an enemy. He was soon by the side of the sufferer. The sight which met his eyes was sufficient to disarm all hostility. The young midshipman, lately so joyous, with the flush of health on his cheeks, lay pale as death, groaning piteously; his side had been torn open, and a splinter had taken part of the scalp from his head. The assistant-surgeon showed him what to do, and then hurried away, for he had many wounded to attend to, as the chief surgeon had been killed by a shot which came through one of the lower ports.

Gerrard felt greatly touched at Devereux’s sufferings. “Poor fellow! he cannot possibly live with those dreadful wounds, and yet I am sure when the fight began that he had not an idea that he was to be killed, or even hurt,” he said to himself more than once. Paul was unwearied in following the surgeon’s directions. Devereux, however, was totally unconscious, and unaware who was attending on him. He spoke now and then, but incoherently, generally about the home he had lately left. Once Paul heard him utter the name of Gerrard.

“We beat them, though they kept us long out of our fortune, and now they are beggars as they deserve. Hard for the young ones, though, I think; but it cannot be helped—must not think about them.”

Such expressions dropped at intervals from the lips of Devereux. How he came to utter them at that time Paul could not guess. Did he know him, or in any way associate his name with the family of whom he was speaking?

“He has some sympathy, at all events, poor fellow, with our misfortunes,” thought Paul. “I wish that I had not thought so ill of him. I hope he won’t die. I will pray that God will spare his life; even if he were my enemy I should do that.”

The surgeon, when he came his rounds, expressed his approval of the way Paul had managed his patient.

“Will he live, sir?” asked Paul, in a trembling voice.

“That is more than the wisest of us can say,” was the answer.

Paul was at length relieved from his charge by a marine who acted as Devereux’s servant. He was, however, very unwilling to quit his post. He was feeling more interest in the wounded midshipman than he could have supposed possible.

Paul, as soon as he could, made his way on deck. He wanted to know what had become of the burning ship. He looked around; she was nowhere to be seen. He inquired what had happened to her. She had blown up; and probably nearly all on board had sunk beneath the waves. There were men aloft, however, looking out, and now they were pointing in the direction of where the burning ship had gone down. A speck on the ocean was observed; it was probably part of the wreck, and perhaps some of the crew might be clinging to it. The captain ordered a boat to be lowered, for the wind was so light that the frigate would take a much longer time than it would to reach the spot. The boat pulled away; the men in the rigging and all on deck eagerly watched her progress. It seemed, however, doubtful whether any one of their late foes had escaped destruction. The crew in the boat made no sign that they saw any one. At length, however, they reached the spot towards which they were rowing.

“Anyhow, they’ve got something,” cried a topman.

The boat made a wide circuit round the fatal spot. After some time she was seen returning to the ship.

“They have got a man, I do believe,” exclaimed one of the men.

“No; to my mind it is only a mounseer midshipmite,” observed Reuben Cole, looking down from his work into the boat.

“They’ve picked up a few other things, though, but it’s a poor haul, I fear.”

When the boat came alongside, a fine young boy in a French uniform was handed up and placed on the deck. He looked around with a bewildered air, as if not knowing where he was. Captain Walford then took him kindly by the hand, and told him that he should be well cared for, and that he would find friends instead of those he had lost. The boy sighed.

“What! are all, all gone?” he asked in French.

“I fear so,” answered the captain. “But you are cold and wet, and you must go below to the surgeon, who will attend to you.”

The poor young stranger was, however, very unwilling to leave the deck, and kept looking up into the countenances of the bystanders as if in search of some of his missing friends. Paul watched him with interest.

“Poor boy!” he said to himself; “I thought that I was very forlorn and miserable; but I have Reuben Cole and others who are kind to me, and he has no one here who can care for him. How fortunate that I learned French, because now I can talk to him and be useful to him.”

When the humane Captain Walford found that all the rest of the hapless crew of his late antagonist were lost, he ordered all the sail to be made which the frigate in her present crippled state could carry, in chase of his other opponent, having noted carefully the direction in which she was steering when last seen.

“I thought that we had done with fighting for the present,” said Paul to Reuben Cole, who told him that they were looking out for the other frigate.

“No, boy, that we haven’t, and what’s more, I expect we shan’t, as long as the flag of an enemy of old England flies over the salt sea. You’ll live, I hope, Paul, to help thrash many of them. I liked the way in which you behaved in the action just now. You was cool and active, which is just what you should be. It won’t be my fault if you don’t make a first-rate seaman some day.”

Paul was again much pleased with Reuben’s commendations. He was sure that he would keep his promise, and he resolved to profit by his instructions, as far as his duties in the midshipmen’s berth would allow him. Before long, the young Frenchman made his appearance on deck, dressed in the uniform of an English midshipman who had been killed. He lifted his hat in the politest manner to the captain and officers, and thanked them for the courtesy they had shown him. He was in the middle of his speech, which was very pathetic, when his eye fell on some of the articles which had been picked up and had not been taken below. Among them was a long narrow case. He sprang towards it with a shout of joy.

“C’est à moi! c’est à moi!” he exclaimed, as he produced a key from a lanyard round his neck. He opened the case and drew forth a violin and bow. The case had been well made and water-tight; he applied the instrument to his chin. At first, only slow melancholy sounds were elicited; but by degrees, as the strings got dry, the performer’s arms moved more rapidly, and he at last struck up a right merry tune.

The effect was curious and powerful. The captain unconsciously began to move his feet, the officers to shuffle, and the men, catching the infection, commenced a rapid hornpipe, which Mr Order, the first-lieutenant, in vain attempted to stop. The young Frenchman, delighted at finding that his music was appreciated, played faster and faster, till everybody on deck was moving about in a fashion seldom seen on the deck of a man-of-war.

“Stop, stop!” shouted the first-lieutenant; “knock off that nonsense, men; stop your fiddling, I say, youngster—stop your fiddling, I say.”

The discipline of the ship was very nearly upset; the men, however, heard and obeyed; but the young Frenchman, not comprehending a word, and delighted moreover to get back his beloved violin, continued playing away as eagerly as at first, till Mr Order, losing patience, seized his arm, and by a significant gesture, ordered him to desist. His musical talent, and his apparent good-nature, gained for the French lad the goodwill of the crew, and of most of the officers also.

“What is your name, my young friend?” asked Captain Walford.

“Alphonse Montauban,” was the answer.

“Very well; you will be more at your ease in the midshipmen’s berth, I suspect. Take him below, Mr Bruff, and say that I beg the young gentlemen will accommodate him and treat him with kindness. You’ll get a hammock slung for him.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Bruff, taking Alphonse by the hand. “Come along, youngster.”

Bruff was anxious to say something kind to the poor boy, but there was a bar to this, as neither understood each other’s language. Paul followed, guessing this, and hoping that his knowledge of French might be put into requisition. Alphonse, with his fiddle tucked under his arm, entered the berth.

“Here’s a young chap who is a first-rate hand with the catgut, and if any of you can tell him that he is welcome in his own lingo, I wish you would, mates,” said Bruff.

“Mounseer, you are mucho welcomo to our bertho,” exclaimed Blake. “Here’s to your healtho, Mounseer. I hope, Bruff, this is first-rate French.”

“It doesn’t sound like it, but maybe he understands you, for he’s bowing to you in return,” answered Bruff.

Similar attempts at speaking French were made; but, as may be supposed, the young foreigner was as unable as at first to understand what was said.

“How very ignorant they are,” thought Paul. “I wish that they would let me speak to him.”

The young Frenchman, who was of an excitable disposition, at last thinking that the English boys were laughing at him, began to lose temper, and so did they, at what they considered his unexampled stupidity.

Paul, who was standing near the door, mustering courage, at length interpreted what was said into very fair French. The young stranger, with a pleased smile, asked—

“What! can a poor boy like you speak my dear language?”

“Yes, I learned it of my sisters at home,” answered Paul.

“Then we must be friends, for you can sympathise with me more than can these,” said Alphonse.

“Do not say so to them,” observed Paul; “they may not like it. I am but a poor ship’s boy and their servant.”

“Misfortune makes all people equal, and your tone of voice and the way you speak French, convince me that you are of gentle birth,” said Alphonse.

It is possible that the midshipmen might have looked at Paul with more respect from hearing him speak a language of which they were ignorant, though some sneered at him for talking the Frenchman’s lingo.

Paul, as soon as he could leave the berth, hurried to the side of Devereux. He found the surgeon there.

“Ah! come to look after your patient, boy?” said Mr Lancet. “You have performed your duty so well, that I have begged Mr Order to relieve you from your attendance on the young gentlemen, and to give you to me altogether.”

Paul thanked Mr Lancet, but told him frankly, that though he was very glad to be of service to Mr Devereux, or to any other wounded shipmate, he wished to learn to be a sailor, and therefore that he would rather be employed on deck; still he was gratified at what Mr Lancet had said.

He devoted himself, however, to Devereux, by whose side he spent every moment not absolutely required for sleep or for his meals. Mr Order sent another boy, Tom Buckle, to attend on the young gentlemen, who came to the conclusion that he was a perfect lout after Paul.

“There is something in that youngster after all,” observed Bruff, who resolved to try what he was really worth, and to befriend him accordingly.

Meantime, the Cerberus continued in chase of the French frigate, which Alphonse told Captain Walford was the Alerte, and perhaps to induce him to give up the chase, he remarked that she was very powerfully armed and strongly manned, and would prove a dangerous antagonist. Captain Walford laughed.

“It is not a reason for abandoning the chase which would weigh much with any one on board this ship, I hope, though it will make them the more eager to come up with her,” he answered.

Alphonse also let drop that the two frigates were bound out to the West Indies with important despatches. It was most probable, therefore, that the Alerte, in obedience to orders, would make the best of her way there. Captain Walford resolved to follow in that direction.

The Alerte had probably not received as much injury in her rigging as was supposed, and as Alphonse said that she was very fast, there was little expectation on board the Cerberus that they would come up with her before she got to her destination. Still, Captain Walford was not a man to abandon an object as long as there remained a possibility of success. He was a good specimen of a British naval officer. Brave, kind, and considerate, his men adored him; and there was no deed of daring which he would not venture to undertake, because he knew that his crew would follow wherever he would lead. He never swore at or abused those under him, or even had to speak roughly to them. Every officer who did his duty knew that he had in him a sincere friend; and his men looked upon him in the light of a kind and wise father, who would always do them justice, and overlook even their faults, if possible.

Mr Lancet took an opportunity of speaking to the captain of the boy Gerrard, and remarked that he was far better educated than were lads generally of his class.

“I will keep my eye on the lad, and if he proves worthy, will serve him if I can,” was the answer.

Devereux continued in great danger; the surgeon would not assert that he would recover. It was some time before he remarked Paul’s attention to him.

“You are boy Gerrard, I see,” he observed faintly. “You are very good to me, and more than I deserve from you; but I never meant you ill, and I got you off a cobbing once. I have done very few good things in the world, and now I am going to die, I am afraid. You’ll forgive me, Gerrard, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes, yes, sir!” answered Paul, with tears in his eyes; “even if you had wronged me much more than you have done; but it wasn’t you, it was your father and those about him.”

“My father! What do you mean, boy; who are you?” exclaimed Devereux, in a tone of astonishment, starting up for a moment, though he immediately sank back exhausted; while he muttered to himself,—“Gerrard! Gerrard! can it be possible?” He then asked quietly—

“Where do you come from, boy?”

“No matter, sir,” answered Paul, afraid of agitating Devereux. “I will tell you another time, for I hope that you will get well soon, and then you may be able to listen to what I have to say; but the doctor says that at present you must be kept perfectly quiet, and talk as little as possible.”

Devereux, who was still very weak, did not persist in questioning Paul, who had time to reflect how far it would be wise to say anything about himself. He was not compelled to be communicative; and he considered that Devereux ill, and expecting to die, and Devereux well, might possibly be two very different characters. “If I were to tell him, he might bestow on me a sort of hypocritical compassion, and I could not stand that,” he thought to himself. Whatever were Paul’s feelings, he did not relax in his care of Devereux.

Day after day came, and the first question asked of the morning watch was, “Is there anything like the Alerte yet ahead?” All day, too, a bright look-out was kept from the mast-heads for her; but in vain, and some began to think that she must have altered her course and returned to the coast of France.

Paul was not sorry when he heard this, for he had seen enough of the effects of fighting to believe that it was not a desirable occupation; and he, moreover, felt for young Alphonse, who naturally earnestly hoped that the Cerberus would not fall in with the Alerte.

No one rejoiced more than did Paul when one day Mr Lancet pronounced Devereux to be out of danger, and that all he required was care and attention. Paul redoubled his efforts to be of use. Alphonse missed him very much from the berth, as he was the only person who could interpret for him, and whenever he wanted anything he had to find him out and to get him to explain what he required. Before long, therefore, the young Frenchman found his way to the sick bay, where Devereux and others lay. Devereux was the only midshipman who could speak French, though not so well as Paul.

The ship had now reached a southern latitude, and the balmy air coming through an open port contributed to restore health and strength to the sick and wounded. When Devereux heard Alphonse addressing Paul, and the latter replying in French, he lifted up his head.

“What, boy Gerrard, where did you learn French?” he asked.

“At home, sir,” answered Paul, quietly.

“Yes, he speaks very good French, and is a very good boy,” remarked Alphonse.

“And you, monsieur, you speak French also?”

Devereux replied that he did a little.

“That is very nice, indeed,” said the young Frenchman. “We will talk together, and I shall no longer fear dying of ennui.”

After this, Alphonse was constantly with Devereux, and when the latter was better, he brought his fiddle and played many a merry tune to him. Indeed, the young Frenchman, by his light-hearted gaiety, his gentleness, and desire to please, became a general favourite fore and aft.

“Ah, mounseer, if there was many like you aboard the frigate which went down, I for one am sorry that I had a hand in sending her there,” exclaimed Reuben Cole one day, in a fit of affectionate enthusiasm.

Alphonse, who understood him, sighed. “There were many, many; but it was the fortune of war.”

“But, suppose, Reuben, we come up with the other, and have to treat her in the same way, what will you say then?” asked Paul.

“Why, you see, Paul, the truth is this: if the captain says we must fight and sink her, it must be done, even if every one on us had a mother’s son aboard. I stick up for discipline, come what may of it.”

The ship was within one or two days’ sail of the West Indies, when, as Paul was on deck, he heard the man at the mast-head shout out, “A sail on the lee-bow standing for the westward.”

“It is the Alerte,” thought Paul, “and we shall have more fighting.” Others were of the same opinion. Instantly all sail was made in chase. The crew of the Cerberus had been somewhat dull of late, except when the little Mounseer, as they called Alphonse, scraped his fiddle. They were animated enough at present. Even the sick and wounded were eager to come on deck. Devereux especially insisted that he was able to return to his duty. Mr Lancet said that he might not suffer much, but that he had better remain out of harm’s way, as even a slight wound might prove fatal. He would listen to no such reasoning, and getting Paul to help him on with his uniform, he crawled on deck.

“Gerrard,” he said as he was dressing, “if I am killed, you are to be my heir as regards my personal effects. I have written it down, and given the paper to Mr Lancet, witnessed by Mr Bruff, so it’s all right. I have an idea who you are, though you never told me.”

Captain Walford was surprised at seeing Devereux on deck, and though he applauded his zeal, he told him that he had better have remained below.

As soon as the stranger discovered the Cerberus, she made all sail to escape. It was questioned whether or not she was the Alerte, but one thing was certain, that the Cerberus was overhauling her, and had soon got near enough to see her hull from aloft. It was now seen, that though she was a large ship, she was certainly not a frigate; it was doubted, indeed, whether she was French. The opinion of Alphonse was asked.

“She is not the Alerte, she is a merchantman and French; she will become your prize. I am sorry for my poor countrymen, but it is the fortune of war,” he answered as he turned away with a sigh.

A calm, of frequent occurrence in those latitudes, came on, and there lay the two ships, rolling their sides into the water, and unable to approach each other.

“If the stranger gets a breeze before us she may yet escape,” observed the captain. “Out boats, we must attack her with them.”

The sort of work proposed has always been popular among seamen. There was no lack of volunteers. The boats were speedily manned; the second-lieutenant went in one boat; old Noakes, though badly wounded, was sufficiently recovered to take charge of another; Peter Bruff had a third. Paul was seized with a strong desire to go also. In the hurry of lowering the boats, he was able to slip into the bows of the last mentioned, and to hide himself under a sail thrown in by chance. Reuben Cole went in the same boat. Devereux watched them away, wishing that he could have gone also. The boats glided rapidly over the smooth, shining ocean. Their crews were eager to be up with their expected prize. The sun beat down on their heads, the water shone like polished silver, not a breath of air came to cool the heated atmosphere; but they cared not for the heat or fatigue, all they thought of was the prize before them. Paul lay snugly under his shelter, wondering when they would reach the enemy’s side. He soon began to repent of his freak; he could hear the remarks of the men as they pulled on. The ship was from her appearance a letter of marque or a privateer, and such was not likely to yield without a severe struggle, he heard. Paul could endure the suspense no longer, and creeping from under his covering, he looked out over the bows.

“Hillo, youngster, what brings you here?” sung out Mr Bruff. “If you come off with a whole skin, as I hope you will, you must expect a taste of the cat to remind you that you are not to play such a trick again.”

The reprimand from the kind-hearted mate might have been longer, but it was cut short by a shot from the enemy, which almost took the ends off the blades of the oars of his boat. The men cheered and dashed forward. At the same moment eight ports on a side were exposed, and a hot fire opened on the boats from as many guns, and from swivels and muskets. Hot as was the fire, it did not for a moment stop the boats. Paul wished that he had remained on board. The deck of the enemy seemed crowded with men.

“Hurrah, lads!” cried Peter Bruff when he saw this, “they’ll only hamper each other and give us an easier victory.”

The boats dashed alongside. Langrage and grape and round-shot were discharged at them, and boarding-pikes, muskets, and pistols were seen protruding through the ports ready for their reception. The boats hooked on, and, in spite of all opposition, the British seamen began to climb up the side. Some were driven back and hurled into the boats, wounded, too often mortally; the rest persevered. Again and again the attempt was made, the deck was gained, a desperate hand-to-hand combat began. It could have but one termination, the defeat of the attackers or the attacked. Paul climbed up with the rest of his shipmates. It is surprising that human beings could have faced the bristling mass of weapons which the British seamen had to encounter. Paul followed close behind Reuben, who kept abreast of Mr Noakes. Pistols were fired in their faces, cutlasses were clashing, as the seamen were slashing and cutting and lunging at their opponents. In spite of all opposition the deck was gained; the enemy, however, still fought bravely. Mr Larcom, the second-lieutenant of the Cerberus, fell shot through the head. Several men near him were killed or badly wounded; it seemed likely that after all the boarders would be driven back. Old Noakes saw the danger; there was still plenty of British pluck in him in spite of the pains he took to wash away all feeling; the day must be retrieved. “On, lads, on!” he shouted, throwing himself furiously on the enemy; “follow me! death or victory!”

Again the Frenchmen gave way; at first inch by inch they retreated, then more rapidly, leaving many of their number wounded on the deck. Bruff had faced about and driven the enemy aft; Noakes and Reuben still pushed forward. Paul, following close at their heels with an officer’s sword which he had picked up, observed, fallen on the deck, a man, apparently a lieutenant, whose eye was fixed on Noakes, and whose hand held a pistol; he was taking a steady aim at Noakes’s head. Paul sprang forward, and giving a cut at the man’s arm, the muzzle of the pistol dropping, the contents entered the deck.

“Thanks, boy, you’ve saved my life, I’ll not forget you,” cried Noakes. “On, on, on!”

“Well done, Gerrard, well done!” exclaimed Reuben. “You’ve saved your hide, boy.”

The Frenchmen, finding that all was lost, leaped down the fore-hatchway, most of them singing out for quarter. A few madly and treacherously fired up from below, which so exasperated the seamen, that nearly half of them were killed before their flag was hauled down and the rest overpowered. The frigate was by this time bringing up a breeze to the prize.

“It’s a pity it didn’t come a little sooner; it might have saved the lives of many fine fellows,” observed Bruff, as he glanced round on the blood-stained deck.

“It’s an ill wind that blows no one good,” remarked Noakes, looking at Mr Larcom’s body. “If he had been alive, I shouldn’t have gained my promotion, which I am now pretty sure of for this morning’s work, besides the command of the prize.”

“‘There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.’ I’ve found it so, and so have you, mate, I suspect,” said Bruff; “yet, old fellow, I hope you’ll get what you deserve.”

There was no jealousy in honest Bruff’s composition. He put his old messmate’s gallantry in so bright a light privately before Captain Walford, that the captain felt himself bound to recommend Noakes for promotion to the Admiralty, and to place him in charge of the prize to take home. She was the Aigle, privateer, mounting sixteen guns, evidently very fast, but very low, with taut masts, square yards, and seemingly very crank. Most of the prisoners were removed, and Mr Noakes got leave to pick a crew. He chose, among others, Reuben Cole and Paul Gerrard. The surgeon advised that Devereux and O’Grady should go home, and Alphonse Montauban was allowed a passage, that he might be exchanged on the first opportunity.

“Be careful of your spars, Noakes,” observed Mr Order, as he looked up at the Aigle’s lofty masts, “remember that you are short-handed.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the old mate as he went down the side, adding to himself, “I should think that I know how to sail a craft by this time; I’m no sucking baby to require a nurse.”

Paul was very glad to find himself with Devereux and Alphonse, as also with Reuben, on board the prize. Mr Noakes did not forget the service he had rendered him, and was as kind as could well be. He called him aft one day.

“Gerrard, my boy, you want to be a seaman, and though I can’t give you silver and gold, I can make you that, if you will keep your wits about you, and I’ll teach you navigation myself. You are a gentleman by birth, and that’s more than some of us can boast of being; but I don’t advise you to aspire to the quarter-deck. Without money or friends, you may repent being placed on it, as I have often done; that’s no reason, however, that you shouldn’t become fit to take command of a ship; a privateer or a merchantman may fall in your way; at all events, learn all you can.”

Paul resolved to follow his new friend’s advice. A course was shaped for Plymouth, and the Aigle proceeded merrily on her way.

Noakes could give good advice to others, but he did not follow after wisdom himself. He had a great failing, from the effects of which he had often suffered. Drink was his bane, as it is that of thousands. Several casks of prime claret were found on board; it would not have done much harm by itself, but there were some casks of brandy also. By mixing the two with some sugar, Noakes concocted a beverage very much to his taste. He kept his word with Paul as long as he was able, and lost no opportunity in giving him instruction in seamanship and navigation; but in time the attractions of his claret-cup were so great, that he was seldom in a condition to understand anything clearly himself, much less to explain it to another. Devereux and O’Grady expostulated in vain. He grew angry and only drank harder. The prisoners observed matters with inward satisfaction. They might have entertained hopes of regaining their ship. Alphonse warned Devereux.

“They have not spoken to me, or I could not say this to you, but they may, so be prepared,” he observed one day as they were on deck together, no one else being near.

Noakes was compelled to keep watch. He always carried on more than either of his companions ventured to do. It was night, and very dark; the first watch was nearly over; the weather, hitherto fine, gave signs of changing. Devereux, who had charge of the deck, was about to shorten sail, when Noakes came up to relieve him.

“Hold all fast,” he sung out, adding, “Nonsense, Devereux, your wounds have made you weak and timid. We’ve a slashing breeze, and let’s take advantage of it to reach the shores of old England.”

“Too much haste the worst speed,” observed Reuben to Paul; “our sticks are bending terribly, they’ll be whipping over the sides presently, or will capsize the craft altogether. I don’t like the look of things, that I don’t, I tell you.” Scarcely had he spoken, when a blast, fiercer than its predecessor, struck the ship.

“Let fly of all,” shouted Noakes, sobered somewhat.

The crew ran to obey the orders, but it came too late. Over went the tall ship; down, down, the raging tempest pressed her.

“Axes, axes, cut, cut,” was heard from several mouths.

“Follow me, Paul, and then cling on for your life,” cried Reuben Cole, climbing through a weather port; “it’s too late to save the ship.”

Chapter Three.

“What are we to do now?” asked Paul, after he had secured his hold in the main-chains.

“Hold on, Jack, where you are, while I will go and try to help some of our shipmates,” answered Reuben. “There’s Mr Devereux, who can’t do much to help himself; and the young Mounseer, I should like to save him.”

Several men had already got to the upper side of the ship, some in the main, and others in the mizen-chains, while others were in the rigging. As the ship was light, she still floated high out of the water. Many might possibly, therefore, be alive below. Reuben had not been gone long, when he put his head through the port, singing out—

“Here, Paul, lend a hand and help up Mr Devereux.”

Devereux had been partially stunned, but had happily clung to a stanchion, where Reuben had found him. Paul hauled him up, while Reuben again dived in search of some one else. He was gone for some time, and Paul began to fear that some accident had happened to him. At length his voice was again heard.

“Hurrah, Paul, here he is; and what is more, he has his fiddle, too, all safe and sound.”

Sure enough, there was Alphonse and his beloved fiddle in its case, which he had contrived to get up from below at no little risk of being drowned himself.

“Ah! I would not part from this,” he exclaimed, as he made himself secure in the chains. “It is my own dear friend; shall I play you a tune now?”

“No, thank ye, Mounseer, it might chance to get wet, and may be there are more poor fellows to help up here,” answered Reuben.

“Ah! truly, I forgot what had happened,” said Alphonse in a dreamy tone, showing that his mind was wandering, overcome by the sudden catastrophe. It was no time for laughter, or Paul would have laughed at the oddness of the young Frenchman’s remark. Still, awful as was the scene, he felt very little sensation of fear. The night was very dark, the wind howled, the rain fell in torrents, the sea dashed over the wreck, nearly washing off those who clung to it, while vivid flashes of lightning darted from the clouds and went hissing along like fiery serpents over the summits of the waves. The party in the main-chains spoke but little. It seemed too probable that none of them would ever see another day. Indeed, even should the ship not go down, Paul feared that Devereux could scarcely endure the hardships of their situation. He asked Reuben if nothing could be done.

“If we could get at the axes, we might cut away the masts and the ship might right,” answered Reuben. “But, you see, we want daylight and the officers to give the order, so that all may act together.”

While he was speaking, a voice was heard apparently from the mizen rigging, shouting, “Cut, I say, all of you; cut, I say, and cut together.”

It was that of Mr Noakes. Directly after, a flash of lightning revealed him standing in the mizen-top, holding on with one hand, while he waved the other wildly around. His nervous system had been completely weakened by drinking, and it was evident that he had lost his senses. He continued to shout louder and louder, and then to abuse the crew for not obeying his orders. Flash after flash of lightning revealed him still waving his arm; his hat had fallen off, and his long grizzly hair flew wildly about his head. He seemed unaware of the danger of his position and indifferent to the seas which frequently dashed over him. He was thus seen standing, when a sea rose high above the half-submerged hull, and rolling over the after part, struck the mizen-top. A loud shriek was heard, and by the glare of a flash of forked lightning, the unhappy officer, the victim of hard drinking, was seen borne away amid its foaming waters. In vain he stretched out his arms to catch at floating ropes; in vain he struck out boldly towards the ship, and shouted to his men to help him. His strength was as nothing, no aid could be given, and in another instant the waves closed for ever over his head. O’Grady was the only other officer not accounted for. He had been below, and it was to be hoped had got to the upper side and had thus escaped being drowned. While his messmates were inquiring for him, his voice was heard shouting for help. He had clambered up through a hatchway, scarcely knowing what had occurred. Reuben Cole and Paul helped him up to the main-chains. Devereux and Alphonse bore up wonderfully well. The former especially showed what spirit and courage ran do under difficulties and hardships.

“I wish that the day were come,” said Paul more than once.

“It’s what many have wished before, boy, and if has come in good time,” answered Reuben.

“There’s just only one thing for it, and that’s patience, as Sandy McPherson, an old shipmate of mine, used to say whenever he was in trouble.”

The dawn did come at last, but it was very grey and very cold; but the wind and sea had gone down and the ship was still afloat. Whether she could be saved was the first question asked by all. Devereux was now senior officer, but his experience was very limited.

“I wish that I had attended more to this sort of thing,” he observed to O’Grady. “I never thought of the possibility of this happening to myself.”

“Faith, I can’t say that I ever thought much about it either,” answered the other midshipman. “But I think that we couldn’t do better than to follow old Noakes’s last order, to cut away the masts. If the ship keeps on her side much longer, she’ll go down, that’s pretty certain.”

“It’s very well to give the order, but where are the axes to cut with?” asked Devereux.

“Well, to be sure, I didn’t think about that,” answered O’Grady. “But I’ll volunteer to go and search for them, and probably others will come and help me.”

“I will, sir,” exclaimed Paul, who overheard the conversation.

“And so will I,” said Reuben Cole; “and what is more, even if the ship does not go down, we shall starve if we don’t, for there isn’t a scrap of food among any of us.”

Alphonse also expressed his readiness to go on the expedition, but O’Grady begged that he would remain and take care of Devereux. No time was to be lost. As soon as there was sufficient light for them to see, securing themselves by ropes, they slipped through a port and disappeared. Devereux, who was unfit for any exertion, remained in the chains. Some minutes passed. He became at last very anxious about his companions. He shouted to them, but no one replied. It appeared to him that the ship was turning over more, and settling deeper than before in the water.

“They have only gone a short time before me,” he thought. “It matters but little, yet how unfit I am to die. But I must not yield without a struggle. People in our circumstances have formed rafts and escaped; why should not we? Though without food, or water, or compass, or chart, we shall be badly off.” He proposed his plan to Alphonse and the people near him. All promised to obey his directions. They were on the point of climbing along the masts to get at the lighter spars, when Paul poked his head through a port, flourishing above it an axe.

“We’ve found them, we’ve found them,” he shouted; “but there’s no time to be lost, for the water is already making its way through the hatches.”

The rest of the party appearing, corroborated this statement. Devereux roused up his energies and distributed his crew, some at the masts, and the rest at the shrouds.

“Cut off all, and cut together!” he shouted. In a minute every shroud and stay and mast was cut through. The effect was instantaneous. The ship rolled up on an even keel so rapidly, that Devereux and those with him could with difficulty climb over the bulwarks to regain the deck. Their condition was but little improved, for so much water had got down below, that it seemed improbable the ship could swim long, and there she lay a dismasted wreck in the middle of the wide Atlantic. The young commander’s first wish was to endeavour to clear the ship of water, but the pumps were choked, and long before the water could be bailed out, another gale might spring up and the ship go down, even supposing there was no leak. It was probable, however, that from the quantity of water in her she had already sprung a serious leak. Every boat on board had been washed away or destroyed when the ship went over. Blank dismay was visible on the countenances of even some of the boldest of the crew. The masts and spars were, however, still hanging by the lee rigging alongside.

“We could make a stout raft anyhow,” observed Reuben.

The idea was taken up by the rest. There was a chance of life. Devereux gave orders that a raft should be formed.

“But we’ll be starving entirely, if we don’t get up some provisions,” observed O’Grady.

“May I go and collect them?” asked Paul. “Stronger people than I can be working at the raft.”

“And I will go too,” said Alphonse, when Paul had obtained the permission asked.

They found, however, that most of the casks and jars in the officers’ cabins had been upset and their contents washed away, while there was already so much water in the hold, that they could not get up anything from it. A cheese, some bottles of spirits, and a small cask of wet biscuit, were all they could collect. While groping about in the hold, it appeared to them that the water was rising; if so, the ship must have sprung a serious leak. With the scanty supply of provisions they had obtained, they hurried on deck to report what they had remarked. Considerable progress had been made with the raft, but without food and water it could only tend to prolong their misery. Reuben, with three other men, were therefore ordered below, to get up any more provisions which they could find. They very soon returned with the only things they could reach,—a small cask of pork, another of biscuit, and a keg of butter. Water was, however, most required, and it was not to be obtained. It was evident, too, that the ship was settling down more and more, and that no time must be lost in getting the raft finished. All hands now worked with the knowledge that their lives depended on their exertions, rapidly passing the numerous lashings in a way of which sailors alone are capable. Even before it was completed, the small amount of provisions which had been collected were placed on it, for all knew that at any moment it might prove their only ark of safety.

Devereux had no occasion to urge his men to increased exertion. A sail and spars for a mast, and yards and rudder were got ready. At length all the preparations were concluded.

“To the raft! to the raft!” was the cry, for the ship had sunk so low that the water was already running through the scuppers. Gradually she went down; the raft was slightly agitated by the vortex formed as the waters closed over her, and then it floated calmly on the wide ocean.

The crew looked at each other for some time without speaking. Devereux was very young to be placed in so trying a position, still he saw that he must maintain discipline among those under his command, and prevent them from sinking into a state of despondency. There was much to be done; the mast to be rigged, the sail to be fitted, and a rudder formed. It was necessary also to secure the articles on the raft, and all being done, he steered a course for the west, hoping to reach one of the West India Islands.

Paul had often when at home pictured such a scene as that in which he was now taking a part, but how far short did the scene he had drawn come of the reality! Scarcely had the ship disappeared than the wind fell and the sea became like glass, while the sun shone with intense heat on the unprotected heads of the seamen.

“Reuben, can I ask for a mug of water, do you think? I am dreadfully thirsty,” said Paul.

Reuben looked at him with compassion. “Every drop of water we’ve got is worth its weight in gold and many times more,” he answered. “It will be served out to us in thimblefuls, and each officer and man will share alike. It will be well for us if it even thus lasts till we make the land or get picked up.”

Not a mouthful of food had been eaten since the previous evening.

“It’s mighty like starving we are,” observed O’Grady; “we had better begin to eat a little, or we shall grow so ravenous, that it will be no small allowance will satisfy us.”

“You are right, Paddy,” said Devereux, rousing himself up. “Ascertain what quantity we have, and calculate how long it will last.”

O’Grady commenced the examination as directed. He soon reported that there was enough food to support life for eight, or perhaps, ten days.

“And water?” asked Devereux.

“Not for eight,” was the answer.

“Heaven preserve us!” ejaculated Devereux. “It will take us double that time to reach the land!”

The provisions were served out with the greatest care and in equal portions. The people on the raft suffered more from heat than from any other cause. The sea remained perfectly calm, the sun sank down, and darkness reigned over the ocean. It was their first night on the raft. Who could say how many more they might have to spend on it? Devereux did his best to keep up the courage of his men, but in spite of all he could say, the spirits of many sank low. He encouraged them to tell stories, to narrate their adventures, to sing songs, and he himself took every opportunity of talking of the future, and spoke confidently of what he would do when they should reach the shore. Paul felt very unhappy. He was hungry and thirsty, and that alone lowers the spirits. The men were grouped round their officers in the centre of the raft. Paul was sitting near Reuben.

“I don’t think that I shall ever live through this,” he said, taking his friend’s hand. “You are strong, Reuben, and you may weather it out. If you do, you’ll go and tell my poor mother and sisters how it all happened and what became of me. Tell them that if I had lived I might, perhaps, have been placed on the quarter-deck and become a captain or an admiral; but that dream is all over now.”

“As to that being a dream, a dream it is, Paul,” said Reuben; “but as to your living and turning out a good seaman, I’ve no fear about that, my boy,” he added cheerfully. “You see, there’s One above cares for us, and if we pray to Him He’ll send us help.”

The night passed on, the stars shone brightly down from the pure sky, the waters flashed with phosphorescence, the inhabitants of the deep came up to the surface to breathe, while not a breath of air ruffled the face of the ocean. Except two appointed to keep watch, all on the raft soon sank into a deep sleep. They were awoke by the hot sun beating down on their heads; then they again wished for night. As the rays of the sun came down with fiercer force their thirst increased, but no one asked for more than his small share of water. Those only who have endured thirst know the intensity of the suffering it causes. Devereux had no more able supporter than Alphonse, who had saved his well-beloved violin. The moment the young Frenchman saw that the spirits of the people were sinking, he pulled it from its case, and putting it to his chin, began scraping away with right good will; now a merry, now a pathetic air. The excitable state of the nerves of the seamen was shown by the effect he produced. On hearing the merry tunes they burst into shouts of laughter; with the pathetic, even the roughest melted into tears. Alphonse played on till his arm ached, and scarcely was he rested before they begged him to go on again. Before the day closed, however, several of the party appeared to be sinking into a state of apathy, scarcely knowing where they were, or what they were saying. Some clamoured loudly for food, but Devereux mildly but firmly refused to allow any one to have more than his allotted share. Paul looked at him with a respect he had never before felt. He seemed so cool and collected, so different from the careless, thoughtless midshipman he had appeared on board the frigate. He had evidently risen to the difficulties of his position. He well knew, indeed, that the lives of all the party would depend in a great measure on his firmness and decision; at the same time, he knew that all he could do might avail them nothing. He also felt compassion for Paul, who was the youngest person on the raft. He had brought him away from the frigate, and it was very probable that he would be one of the first to sink under the hardships to which they were exposed. Paul was not aware that Devereux, when serving out the food, gave him a portion of his own scanty share, in the hopes that his strength might be thus better supported and his life prolonged. Another night passed by, and when the sun rose, it shone as before on a glassy sea. There was no sign of a breeze, and without a breeze no ship could approach the raft, nor could the raft make progress towards the land. Still Devereux persevered as before in endeavouring to keep up the spirits of his men. Alphonse and his fiddle were in constant requisition, and in spite of his own suffering, as long as he could keep his bow moving, he played on with right good will. When Alphonse grew weary, Devereux called for a tale; now for a song; now he told one of his own adventures, or some adventure he had heard.

“Come, O’Grady, you used to be one of the best singers in the berth till the Frenchman’s shot knocked you over; try what you can do now!” he exclaimed, so that all might hear. “Never mind the tune, only let it be something comic, for a change,” he added in a whisper; “you and I must not let the rest know what we feel.”

“I’ll do my best, though, faith, it’s heavy work to sing with an empty stomach,” answered O’Grady. “However, here goes:—

“’Twas on November, the second day,

The Admiral he bore away,

Intending for his native shore;

The wind at south-south-west did roar,

There likewise was a terrible sky,

Which made the sea to run mountains high.

Chapter Six.

The midshipmen and their companions were in an unpleasant predicament. The pirates, after abusing them in no measured terms, ordered them, on the peril of their lives, to remain where they were while they themselves joined their companions, who were just commencing their feast. Old Charcoal, the black, soon appeared from the hole, and beckoning to Croxton and Reuben, he bade them carry a huge stew-pot full of viands, and place it in the midst of the pirates. The outlaws, when they had done this, ordered them to be off, and to wait till they were again wanted, and then set to in earnest, digging their long knives and daggers into the pot, and ladling out its more liquid contents, some with silver, and others with wooden spoons. It seemed a matter of indifference to them which they used. Cases of champagne and claret were soon broken open, and each man seized two or three bottles, from which he drank, or poured the contents into silver flagons, which he drained in a couple of draughts. Seasoned as were probably their heads, the result of these copious libations was soon apparent by the fiercer oaths they uttered, their louder laughter, and the quarrels which began to arise between those who apparently were strong friends a few minutes previously.

The black had taken his seat on the ground near them; but though they every now and then handed him a jug of wine, Paul observed that he poured the chief part of its contents on the ground. No long time passed before the wine began to take effect on the greater part of the crew. Some rose to their feet with their eyes glaring, and their unsheathed knives in their hands, vociferating loudly. Blows were exchanged, and wounds given, though on each occasion the combatants sank down again, and applied themselves afresh to their wine-cups. Some sang, others shouted and fired off their pistols in the air, and others again got up and danced wildly round their companions, till, wearied with their exertions, they reeled back to their former places. Old Charcoal shouted, and applauded, and clapped his hands with the rest. The day wore on—the orgies of the outlaws continued till the larger number lay helpless and unconscious on the ground, surrounded by broken bottles, though a few retained sufficient sense to reel towards the hut, where more comfortable couches than the ground could afford were to be found. The black followed, making a sign to Paul and his companions to remain where they were.

“He is our friend, sir, I am certain of it,” said Paul to Devereux, who had not observed the sign; “there is a chance for us of escaping.”

“By what means?” asked Devereux. “We could not get their vessel out of the harbour.”

“No, sir, but in one of their boats. Before they recover their senses we might be far away out of sight of the island.”

“Very good, Gerrard; but without knowing in what direction to steer we might too probably float about till we were starved to death, or overtaken by another hurricane,” answered Devereux, shaking his head mournfully.

“But perhaps we may find a chart on board the pirate vessel,” suggested O’Grady. “If Charcoal is really our friend, as I think he is, he will help us to get a chart, a compass, and provisions also. Hurrah! I feel quite in spirits at the thought that we shall get away.”

“Be not over sanguine, young gentleman,” observed old Croxton; “there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip, and it’s well to be prepared for reverses.”

In spite of this warning, the boys remained as sanguine as ever, and anxiously waited the appearance of old Charcoal, who, at length, was seen cautiously creeping out of the hut. He came along very fast on his knees and hands. They were surprised to see him without his legs and crutches, till he gave them to understand that the pirates had put them away out of his reach. Paul’s hopes were not to be disappointed; the black had resolved to take the opportunity for which he had long been waiting, while his hard taskmasters were overcome by drunkenness, to escape from their power.

“They will make us all slaves, and keep us to work for them if we don’t escape,” observed O’Grady. “I vote that we set about it at once.”

“But I will try to get old Charcoal’s legs and crutches first,” said Paul.

“And I will not go vidout my cher violin,” cried Alphonse; “it has been my good friend very often. It may be again.”

The poor black signified his wish to have his wooden supporters, and together the two boys set off running to the hut, while the rest of the party, not to lose time, proceeded towards the schooner.

The door of the hut was opened. Paul and Alphonse stepped in cautiously, for any noise might arouse the sleepers. They looked about for the crutches; they were placed across the rafters in the centre of the hut. A tall man standing on the table had put them there. Paul saw that even with the help of Alphonse he could not reach up so high; but he was not to be defeated—so going to the wall he put his feet on his companion’s shoulders, and climbing up he reached the beam, along which he clambered, till he got hold of the crutches, and then he handed them down to Alphonse, and fortunately without making any noise. The latter was now anxious to find his fiddle, for it was nowhere to be seen. At length, with almost a groan of despair, the young Frenchman pointed to it. A pirate had appropriated the case for a pillow. Was he to leave it? No!—he would perish first! Fortunately the man was among the most drunken, and was sleeping heavily. They agreed by signs to withdraw it, and to substitute something else. A bundle of flags had been overlooked in a corner. It might serve their purpose yet. It was hazardous work. Alphonse drew his dirk, which he had retained; but Paul implored him by a look to put it up again.

“If he does awake, only say that you want your fiddle-case to play a tune; he won’t mind that,” he whispered.

Paul went on one side, and gently lifted the pirate’s head with one hand while with the other he held the bundle of flags to shove under it as Alphonse gently pulled away the case. All depended on the movement being regular. A sudden jerk would have awakened the man, who was a fierce-looking ruffian. One of his hands lay over the hilt of his dagger, which he seemed capable of using with effect at a moment’s notice. The manoeuvre required great nerve and courage, scarcely to be expected in such young lads. It was not found wanting in them. With intense satisfaction Paul let the outlaw’s head sink on the soft pillow. The man uttered a few inarticulate sounds, but gave no other signs of awaking. The boys held their breath, and for a minute dared not move lest they should make any noise which might even at the last arouse the man, or disturb any of the other sleepers. At last they crept silently away, picking up Charcoal’s crutches on the way, and made their escape out of the hut. Darkness was coming on. It would have been well to have had daylight to get clear of the island. As soon as they had got a little distance from the hut, they set off running to overtake their companions. Charcoal was as delighted to get back his wooden legs and crutches as Alphonse was to recover his fiddle. They had to proceed cautiously as they passed the sleepers, and still more so when they entered the boat, lest the sound of an oar in the rowlock, or its splash in the water, might alarm them. One of the boats in which the pirates had come on shore was selected for the voyage; but they had first to visit the vessel to obtain the various articles they required. They quickly scrambled on board, and even the black showed a wonderful agility in getting up the side. On going below, he lighted a lantern with which to search for the articles they required. There would have been no difficulty in deciding on the character of the the vessel by the gorgeous and yet rude and tasteless style in which the chief cabin was furnished. Pictures of saints and silver ornaments were nailed against the bulkheads, interspersed with arms of all sorts, and rich silks and flags, while the furniture showed that it had been taken from vessels of various sorts—for there were damask-covered sofas, and rosewood cabinets, with deal three-legged stools, and a rough oak table; and hanging to the beams above, or in the racks against the sides, were battered pewter mugs and plates, mixed with silver tankards and salvers, and other utensils of the same precious metal. The party, however, had no time to pay attention to any of these things, or to wish even to possess themselves of any of them. They were only anxious to find the articles which would facilitate their escape. In a receptacle for all sorts of stores a ship’s compass was found; but that without a chart, and oil for the lamp, would be of little use. Nearly the whole ship had been searched through and no chart could be found.

“We must find one though, unless the black knows the direction in which we should steer,” exclaimed Devereux.

“Let us ascertain if he does. Does he know what we are looking for, though?”

O’Grady got Charcoal to come to the table, and drawing with a piece of chalk a chart on it something like the West Indies, pointed to one spot where he supposed they were, and then to others, and demanded by signs how they should get there. The black clapped his hands, and began looking about the cabins as a terrier hunts for a rat.

In a cabin evidently used by the captain from the greater number of weapons hung up in it, and its richer furniture, Charcoal discovered a locker hitherto overlooked. It was locked; but without ceremony it was broken open.

“Robbing thieves is no robbery, I hope,” observed O’Grady, as he lent a hand.

“Necessity has no law, I’ve heard say, at all events,” said Devereux.

Everything that could be required was at length discovered, and placed in the boat alongside, except one thing. They had shoved off, and were gliding noiselessly down the lagoon, when Paul, feeling his throat somewhat parched with the excitement he had gone through, asked Reuben for a mug of water from a cask he saw at his feet. Reuben tapped it. It was empty. To go without water would be destruction. There was none on board the vessel. An expedition to the fountain must be undertaken. Reuben and Croxton volunteered to go, as did O’Grady. They had, however, first to return to the schooner to get more casks. There was a fearful risk of waking up the sleeping men near whom they had to pass. Not a word was spoken by either party. While one proceeded on their expedition, the other sat still as death in the boat. Paul wished that he had gone also, for he was very anxious about his friends; he could not help fearing that should the pirates be awakened they would at once fire at strangers moving near them. It appeared to him a very long time since they had left the boat. He asked Devereux if he might go in search of them, as he feared that they might have lost their way.

“They will be here soon,” was the answer; “they have no light weight to carry between them.”

The time seemed longer perhaps than it really was. At length footsteps were heard.

“Here they come,” said Devereux, and some figures emerged from the darkness. They must be their friends; the pirates would have approached with cries and threats of vengeance. O’Grady led the way, staggering under the weight of a cask; the men followed with still heavier burdens.

“We must be off; we heard the fellows talking in the hut,” he whispered. Not another word was spoken; it was a moment for prompt action, if they would save their lives, for if captured by the pirates they would be treated with scant ceremony or mercy. The black took the helm; indeed, he alone knew anything of the shape of the lagoon, or of the passage which led from it to the sea. There were oars for each of the party. They pulled on in perfect silence, placing their handkerchiefs in the rowlocks to lessen the noise of the oars. There were numerous turns in the lagoon, which prevented them at first from feeling the wind. After pulling some way, however, they discovered that a strong gale was blowing directly into the mouth of the lagoon. It must have sprung up after they had visited the schooner, or they would have felt it before. A loud roar of breakers was heard, and the white surf could be seen breaking wildly over the surrounding reefs.

“We are in a trap, I fear,” remarked O’Grady.

They were the first words which had been spoken since they embarked. There was no danger now of their being heard.

“Let us ascertain what the black thinks,” said Devereux.

This was no easy matter in the darkness. He seemed disposed, at all events, to proceed, for he continued steering towards the sea. The rocks on either side were tolerably high, with numerous indentations, miniature bays, and inlets on either side. The boat now began to feel the seas as they rolled in. It seemed high time to stop unless they were to attempt passing through the rollers which came roaring in with increasing rapidity towards them. Suddenly the black touched Devereux’s arm, and made a sign to him to cease rowing. He waited for a few minutes. They were full of suspense. Then he shook his head, and again signed for the starboard oars to pull round, and running back a little way, he took the boat into a small inlet, where she lay quiet, sheltered by the high rocks. The disappointment was very great. It would clearly have been suicidal to have attempted passing through the surf. It would be better to face the anger of the pirates. Poor Charcoal was most to be pitied. They would hang or shoot him, or beat him to death to a certainty.

“Could we not land him, and perhaps the pirates would not find out that he assisted in our attempt to escape?” suggested O’Grady.

“You forget, Mr O’Grady, that he could not have got his crutches without our help,” observed Paul.

“The wind may moderate, and we may yet be away before daylight,” remarked Devereux. “We could not leave him behind.”

The question had not, however, been put to the black; indeed it was difficult to ascertain his wishes. He kept his seat, and made no sign. This made them hope that he still expected to get out of the lagoon before daylight. It was possible that the pirates might take to drinking again as soon as they awoke; and if so, more time would be obtained for their escape. These and similar speculations served to occupy the thoughts of the party as the dark hours of night passed by. Still the wind blew, and the seas, as they dashed over the coral reefs and broke on the sandy beach, roared as loud as before. The black made no sign of moving; indeed they all knew it would be useless. At length, with sinking hearts, they saw the first pale streaks of dawn appear. There is but little twilight in those southern latitudes; but the first harbinger of day is speedily followed by the glorious luminary himself, and the whole world is bathed with light.

“I wonder if it’s pleasant,” soliloquised O’Grady. “I don’t know whether I should prefer being hung or having my throat cut.”

“Hush,” said Devereux, “see the black is signing to you not to speak.”

“Nor will I, blessings on his honest face,” answered O’Grady, whose spirits nothing could daunt. “But I propose that before we put our necks into the noose we have our breakfast. We shall have ample time for that before those honest gentlemen we left drunk last night will be up and looking for us.”

The proposition met with universal approval, and in another instant all hands were busily employed in discussing a substantial breakfast of biscuit, dried meat, and fish, washed down by claret in as quiet a manner as if they were out on a pleasant picnic party. When it was over, some of the party scrambled up the rocks to ascertain if any of the pirates were yet on foot; but no one was to be seen moving on shore. It was possible that the pirates might suppose that they had already made their escape, and thus not take the trouble of looking for them. It was clearly their best chance to remain quiet, and so they all returned on board and lay down in the bottom of the boat. The day, as the night had done, passed slowly on. Their hopes again rose; they might remain concealed till night, and then make their escape, should the gale abate.

“We have reason to be thankful that we are not outside now,” observed old Croxton, who had said little all the time; “no boat could live in the sea there is running.”

“If we are discovered we may still fight for it,” observed Reuben Cole. “We are a match for a few score of such buccaneering scoundrels as they are, I hope.”

“I will play them one tune on my cher violin; they will not hang us if they hear that going,” said Alphonse, evidently perfectly in earnest.

“We’ll fight, undoubtedly, my friends,” said Devereux. “If we are taken, we will make the best of it, and may even then save our lives without dishonour.”

It was past noon. They judged from the continued roar that the force of the gale had in no way decreased, and that nothing could be gained by leaving their rocky shelter. Not a sound from the hut had reached them, when suddenly a loud shout reached their ears. It startled most of the party, who, overcome by the heat, had fallen asleep. Again and again the shout was repeated in tones of anger. There could be no doubt that the pirates had discovered their flight, and were searching for them. They were still at some distance, and might not look into the creek where the boats lay hid. If, however, they were to follow in a boat, they would scarcely pass by the mouth of the creek without exploring it. Paul, as the most active of the party, was directed to climb up the rock to try and ascertain in what direction the pirates were roaming. He clambered up the rock, concealing himself as much as possible by the projecting portions. He saw in the far distance on the level ground figures moving rapidly about; but only a small part of the island was visible. It was evident that those whose voices had been heard must have come much nearer. He came down and made his report.

“Hurrah! it never occurred to us before that we took the only boat they had on shore, and that those thieves of the world can’t get aboard their vessel again,” cried O’Grady, in great glee. “There are some ugly-looking monsters in the lagoon, sharks or alligators, and it’s just that they don’t like swimming off lest they should make a breakfast for some of those pretty creatures.”

“Should your idea be correct, there is another chance for us; but they will not be long before they build a raft and get on board,” said Devereux.

“Oh, by the pipers, but I wish that we had remained on board, and fought the thieves from their own craft,” cried O’Grady. “We might have picked them off as they appeared on the shore one by one, and carried her out of the harbour in triumph. Would it be too late to go back to try that same just at once?”

“Too late to go back, except we wish to be picked off ourselves, yes indeed,” said Devereux. “And hark! there is the sound of oars coming down the lagoon; the villains have got on board, and are in search of us. If we are silent, we may still avoid them.”

The whole party remained still as death. The boat came nearer and nearer. She passed the mouth of the creek, and went down to the entrance of the lagoon. Those in her were apparently satisfied that their prisoners had escaped, for the splash of their oars, and their voices as they talked loudly, were again heard as they pulled up the lagoon. Paul and his companions breathed more freely under the belief that they had escaped their enemies. Poor Charcoal sat perfectly still, though he moved his large eyes about with an uneasy glance upwards and around on every side. He ate and drank with the rest, but made no attempt to communicate to others what was passing in his mind. The day was drawing on, when Paul, who, with the rest of the party, had dropped off into a drowsy state of unconsciousness, was aroused by a shout of derisive laughter, and a voice exclaiming:

“Ah, ah! my masters, you thought to escape us, did you? and you’re like mice in a trap, and you’ll find that you’ve cats with precious sharp claws to deal with.”

On hearing this unpleasant announcement, Paul looked up and saw a hideous hairy face, ten times more hideous than that of Charcoal, because, though that of a white man, so fierce and sneering, grinning down upon them. The man, for man he was, though more like a huge baboon than a human creature, levelled a blunderbuss at Devereux’s head.

“If you allow your men to put out an oar, I will fire,” he exclaimed. “You cannot make your escape out to sea if you were to attempt it, and we can give you employment enough on shore; so we don’t intend to take your lives.”

Devereux guessed pretty accurately the meaning of these last words.

“Death rather than slavery, lads,” he cried; “out oars, and let us make an attempt for liberty.”

Scarcely had he uttered the words, while all hands were getting out their oars, than the pirate pulled the trigger. The moments of the young midshipman’s life would have been numbered, but the firearm flashed in the pan. With a curse at his failure, the man again primed his piece; but the delay, short as it was, enabled the Englishmen to get away out of the creek. The blunderbuss was fired, but its shot fell harmless. The report, however, served to call others of the pirates, who were searching for the fugitives, to the spot, and as the boat proceeded down again towards the mouth of the harbour, they were seen clambering along the rocks, shouting and gesticulating violently. It bodied ill for the way they would treat their prisoners if they caught them. The mouth of the lagoon was reached, but the surf broke as furiously as before. The pirates were approaching, having climbed along over the rocks. Already their shot could almost reach the boat. The small arms of those days carried no great distance. It would be madness to attempt running the boat through the surf.

“What say you, friends, shall we make the attempt, or yield?” asked Devereux.

“Push through it,” cried O’Grady and Reuben.

The black shook his head, and made a sign to them to pull round.

“Then let us get on a rock and fight it out; we might keep the pirates at bay for many a day, as long as our provisions last,” cried O’Grady.

“There is one that will serve us, and the fellows may have no little difficulty in dislodging us.”

He pointed to a rock close to the mouth of the lagoon, some eighty or a hundred yards in circumference. The sea dashed against it on one side, breaking into masses of foam, and the sides were high, steep, and slippery, so that neither could a boat approach, nor could a landing be effected; but on the other was a deep narrow inlet, scarcely wide enough to allow a boat to enter. They pulled towards it, and, much to their satisfaction, discovered that they could just push in their boat. As soon as they had secured her, they began carrying their water and provisions to the top. The rock was full of deep crevices and hollows, amply large enough to shelter them thoroughly, while they could completely command the passage, and destroy the crew of any boat attempting to enter. Scarcely had they made this arrangement, than a pirate boat was seen coming down the harbour. The pirates on the rocks pointed out to their companions where the Englishmen had taken refuge. Those in the boat seemed aware of the strength of the position, for they ceased rowing and held a consultation. The delay was of use to Devereux and his followers. It gave him time to dispose of them to the best advantage, and allowed them to distribute their ammunition and to load all their arms. They had fortunately brought a good supply of weapons and ammunition from the pirate vessel, so that they were prepared to stand a siege, although the most sanguine had very little hope of ultimate success. The pirates, too, had loaded their arms, and once more they came on with loud shouts and threats of vengeance. It appeared that they had only to climb up the rocks to wreak it on the heads of the small band. The task, however, was not so easy as it seemed, for the ocean itself favoured the brave defenders of the rock. There was but one spot at which, under ordinary circumstances, a boat could land, and just at the moment that the pirates were about to approach, a succession of huge rollers came tumbling in, surging round the rock, and threatening to dash the boat to pieces, unless she could hit the mouth of the inlet into which the English had run.

“Be cool, my friends,” said Devereux, “and do not throw a shot away; I will tell you when to fire.”

A cheerful “Ay, ay, sir,” was the reply from all, except from the black. He nodded his head, however, tapped the lock of his musket, and grinned broadly, intimating that he clearly understood what was said.

The pirate boat lay off the rock, but her crew dared not, it was evident, pull in; and from the way she rocked about, it was impossible to take anything like a steady aim from her. Devereux pointed out these circumstances to his companions, and ordered them to reserve their fire, and to shelter themselves as much as possible in the hollows of the rock. It was well they obeyed, for the pirates, losing patience, began firing away as fast as they could load. The shot came pattering on the face of the rock, while some whistled by above the heads of the defenders.

“Steady, steady, boys!” cried Devereux. “Those pellets can do us no harm. We will keep our fire till it is wanted.”

“They’ll think that we don’t fire because we are afraid, or have no powder,” said O’Grady.

“Let them think what they like; we’ll show them presently that we’ve powder and shot, too, if they tempt us,” answered Devereux.

Volley after volley was fired by the pirates with the same want of result. No one was hit, though several of the bullets came near enough to them to show the besieged that they must not depend upon escaping with impunity. Before, they had wished the gale to moderate, now they prayed that it might continue till nightfall, when they hoped the pirates would retire, and give them a chance of escaping. They were not disappointed. Long before dark the enemy ceased firing, as was supposed, because they had expended their ammunition, and away up the lagoon they went.

“Hurrah! Let us give three cheers for victory,” cried O’Grady. “We’ve beaten them off, anyhow, without firing a shot.”

To celebrate their bloodless victory, the party took a hearty meal, and then, when night came on, each crouched down, with his musket by his side, in his hole, to snatch a short sleep, to be prepared, should the gale cease, to escape. It was, of course, arranged that one at a time should keep watch. It appeared to Paul that the gale was abating, but he very soon became unconscious of all sublunary affairs. He must have slept some hours, for he felt greatly refreshed. The gale had ceased. He was surprised that, whosoever was on watch, had not summoned the rest of the party. He was about to call out, when he found his shoulder clutched with a strong gripe, and looking up, he saw by the dim light of a young moon, the same hideous face which had appeared on the top of the rocks on the previous day, and a peal of derisive laughter broke forth, followed by the cries of his companions, as they found themselves in the power of their enemies. Paul could scarcely help hoping and believing that he was in a dream, till the truth flashed on his mind that the pirates, accustomed to practise every kind of trick, must have approached the rock with muffled oars, and have climbed up it while he and his companions were asleep, and surprised them. Such, indeed, was the case. Whichever of the party ought to have been awake had undoubtedly dropped into forgetfulness, or the pirates must have approached in a wonderfully stealthy manner. English seamen, when they have fought bravely, as they always do, and have striven to the last, and are overpowered, do not struggle or bluster, but yield to their destiny with calmness and dignity.

“So you thought to escape us, did you?” exclaimed one of the pirates, as he secured Devereux’s hands. “What do you think you deserve, now, for running away with other people’s property? Hanging is too good for you; that’s the way you would have treated us, if we had been caught doing the same thing to you—ha, ha!” And the man laughed at what he considered a very good joke. “But come along, mister officer, we’ll try you by judge and jury all fair and shipshape to-morrow morning, and if you’re found guilty, you’ll have no cause to complain,” added the pirate, as he in no ceremonious manner dragged the poor young midshipman down the rock.

Paul found himself held tight by the savage who had at first seized him, and the whole party were quickly transferred to the boats, which proceeded up the lagoon.

Paul found himself in the boat in which they had attempted to escape, seated next to Alphonse, who had managed to secure his fiddle-case.

“De music vil soften de savage breast, I have heard—I vill try,” said the young Frenchman, stooping down to open the case, for their arms were at liberty.

The pirates were amusing themselves by taunting and deriding their prisoners, some in one language, some in another. Alphonse took no notice of what was said—probably he understood but little. Paul felt that he should like to jump up and attack them, but he wisely kept his seat. Alphonse at length succeeded in getting out his bow and violin, and without saying a word, struck up a French tune.

“Hillo, you are a merry young chap,” exclaimed one of the English pirates. “Scrape away, we don’t hear much like that.”

Alphonse played on without stopping.

“Ah, c’est de ma patrie—c’est de ma belle France,” cried a Frenchman from the bow of the boat, and Alphonse felt a hope that there was one near who would befriend him. On landing, the prisoners, including poor old Charcoal, were marched up to the hut, into one end of which they were thrust, and told that their brains would be blown out if they moved or spoke. This made but little difference. They could expect but one fate, and by no plan they could devise were they likely to escape it.

When the morning came, some biscuit was given them, and the black was ordered to go and bring them water. This gave them hopes that they were not, at all events, to be murdered forthwith. The pirates all the morning were either asleep or very sulky, but at noon, having spread a supply of provisions in the shade and broached a cask of wine, they became merry, and one of them, the ugly hirsute fellow before described, proposed as an amusement, that they should try the prisoners and punish them afterwards according to their deserts. The proposal was received with great applause, and Devereux and his companions were ordered to appear before their captors. The pirate captain was the judge, and two of the officers undertook to be counsel for the defendants. The case, however, was made out very clearly against them, and except extenuating circumstances, they had nothing to plead in their favour. Poor Charcoal had still less chance of escape.

“He is guilty of ingratitude, of robbery, of rebellion and high treason, for either of which he deserves hanging, and hanged he shall be forthwith,” cried the judge, draining off a jug of wine. “We couldn’t before have done without him, but now one of you can take his place. You are a stout fellow,” he added, addressing Reuben Cole. “Are you inclined to save your life and to work honestly for your bread?”

“To work for you, so as to let you hang that poor dumb fellow, Charcoal? No, that I’m not, yer scoundrels,” he exclaimed vehemently. “If you touch a hair of his head, you’ll not get a stroke of work out of me as long as you live unhung.”

This reply excited the laughter rather than the anger of the crew. The same question was put to Devereux and Croxton, and answers to the same effect were given. Still the voice of the majority was for hanging the black. He, meantime, stood resting on his crutches, the most unconcerned of all the actors in the scene.

“Well, then, the young Frenchman shall hang him,” cried the hairy savage, with a grin, seizing poor Alphonse by the arm. “Or stay—the other two youngsters shall perform the office, while mounseer shall fiddle him out of the world while we dance to the tune.”

“No, you villains; I vill not play, if you hurt one hair of dat poor man’s head,” exclaimed Alphonse, starting up with unusual animation. “I vill play from morn to night, and you shall dance and sing as much as you vill, but if you hang him, I vill casser mon cher violin into pieces, and it vill never play more—dere!”

His address was received with much applause by many of the party, and, encouraged by it, he seized his violin and commenced playing, vigorously, one of his most animating tunes. The effect was instantaneous. Many of the pirates leaped to their feet and began dancing furiously one by one; even the more morose joined them, and old Charcoal took the opportunity of hobbling off to get out of their sight, hoping that if he could escape for a day or two, they might possibly forget their evil intentions with regard to him. Still, Devereux knew that, from their treacherous nature, as soon as the dance was over, they were very likely, for the sake of the amusement, to hang him and his elder companions, at all events, and to make slaves of O’Grady, Paul, and Alphonse. While the excitement was at its height, the pirates, with their frantic gestures and loud shrieks and cries, appearing more like a troop of demons than human beings, a large boat was seen coming up the harbour, pulled at a rapid rate. Her crew leaped on shore, and the pirates rushed to meet them. A few words overheard by Paul served to explain their errand.

“Our craft was sunk—we were pursued by a British man-of-war. Hardly escaped them. Some of our fellows taken prisoners. Are certain to betray us and to bring the enemy down here. Not a moment is to be lost. Our only chance is to escape to sea.”

From what he heard, Paul guessed that the new comers were part of the crew of a consort of the pirate schooner, and he thought it probable that the pirates might carry him and his companions off as hostages. He therefore hastened to Devereux, who was at a little distance, and told him what he had heard. Devereux fully agreed with him, and before the pirates had time to recover from the excitement into which the news had thrown them, he and his companions, separating so as not to excite observation, walked quietly away till they were out of sight of the pirates. They then, once more meeting, set off running as hard as they could go towards the extreme end of the island. Before long, as they halted to take breath, they had the satisfaction of seeing sail made on the schooner, and presently she glided down with a fair wind towards the entrance of the lagoon. Before, however, she reached it, Paul, as he turned his eyes towards the west, caught sight of another sail approaching from that direction. He pointed it out to his companions.

“She is a square-rigged ship,” cried Devereux; “a man-of-war, too, if I mistake not, come in search of the pirates. Unless their craft is a very fast one, their career will soon be brought to an end.”

Chapter Seven.

The look-out from the mast-head of the pirate schooner must have discovered the stranger soon after Paul had seen her, and her appearance must have caused some uncertainty and irresolution on board. The wind dropping, they furled sails, as if about to remain where they were and fight it out.

“It will give the boats of the man-of-war some work to do,” exclaimed Devereux, when he saw this. “I wish that we could get off to them first, though. I would give much to have a brush with those piratical scoundrels.”

Before long, however, the pirates again altered their minds. The breeze returning, sail was once more made, and the schooner, with the boats towing ahead, stood through the entrance. The time lost was probably of the greatest consequence to them, and by the time that the schooner was clear of the reefs, the man-of-war had drawn so near, that her character was no longer doubtful. Devereux had been anxiously watching her for some time, so had Reuben Cole.

“What do you think of her, Cole?” asked Devereux.

“What you knows her to be, sir—the Cerberus herself, and no other,” cried Reuben, in a more animated tone than he had indulged in for many a long day.

“I made sure it was she, sir, five minutes ago, but I was just afraid to speak; but when you axed me, sir, then I knowed it was all right.”

“The Cerberus!” cried the rest of the party in the same breath.

“Ay, she’s the fine old girl, no doubt about it,” exclaimed O’Grady. “Three cheers for the Cerberus! Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

All the party joined heartily in the shout. It was echoed from a distance, and old Charcoal was seen scrambling along on his crutches towards them. They congratulated him by signs at having escaped the fate which his cruel taskmasters had intended for him, and he seemed no less pleased than they were at the appearance of the English frigate. Their attention was, however, soon fully engrossed by the chase. The frigate had caught sight of the schooner, and was now crowding on all sail to overtake her. The latter was keeping as close in with the shore as the reefs would allow, with the intention, probably, of rounding the island and putting it between herself and her enemy. She, however, by keeping so close in, lost the sea breeze, which the frigate, keeping from necessity further out, retained. The pirates thus lost the advantage which the knowledge of the shore would have given them. Their craft was a fast one, but there was no faster frigate on the station than the Cerberus. She seemed putting forth all her speed, and it was soon evident that she was gaining rapidly on the chase. The wind, it must be understood, was off the land, along the south coast of which the vessels were standing towards the east. It was necessary, therefore, for the schooner, in order to get on the north side, either to stand a long way to the east, or else to make short tacks, so as to weather the eastern end of the island. The temptation to watch her proceedings was very great, and though the way round was long, and over soft sand in places, the party set off in that direction as fast as they could run. By the time they had reached a slight elevation, whence they could watch the further progress of the chase, the frigate had gained so greatly on the schooner, that the latter would, in a few minutes, be within range of her guns. The pirates must have seen that they had now little chance of escaping, but they would not give in.

“Hurra! There goes her first shot,” cried O’Grady, as a puff of smoke and a flash was seen to proceed from the frigate’s side, followed by a report, as the iron missile went leaping over the water, but falling short of the object at which it was aimed. For some half-hour or more the frigate did not throw another shot away; the schooner, meantime, made several tacks in shore, but the wind veered as she went about, and she gained far less ground than if she had continued on one tack. Still she managed nearly to weather the eastern point. The Cerberus, however, was by this time standing directly towards her, a point off the wind, so as to make her escape almost impossible. Again the frigate fired—the water was smooth, and her gunnery was good. The shot struck the schooner’s hull. Another and another followed. Still she stood on. She was in stays; another tack or two would carry her round the point, and there were reefs amid which she might possibly make her escape, when a shot, flying higher than the rest, struck the head of her main-mast. Over the side went the topmast and topsail, down came the mainsail, and the vessel’s head paying off, in five minutes she was hard and fast on a reef. The frigate had, meantime, been shortening sail, and scarcely had the schooner struck, when she dropped her anchor in a position completely to command the wreck with her guns.

“The villains will get their due now. Hurrah!” cried O’Grady. “But see, they are lowering their boats to escape on shore. If they fall in with us, they will knock us on the head to a certainty. Won’t discretion with us be the best part of valour? and hadn’t we just best get out of their way?”

“They will scarcely attempt to come on shore here, I should think,” observed Devereux. “They will more probably pull along close in with the shore, and, if they can, get away from the island altogether.”

The attempt of the pirates to escape was immediately seen from the frigate, which, thereon, opened her fire to prevent them, while at the same time her boats were lowered to cut them off. The frigate’s shot had knocked one of the schooner’s boats to pieces. Most of her crew crowded into the other two, which shoved off, leaving some on board, who loudly entreated them to return. But, overloaded as they were, they could not have done so had they wished, and it was with difficulty they reached the shore, swearing vengeance on the heads of their victors.

“It’s time for us, at all events, to be off, if we would save our throats from being cut, or our heads from being broken,” cried O’Grady, as he saw them about to land.

The rest of the party agreed with him, and signed to Charcoal to accompany them. But the old black seemed bewildered, and shook his head, to signify that he could not move as fast as they could, and that they must hurry on without him. In vain they urged him and showed him that they would help him on.

“Come, old fellow, just you get up on my back, and I will carry you,” exclaimed Reuben Cole, who was by far the strongest of the party.

Still the black refused—the whole party were in despair. It was high time, indeed, to move away from the spot, not only to escape the pirates, but to avoid the shot from the Cerberus, some of which, passing over the schooner, had struck the ground very close to them. One of the shot at length settled the dispute by flying along and striking the poor old man on the shoulder, and very nearly taking off Reuben’s head at the same time. His moments were evidently numbered, and to move him while seemingly in the agonies of death, would have been cruelty. Devereux, therefore, reluctantly ordered his followers to run for their lives, before they were discovered and pursued by the pirates. It was doubtful, indeed, whether they had not already been seen. Paul, as they came along, had observed a patch of rocky ground to the south near the shore, with low shrubs growing about it. He pointed it out to Devereux.

“Right, Gerrard, the very place for us; we’ll steer towards it,” he answered.

By running on at full speed, they had just time to conceal themselves among the rocks as the pirates reached the shore. Devereux had ordered them all to lie down, so that they were unable to observe the direction the outlaws took. O’Grady and Paul were crouching down close to each other. Both felt a strong inclination to look out from their hiding-place.

“I say, Gerrard, don’t you think that you could manage, just with half an eye above the rock, to see what the spalpeens of pirates are about there?” whispered the former.

“Beg pardon, sir, but our orders were not to look out at all,” answered Paul, in a very low voice.

“Right, Gerrard, right; but by the powers, our fellows are a long time getting on shore from the frigate,” said O’Grady.

“Silence, lads!” whispered Devereux, who overheard them talking. “I hear footsteps.”

Sure enough, the tramp of men running fast was heard, and, it seemed, coming in the direction of the rock. Probably the pirates were hastening there for shelter. Paul was sure, as most likely were the rest of the party, that they would wreak their vengeance on their heads if they discovered them. He felt very uncomfortable; his satisfaction was not increased, when he heard a voice shout out, “Here they are, the scoundrels! don’t let one of them escape.”

As there was no object in remaining to be cut down, he was about to follow the ordinary instinct of nature, and to try and escape by flight, when another voice added, “Come on, men, here they are, a dozen or two skulking scoundrels, too.”

There was a shrill squeak in the sound, which Paul was certain he had heard many times before. He was not mistaken. There, on the top of a rock, stood honest Bruff, and by his side, Tilly Blake.

“There are two of the villains—young ones, though,” cried Tilly, pointing to O’Grady and Gerrard.

Then he stopped, with a look of astonishment which made them almost burst into a fit of laughter, as they sprang forward to meet him, while the rest of the party at the same time rose up from their lair.

“Why, Devereux, old fellow, I thought that you were safe in England with our prize by this time,” cried Bruff, as he shook his messmate’s hand.

Devereux could with difficulty reply, his feelings had so completely mastered him; so Bruff continued: “Ah, I see how it was; the scoundrels surprised and captured you, and brought you prisoners here. Well, I’m thankful we’ve got you back safe, though I conclude poor old Noakes has lost the number of his mess.”

In a few words, Devereux, who soon found his tongue, explained what had occurred, and the whole party, with the rest of the frigate’s crew who had landed, set forward in pursuit of the pirates. It was important to come up with them before they could have time to fortify themselves. In high glee, the whole party hurried on, led by Bruff, and guided by Devereux and O’Grady. It was likely that the pirates would make a stand either at the hut or on the top of a rocky mound on which some thick brushwood, with a few trees, grew. It was a strong post naturally, and might be made much stronger if the pirates had time to cut down the trees and form barricades. Bruff, therefore, with his small party, without waiting for reinforcements from the ship, pushed on. They had already passed round the head of the lagoon without finding the enemy.

“They must have got into the hut, and we must be cautious how we approach it, or they may pick us off without our being able to return a shot,” observed Devereux, as they came in sight of it.

Bruff, in consequence of this, at once divided his men, sending one party to the right, another to the left, while he advanced directly towards the hut, keeping, however, under such shelter as the cocoa-nut trees and bushes afforded. Whether the generalship was good might be doubted, for should the pirates break out, they might overwhelm one of the smaller parties, and make good their retreat to another part of the island, where they might hold out till the frigate was compelled to leave the coast. This was Reuben’s opinion, which he imparted to Paul. Still the enemy did not appear. The parties closed in—not a shot was fired. “Charge!” shouted Bruff. The door was burst open—the hut was empty. There were treasures of all sorts scattered about, which the pirates had not time to pack up when they hurriedly left the island.

The crew of the Cerberus very naturally wished to take possession of the plunder, but Bruff called them together, and ordered them to proceed at once to the mound where Devereux and O’Grady thought that the pirates must have gone. It was hot work. They stopped for a few seconds at the fountain to wash the sand out of their throats, and pushed on. The hill was soon in sight. The place looked naturally strong.

“The fellows are there, for they are cutting down the trees already,” cried O’Grady. “If we could but wait for an hour or so, they’d be pretty well ready for us, and we should get heaps of honour and glory in taking them.”

“Thank you, Paddy, but we’ll not give them time to get ready,” answered Bruff. “On, lads, on!”

So busily engaged were the pirates, that the English were close up to the mound, for hill it was not, before they perceived that their enemies were on them. Led on by Bruff and the other midshipmen, the seamen clambered up the hill in spite of all obstacles. The pirates stood to their arms and fought desperately. They were a fierce set of ruffians. The hairy baboon, as O’Grady called the man who had seized Paul on the rock, led them on. Their captain, probably, had been killed, for he seemed to be the principal officer among them. Among gentry of that class, when the day is going against them, no one is anxious to be looked upon as a leader. Whether he wished it or not, however, the hairy baboon was a conspicuous object. With three brace of pistols stuck in his belt, his arms bare, and a huge sword in his hand, he stood like a wild beast at bay. The pirates, when overpowered at other points, rallied round him. Again and again Bruff attempted to pick him out, in the hopes of cutting him down, but each time calling his men around him, the pirate avoided the combat.

The pirates were, however, getting the worst of it. Several of them had fallen, killed, or desperately wounded. Some of the English also had been hurt, and two killed. Bruff, determining to put an end to the conflict, once more dashed up the slope, and with his brave fellows, leaping over all obstacles, pushed up to where the savage stood behind the trunk of a fallen tree. Devereux was at his side, and Paul followed close behind, armed with a pistol which had been given him by one of the seamen. His great wish was, should opportunity occur, of being of use to Devereux, just as he had been, on a former occasion, to poor old Noakes. This was fiercer work, for quarter was neither asked nor taken. The English among the pirates were the most desperate, for they knew that they were fighting with halters round their throats. The pirate plied his weapon with right good will, and kept Bruff fully occupied, bestowing, indeed, more than one wound on him. Devereux was, meantime, engaged with another fellow, evidently an officer by his gay dress and ornaments. He also was a good swordsman; and while the English seamen were engaged on either side, he managed to strike down Devereux’s cutlass, and would the next moment have cut him from the head to the neck, when Paul, seeing that the moment for action had arrived, springing forward, fired his pistol with so good an aim, that the pirate, shot through the heart, sprang into the air and fell forward over the tree, while Devereux, recovering his guard, saved his head from the blow of the falling sword, which he sent flying away among the pirates. At liberty for a moment, he turned on Bruff’s antagonist, who, unable to parry his rapid blows, was at length brought to the ground. As he lay writhing in the agonies of death, he attempted to fire a pistol, which he drew from his belt, at his victor’s head; but his eye was dim—the shot flew into the air, and his hand fell powerless by his side. The pirates, though they still fought on, were evidently disheartened at the fall of their leaders; but the English were proportionately encouraged, and dashing on once more, they cut down every pirate opposing them. Some attempted to fly, prompted by the instinct of self-preservation; but they were met by a party under O’Grady, sent round to attack them in the rear, and at last, in the hopes of prolonging their lives, they threw down their arms and begged for quarter. However fierce men may be, very few will fight on with the certainty of being killed if they do, and the possibility of escaping if they yield. The pirates were completely disarmed, and were then surrounded by seamen, with pistols at their heads, marched towards the spot where the boats of the Cerberus lay waiting for them. The hut and its contents were not forgotten, and one party of men was ordered to collect and bring along all the more valuable articles which could be found. As they marched along, Devereux called Paul up to him. “Gerrard, I am anxious to tell you that I feel how heavy a debt of gratitude I owe you,” he said. “You have tended me with a brother’s care since I was wounded, and I saw the way in which you saved my life just now. Fortunately, Mr Bruff saw it also, and as you thus certainly contributed to the success of the undertaking, I am certain that he will place your conduct in its most favourable light before the captain, and, for my part, I think that there is one reward which you ought to obtain, and which you will obtain, too.”

“What can that be, sir?” asked Paul, innocently. “All I know is, that I wished to be of use to you, and I am very glad that you think I have been of use.”

“Indeed you have, Gerrard,” answered Devereux. “I should have been food for the land crabs if it hadn’t been for you; but we’ll not say anything more about the reward just now.”

They were approaching the beach where the boats were waiting.

“Hillo, what is that?” cried O’Grady. “Oh, you vile scoundrels—you did that, I know you did.”

He shook his fist at the prisoners as he spoke, and pointed to the body of the poor black, which lay in their course, with the head smashed to pieces. The pirates had evidently found him wounded on the ground when they landed, and had thus wreaked their vengeance on him.

The seamen stopped a few short minutes to bury him in the sand, and the midshipmen, as they passed on, muttered, “Poor old Charcoal, good bye.”

The pirates would have had very little chance just then of escaping with their lives had the seamen been their judges, and in consequence of the cruel murder of the black, they got many a punch in the ribs and a lift with the knee as they were bundled into the boats. Hitherto, of course, those on board the Cerberus were ignorant that Devereux and his companions were on the island. As the boats approached the ship, all glasses were turned towards them; but it took some time after they had climbed up the sides to explain who they were and where they had come from, so haggard in countenance were they, and so tattered in dress, and blood and smoke-begrimed. Devereux lost not a moment in speaking to Captain Walford in warm terms of Paul’s conduct throughout all the events which had occurred, adding, “To-day, sir, he saved my life by shooting a man who was on the point of cutting me down, and I must entreat you to give him the only reward he would value, or indeed, I believe, accept.”

“What is that?” asked Captain Walford, smiling at the idea of a ship-boy being punctilious as to the style of reward he would receive.

“Why, sir, that you would place him on the quarter-deck,” answered Devereux, boldly. “There is no one who will do it more credit, or is better fitted to become an officer than Paul Gerrard, sir.”

“I will keep him in mind, and perhaps he may have an opportunity of distinguishing himself while under my eye,” answered the captain; but he made no promise to promote Paul, and Devereux left him, fearing very much that he was displeased at his having mentioned the subject.

All the party were, however, warmly welcomed on board, and Alphonse, who had now learned a good deal of English, became a great favourite both with officers and men. As there happened to be no fiddler among the crew, his violin was in great requisition. He had no pride, and as he took delight in giving pleasure, he constantly went forward to play to the men while they danced. There was nothing they would not have done for the “little mounseer,” as they called him.

Before the Cerberus left the island, one of the pirates declared that a large amount of treasure was hidden near the hut, and volunteered to show it, provided that his life was spared. Captain Walford would make no promise, but let the man understand that if the treasure was found, and he chose to turn king’s evidence, the circumstance might possibly tell in his favour. The pirate held out for the promise of a pardon and refused to afford any further information unless it was given. The captain, however, sent a party on shore, under Mr Bruff with O’Grady, to search for the supposed treasure. Reuben and Paul were of the party. There were two boats. They pulled up the lagoon.

“I feel very different now from what I did t’other day when the pirates were after us. Don’t you, Paul?” said Reuben Cole, in a moralising tone. “Many are the ups and downs in the world. The pirates was then thirsting after our blood, and now we’re thirsting after the pirates’ gold. It’s not much good our blood would have done them, and I’m afeared the gold won’t do us much good either, if it’s spent as most of us spends it when we gets ashore. Paul, don’t you go and throw away your hard-earned gains as seamen generally do—you’ll be sorry for it some day, if you do.”

Paul promised to follow his friend’s advice. He was very eager, however, to find the pirate treasure, as he hoped to be able to send his share home to his mother and sisters. He was not aware of the efforts Devereux had been making to get him placed on the quarter-deck, in which case the share would be considerably more than that of a cabin-boy. The search was commenced, but except a bag of dollars and a few gold doubloons, nothing of value could be found. The men dug about in every direction. There was no sign of the earth having been turned up.

“I say, Reuben, I wonder where all the gold we are looking for can be,” exclaimed Paul, after they had searched in vain again and again.

“Just possible, nowhere,” answered Reuben. “Them chaps is much more likely to spend their money ashore than to bury it in the ground.”

It seemed very probable that Reuben’s opinion was the right one. The seamen dug and dug more frantically and eagerly as the prospect of finding the gold became less and less. Reuben’s spade at length struck something hard.

“Hurrah! Here it is,” cried several voices, and half a dozen spades were plunged into the hole at the same time. A human skull was soon brought to view.

“All right,” cried O’Grady. “The pirates always bury a man above their treasure, that his spirit may keep guard over it.”

Thus encouraged, the seamen dug on, the bones were thrown up with very little ceremony, and all expected every instant to come upon an iron case, or an oak chest, or something of that sort, full of gold, and pearls, and diamonds. While thus employed, a gun from the ship was heard. They dug more desperately than ever. The gun was the signal for their return: it must not be disobeyed. Still, within the very grasp of their treasure, it seemed hard to lose it. They dug, and they dug, but there was no sign of treasure. Another gun was heard.

“We must be away!” cried the leader. “Shoulder spades, and march!”

O’Grady, stopping behind, leaped into the hole and ran his sword up to the hilt into the sand, but it met with no impediment. Again and again he plunged his sword in all directions. He saw that it was of no avail. “I must be out of this and run after the rest,” he said to himself. But to propose was easier than to execute. In vain he tried to get up the sandy sides of the pit—he made desperate efforts. He ought not to have stopped behind, and did not like to cry out. “Oh! I shall have to take the place of the disinterred body, and that would not be at all pleasant,” he muttered—“One more spring!” But no—down he came on his back, and the sand rushed down and half covered him up. He now thought that it was high time to sing out, and so he did at the very top of his voice. He shouted over and over again—no one came. His companions were getting further and further off. He scrambled to his feet and made another spring, shrieking out at the same time, “Help! help!”

Fortunately, Paul and Reuben were bringing up the rear, and Paul happening to speak of Mr O’Grady, observed that he was not in front. At that moment the cry of “Help, help!” reached his ears.

“It’s Mr O’Grady,” he exclaimed, and he ran forward to Mr Bruff and obtained leave to go and look. Reuben and several other men had, however, to go to his assistance to get poor Paddy out of the hole, and pretty hot they all became by running towards the boats, so as not to delay them. Nothing was said of O’Grady’s adventure, and the captain did not seem much surprised at no treasure having been found. A course was steered for Jamaica, where the pirates were to be tried. The Cerberus arrived at her destined port without falling in with an enemy. Numerous witnesses came forward to prove various acts of piracy committed by the prisoners, the greater number of whom were condemned to death, and were accordingly hung in chains, as the custom of those days was, to be a terror and warning to like evil-doers, as dead crows and other birds are stuck up in a field to scare away the live ones wishing to pilfer the farmer’s newly-sown seed.

The frigate having refitted in Port Royal harbour, was again to sail—like a knight-errant—in search of adventures. It was not likely that she would be long in finding them.

As soon as the commander-in-chief heard of the capture of the frigate by the mutineers, he became very anxious to re-take her. A brig of war before long arrived with a Spanish prize lately out of Puerto Cabello on the Spanish Main. Her crew gave information that the frigate was there fitting for sea by the Spaniards, to whom the mutineers had delivered her; that she was strongly armed, and manned with a half more than her former complement. It soon became known on board the Cerberus that Captain Walford had volunteered to cut out the frigate, but that the admiral objected to the exploit as too hazardous.

“Just like our skipper,” exclaimed O’Grady. “He would try it and do it too. We’d back him, and so would every man on board.”

“No fear of that,” cried several voices. “Let us but find her, and she will be ours.”

“I wish that we could have the chance,” observed Devereux to O’Grady. “It would be a fine opportunity for Gerrard, and the captain would, I think, be glad of a good excuse for placing him on the quarter-deck.”

As there was no longer a reason for Alphonse Montauban remaining on board the Cerberus, he had to be left at Jamaica to wait till an opportunity should occur for sending him to France. His friends parted from him with many regrets.

“We shall meet some day again, old fellow,” said O’Grady, as he wrung his hands. “But I say, I hope that it won’t be with swords in our fists.”

“Oh no, no!” cried Alphonse; “I will never more fight against you English. I was told that you were little better than barbarians—a nation of fierce lords, money-making shopkeepers, and wretched slaves; but I find you very different. I love you now, and I love you for ever.”

Alphonse parted in a most affectionate manner from Paul, telling him how glad he should be, when the war was over, if he would come and see him at his father’s château, where he said he should go and remain quietly, and escape, if possible, being sent again to sea.

The Cerberus sailed with sealed orders. This was known. It was hoped that they would give permission to the captain to attack the Spanish frigate. The captain opened his orders off the east end of the island, when he found that he was to proceed off Cape Delavela, on the Spanish Main, a point of land about seventy leagues to leeward of Puerto Cabello, and that he was to remain as long as his provisions, wood, and water would allow, to endeavour to intercept the frigate supposed to be bound to the Havana. Thither the Cerberus accordingly proceeded. To wait in expectation of meeting a friend is a matter of no little interest; but when an enemy is looked-for, and there is the prospect of a battle, and a pretty tough one to boot, the excitement is immense. In this instance it was tenfold: the enemy was no ordinary one; the object was to win back a ship foully taken and disgracefully retained.

“There is no necessity to tell you to keep a sharp look-out,” said the captain to the officers of the watch, as he went below the first night of their arrival on their cruising-ground.

“She’ll be clever if she escapes us,” was the answer. However, the captain was on deck that night several times, as he was on many subsequent nights, and sharp eyes were looking out all night and all day, and still no enemy’s frigate hove in sight. Paul was very ambitious to be the first to see her. Whenever his duty would allow, he was at the mast-head till the hot sun drove him down, or darkness made his stay there, useless. He often dreamed, when in his hammock at night, that he heard the drum beat to quarters, and jumping up, slipped into his clothes, and hurried on deck, when finding all quiet, with no small disappointment he had again to turn in. “The opportunity will come, however, in some way or other,” said Paul to himself as he tried to go to sleep, and succeeded, as ship-boys generally do. “I must have patience. Even if I were to be killed the next day, I should like to have been a midshipman.” Week after week passed away; no enemy appeared. Now and then a prize was taken; but it was always the same story—the frigate was still in Puerto Cabello. At length it became known that the water and wood were running short, while it was a fact no one would dispute, that the provisions were very bad. The Cerberus must return to Jamaica. The disappointment was general.

“Och, the blackguards of Dons, to keep us waiting all this time, and not to give us the satisfaction of thrashing them after all!” cried Paddy O’Grady, as the matter was discussed in the midshipmen’s berth.

“The fellow has probably slipped by us in the dark; but we’ll catch him some day; that’s a comfort,” observed Devereux.

“Our skipper is not a man to take that for granted without ascertaining the fact,” remarked Bruff.

He was right. Before a course was shaped for Jamaica, the Cerberus stood for Puerto Cabello. All hands were eagerly on the look out as they approached the port, to ascertain whether the frigate was still there. A shout of satisfaction broke from the throats of the crew as she was discovered with her sails bent ready for sea, though moored head and stern between two strong batteries, one on either side, at the entrance of the harbour. By herself, she looked no insignificant opponent; while the batteries, it was supposed, mounted not less than two hundred guns. The Cerberus stood in till she was within gun-shot of the enemy, and then continued her course, as if fearing a contest. Not a word was said by the captain as to what he intended doing. Hope returned when the ship was tacked. For two or three days the Cerberus continued cruising up and down before the port. Another day was drawing to a close, when, as it seemed, she had given a farewell to the port. Some of the officers had been dining with the captain. They came out of the cabin with an expression of satisfaction on their countenances.

“Something is in the wind,” said Reuben to Paul. “They wouldn’t look so pleased otherwise.”

Not long after this, all hands were sent aft to the quarter-deck, where the captain stood, surrounded by his officers, ready to receive them.

“I told you so,” whispered Reuben to Paul. “He’s got some good news, depend on that; I see it in his eye.”

“My lads, we have been waiting a long time to get hold of that villainous frigate in there,” the captain began. “If we don’t take her, somebody else will, and we shall lose the honour and glory of the deed. She will not come out to fight us fairly, and so we must go in and bring her out. It’s to be done, I know, if you’ll try to do it. What do you say to that?”

“That we’ll try and do it,” cried a voice from among the seamen.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” Three hearty cheers broke from the crew. Again and again was given forth from the seamen’s throats that soul-thrilling shout which none but Englishmen can utter.

“Thank you, my lads,” cried the captain. “I knew that you would be ready to do it; and, what is more, I know that you will do it. It will not be your fault if that frigate is not ours before many hours are over. There will be six boats with their regular crews, and I have arranged already of whom the boarding-parties are to consist. I will myself lead.”

Saying this, he handed a list to the first-lieutenant. All were eager to ascertain its contents. Bruff and Devereux had command of boats; the second-lieutenant had charge of another—the launch; the surgeon of a fourth. Paul, with no small delight, heard his name called out for the captain’s boat—the pinnace. Reuben Cole was also to go in her. The expedition was to consist of two divisions; the first formed by the pinnace, launch, and jolly-boat, to board on the starboard-bow, gangway, and quarter; and the gig, black and red cutters, to board on the opposite side. Some of her crew were to remain in the launch to cut the lower cable, for which they were provided with sharp axes; the jolly-boat was to cut the stern cable and to send two men aloft to loose the mizen-topsail. Four men from the gig were to loose the fore-topsail, and in the event of the boats reaching the ship undiscovered, as soon as the boarders had climbed up the sides, the crews were to cut the cables and take the ship in tow. No arrangements could be more perfect, and all about to engage in the undertaking felt confident of success, eagerly waiting for the moment of action. The ship stood towards the harbour, and in silence the crews and the boarding-parties entered the boats and shoved off. Paul felt as he had never felt before. He had gone through a good many adventures; but the work he was now engaged in would probably be of a far more desperate character. Still his heart beat high with hope. If the undertaking should be successful—and he felt sure that it would be—he believed that he should secure that position he had of late taught himself so ardently to covet. The boats made rapid progress. The pinnace led; the captain with his night-glass keeping his eye constantly on the enemy. No light was seen, either on board her or in the batteries, or other sign to show that the Spaniards were aware that a foe was approaching. The night was dark; the water was smooth. There was a sound of oars. Two large gun-boats were seen at the entrance of the harbour. At the same instant the Spaniards, discovering the English, began firing. The alarm was given; lights burst forth in all directions, and round-shot and bullets came whizzing through the air. Some officers might have turned back; not so Captain Walford. Ordering the boats to follow, and not to mind the Spaniards, he gave three hearty cheers, and, dashing on, was quickly up to the frigate.

Chapter Eight.

The Spanish frigate lay moored head and stern, with her ports open, and the light from her fighting-lanterns streaming through them. The crew, awakened by the firing, had hurried to their quarters, and were now rapidly discharging their guns, sending their shot right and left, though happily, it seemed, without any definite aim. A shot passed close over the captain’s head; so close that Paul expected for a moment to see him fall, but he did not even notice the circumstance, and only urged his men to pull up alongside the enemy. The pinnace was crossing the frigate’s bows. Suddenly her way was checked.

“She’s aground, sir,” cried the coxswain. “A rope has caught our rudder—unship it, man,” answered the captain, who was as cool as if about to go on board his own ship.

In another instant the pinnace had hooked on to the Spaniard’s bows; and her crew, led by their brave captain, were climbing up to gain a footing on their forecastle. Paul’s heart beat quick—not with fear, but with the belief that the moment for distinguishing himself had arrived. He resolved to follow the captain closely. Captain Walford had hold of the anchor which hung at the bows, when his foot slipped, and he would have fallen back, had he not caught at the lanyard and hauled himself up. The delay, though brief, enabled some of the men to be up before him. Paul was among the number; and, finding a rope, he hove it to the captain, which enabled him to gain the deck. Not an enemy was found; but, looking down on the main-deck, the English discovered the Spaniards at their quarters, not dreaming, it seemed, that the foe already stood on the deck of their ship. There they stood, some loading, others firing; fierce-looking fellows enough as the light of the lanterns fell on their countenances. The foresail had been left laid across the deck ready for bending, and the thick folds of the canvass served as a screen to the first of the gallant hoarders while the rest were climbing up. Not a moment was to be lost, and before the Spaniards had discovered that the English were on board, a party of the latter, led by their brave captain, were literally in the midst of them, fighting their way towards the quarter-deck, where it had been arranged that all the parties should rendezvous.

The Spaniards, taken by surprise, were cut down or leaped to the right hand or to the left to escape the cutlasses of the boarders. At length, however, some of the Spaniards rallied; and, led by one of their officers, made so furious an attack on the captain’s party that he and most of his men were separated from each other. Paul had stuck by his captain from the first. His arm was not very strong, but he was active; and, while he managed to avoid the blows of his enemies, he bestowed several as he leaped nimbly on. He, with the captain and Reuben Cole, had nearly gained the quarter-deck when a Spaniard rushed at the latter, and knocked him over with the butt-end of a musket. At the same moment the captain’s foot slipped, and another Spaniard striking him a furious blow on the head, he fell senseless on the coaming of the hatchway, very nearly going over below. Paul fully believed that his brave captain was killed, and that his last moment was come. The Spaniard was about to repeat the blow when Paul, springing in, regardless of consequences to himself, cut him so severely under the arm with his sword that the man missed his aim, and he himself fell headlong down the hatchway.

Paul then, while he laid about him with his weapon, did the best thing he could by shouting at the top of his voice, “Help! help!—the captain is down—help! help!” at the same time laying about him in so energetic a way that none of the Spaniards seemed disposed to come within reach of his weapon. His shouts quickly brought several of the crew of the Cerberus to the rescue; and, while some kept the Spaniards at bay, the others assisted the captain, who was recovering from the effects of the blow, to rise. Paul, as soon as he saw the captain on his feet, hurried with two of his companions to the assistance of Reuben Cole, just in time to prevent some Spaniards from giving him his quietus. Reuben’s head was a tolerably thick one; and, notwithstanding the severity of the blow, he quickly came to himself; and, seizing his cutlass with right good will, joined the party under the captain, who were employed in preventing the Spaniards from regaining possession of the quarter-deck. Meantime, several separate combats were going on in different parts of the ship. The Spaniards, as they recovered from their first surprise, rallied in considerable numbers; and, attacking the boatswain’s party, which had been separated from that of the captain’s, fought their way forward and re-took the forecastle. Paul could only discern what was going forward by the flashes of the pistols of the combatants on deck, and of the great guns which those below still continued to fire. As yet, however, the English mustered but few hands, considering the magnitude of the enterprise. Paul anxiously looked for the arrival of the other boats. Now some dark forms were seen rising above the hammock nettings. The Spaniards rushed to repel them, but at the same moment the cry was raised that others were appearing on the opposite side. Others came swarming over the bows, another party climbed up on the quarter. The shouts and cries of the combatants increased. On every side was heard the clashing of steel and the sharp crack of pistols. The British marines now formed on deck, and, led by their officers, charged the Spaniards. The bravest of the latter, who had been attacking the captain, threw down their arms and cried for mercy or leaped below. They were quickly followed by Bruff and Devereux, who drove them into the after-cabin, where some sixty of them lay down their weapons and begged for quarter. Others, however, still held out. The game was not won; reinforcements might come from the shore, and the gun-boats might pull up and prove awkward customers. The deck was, however, literally strewed with the bodies of the Spaniards, while as yet not an Englishman was killed, though many were badly wounded. Many of the Spaniards still held out bravely under the forecastle, and others on the main-deck; but the gunner and two men, though severely wounded, had got possession of the wheel. The seamen who had gone aloft loosed the foretop sail, the carpenters cut the stern cable, the best bower was cut at the same moment, just in time to prevent the ship from canting the wrong way.

The boats took the frigate in tow, and though as yet those on deck were scarcely in possession of the ship, directly she was seen to be moving, the batteries on either side opened a hot fire on her, but, undaunted, the brave crews rowed on in spite of the shot whizzing over their heads, and the efforts of the yet unsubdued portion of the Spaniards to regain the ship. Those of the latter who attempted to defend the forecastle suffered most, and were nearly all killed or driven overboard. Still the victory was not assured; a cry was raised that the Spaniards retreating below were forcing open the magazine for the purpose of blowing up the ship.

Devereux was the first to hear the report, and calling on Paul, who was near him, and a few others to follow, he leaped down the hatchway, and sword in hand dashed in among the astonished Spaniards, who with crowbars had just succeeded in breaking open the door of the magazine. One man grasped a pistol ready to fire into it. Paul, who felt his spirits raised to the highest pitch, and ready to dare and do any deed, however desperate, sprang into the midst of the group and struck up the Spaniard’s arm, the pistol going off and the bullet lodging in the deck above. Several of the others were cut down by Devereux and his men, and the rest, strange as it may seem, fell on their knees and begged for quarter; though an instant before they were preparing to send themselves and their foes suddenly into eternity.

“Quarter! Pretty sort of quarter you deserve, ye blackguards, for wishing to blow up the ship after all the trouble we’ve had to take her,” cried Reuben, giving one of the Spaniards, who still stood at the door of the magazine, a kick which lifted him half-way up the ladder leading to the deck above.

All opposition after this ceased below, but there was work enough to secure the prisoners and prevent them from making any similar attempt to that which had just been so happily frustrated. The hands on deck were meantime employed in making sail with all speed; and good reason had they for so doing, for the shot from a hundred guns were flying above and around them, some crashing on board and others going through the sails and cutting the running and standing rigging; but in spite of the iron shower not a man aloft shrank from his duty. As soon as a brace was cut, or a shroud severed, eager hands were ready to repair the damage. The gallant captain, though bleeding from more than one wound, stood by the mizen shrouds conning the ship, and not till she was clear of the harbour and no shot came near her did he relinquish his post.

The triumphant moment was, however, when the two frigates neared each other, and the victors shouted out, “We have got her—we have got her, without the loss of a man, though we have some pretty severe scratches among us. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

Loud and hearty were the cheers; but there was too little time for making speeches. Most of the prisoners were removed to the Cerberus. A prize-crew, under the command of the second lieutenant, was put on board the re-captured frigate, and a course was immediately shaped for Jamaica. When Paul at length was able to turn into his hammock he felt very low-spirited. Not a word had been said of anything that had been done. He felt that he had certainly saved the captain’s life, and had in all probability prevented the ship from being blown up. Yet he would not be his own trumpeter, and he thought that very likely no one had observed what he had done, and that it would be entirely overlooked. “Well, I should not care so much for myself,” he thought, “but dear mother—how she would rejoice to hear that I had made my own way up to the quarter-deck. It can’t be helped, I must wait for another opportunity.”

The fate Paul dreaded has been that of many who have struggled on year after year in the hopes of winning fame, and have after all missed the object at which they aimed.

It was reported that the captain was suffering severely from his wounds, and for some days he did not appear on deck. Devereux, however, had not forgotten Paul, and took the first occasion to tell him that he would mention him to the captain as having preserved the ship and all their lives from destruction. Paul, on this, felt very much inclined to say that he had been the means also of preserving the captain’s life. “No, I won’t, though,” he thought; “the captain will make inquiries as to what happened when he was struck down, and the men who saw me defending him will surely tell him the truth.”

He therefore simply thanked Devereux for his kind intentions.

“You know, sir, that what I did was to save my own life as well as that of others,” he added.

“Very true, but still I think that the captain will consider your conduct worthy of reward,” answered Devereux.

To Reuben, Paul was more communicative.

“But do you know which were the men who came when you called for help?” asked the former.

Paul could not be positive as to one of them, on account of the darkness and confusion.

“Then I must find out, my lad, and make all things square,” muttered Reuben, as he walked away.

The victors had plenty of hard work in putting the prize to rights, in manning her and their own ship, and in looking after the prisoners. However, not long after they had lost sight of land, a sail hove in sight. Chase was made, and the stranger proved to be a Spanish schooner. She quickly hauled down her colours, and a boat was sent to bring her captain on board. The Don stood, hat in hand, trembling in every joint, at the gangway, his long sallow face drawn down to twice its usual length, expecting to be carried off a prisoner, and to have his vessel destroyed. As Captain Walford was unable to come on deck, Mr Order received him. If it had been possible for a Don to throw up his hat and to shout for joy, the Spanish skipper would have done it when the first-lieutenant told him, that if he would undertake to carry the prisoners back to Puerto Cabello in his schooner, he might go free. He did not skip, or throw up his hat, or sing, but advancing with a deep bow, one hand holding his hat, and the other pressed on his heart, he gave the lieutenant an embrace and then retired to the gangway. Mr Order did not exhibit any sign of satisfaction at this proceeding, but it was too ridiculous to make him angry; so he told him to get on board and prepare for the reception of his countrymen. The Spanish prisoners were soon tumbled into the boats, and heartily glad were the English seamen to be rid of them.

“Their habits are filthy, and as to manners, they have none,” was the opinion generally formed of them on board.

“Now, if we’d have had as many mounseers, they’d have been fiddling and singing away as merry as crickets, and been good sport to us—long afore this,” observed Reuben to Paul, as the schooner made sail to the southward.

Although the captain’s hurts were severe, he was, after some days, able to come on deck. He looked pale and weak, but there was fire in his eye and a smile on his lip as he glanced at the captured frigate sailing at a few cables’ length abeam.

“Let the people come aft, Mr Order,” he said in a cheerful voice.

The crew were soon assembled, hat in hand, looking up to their captain with eager countenances as he opened his lips.

“My lads,” he said, “I have been unable before to thank you, as I do from my heart, for the gallant way in which you carried out my wishes the other night when you re-took yonder frigate, so disgracefully held by the Spaniards. Where all did well, it is difficult to select those most deserving of praise, yet to the second-lieutenant and the boatswain and gunner my thanks are especially due, as they are to the surgeon for the able support he gave me. They will, I trust, receive the reward they merit in due time; but there is another person to whom I am most grateful, and whom I have it in my power to reward, as he fully deserves, immediately. To his presence of mind I find the preservation of the lives of all on board the prize is due, and I fully believe, that had it not been for his courage, I should not have been conscious of the glorious achievement we have accomplished. Paul Gerrard, come up here. Accept this dirk from me as a slight token of gratitude, and from henceforth consider yourself a quarter-deck officer—a midshipman.”

Paul, his eyes sparkling, his countenance beaming, and his heart beating, sprang forward, helped on by the arms of the crew, all sympathising with his feelings. The captain shook him warmly by the hand before giving him his dirk—an example followed by all the officers and midshipmen, and by none more cordially than by Devereux and O’Grady. They then took him by the arm and hurried him below, where he found a suit of uniform, in which they speedily clothed him and returned with him in triumph on deck. Their appearance was the signal for the crew to give three as hearty cheers as ever burst from the throats of a man-of-war’s crew. Paul’s heart was too full to speak, and he could with difficulty stammer out his thanks to his captain. He felt indeed as if he had already reached the summit of his ambition. The captain reminded him, however, that he had a long way yet to climb, by observing that he had only just got his foot on the lower ratline, but that, if he went on as he had begun, he would certainly, if he lived, get to the top. The advice was indeed, from beginning to end, very good, but need not be repeated. Paul was so cordially received in the midshipmen’s berth, that he soon felt himself perfectly at home, though he did not forget that he had a short time before served at the table at which he now sat.

The frigates arrived without accident at Jamaica, where the officers and crew received all the honours and marks of respect they so justly merited. The Cerberus required no repairs, and the prize was quickly got ready for sea. Captain Walford, however, suffered so severely from his wounds, that he was ordered home to recruit his strength. Devereux and O’Grady had never entirely recovered from their illness, and they also obtained leave to go home. Paul was very sorry to lose them, not being aware how much he was himself knocked up by the hardships he had gone through. Three or four days before the ship was to sail, the doctor came into the berth, and looking hard at him, desired to feel his pulse.

“I thought so,” he remarked. “You feel rather queer, my boy, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, very ill,” said Paul; “I don’t know what is the matter with me.”

“But I do,” answered the doctor. “A fever is coming on, and the sooner you are out of this the better. I’ll speak to the captain about you.”

The fever did come on. Paul was sent to the hospital on shore, where he was tenderly nursed by Devereux, aided by O’Grady; the Cerberus, meantime, having sailed on a cruise under the command of Mr Order. As no ship of war was going home, Captain Walford took his passage in a sugar-laden merchantman, having Devereux and O’Grady with him, and he got Paul also invalided home. Paul’s chief source of delight was the thought that he should present himself to his mother and sisters as a real veritable midshipman, in the uniform he so often in his dreams had worn, and of the happiness he should afford them. Their ship was not a very fast one, though she could carry a vast number of hogsheads of sugar, and was remarkably comfortable. The captain was more like a kind father and a good-natured tutor than most skippers, and they all had a very pleasant time of it. Paul had had no time for study while he was a ship-boy, and so the captain advised him to apply himself to navigation and to general reading; and he did so with so much good will, that, during the voyage, he made considerable progress. They were nearing the mouth of the Channel.

“In another week we shall be at home,” said Paul.

“Yes, it will be jolly,” answered Devereux. “You must come and see me, you know, at the Hall, and I’ll introduce you to my family, and they’ll make you amends somehow or other, if they can; they must, I am determined.”

“Thank you heartily, Devereux,” answered Paul; “but the short time I am likely to be at home I must spend with my mother, and though I know your kind wishes, people generally will not look with much respect on a person who was till lately a mere ship-boy.”

“No fear of that, Gerrard; but we’ll see, we’ll see,” answered Devereux.

“A sail on the weather bow,” shouted the look-out from aloft, “standing across our course.”

The West Indiaman, the Guava was her name, went floundering on as before; the master, however, who had gone aloft, kept his glass on the stranger. After some time he came down, his countenance rather paler than usual.

“She has tacked and is standing towards us,” he said, addressing Captain Walford.

“Sorry to hear it, Mr Turtle. Is she big or little?”

“Why, sir, she has very square yards, and has much the look of a foreign man-of-war,” answered the master.

“Umph! If she is Spanish we may beat her off, but if she proves French, she may be a somewhat tough customer; however, you will try, of course, Mr Turtle.”

“If you advise resistance, we’ll make it, sir, and do our best,” said Captain Turtle, who, though fat, had no lack of spirit.

“By all means. Turn the hands up, load the guns, and open the arm-chest,” was the answer.

The crew of the Guava, which was rather of a mixed character—blacks, mulattoes, Malays, Portuguese, and other foreigners,—were not very eager for the fight, but when they saw the spirit of the naval officers, especially of the young midshipmen, they loaded the guns, stuck the pistols in their belts, and girded on their cutlasses to prepare for the fight.

The Guava, of course, could not hope to escape by flight, so the safest course was to put a bold face on the matter, and to stand on. The stranger rapidly approached. There could no longer be any doubt as to her nationality, though no colours flew from her peak. She was pronounced to be French, though whether a national ship or a privateer was doubtful.

“If she is a privateer and we are taken, our chances of fair treatment are very small,” observed Captain Walford.

“It will be hard lines for the skipper, after performing so gallant an action, to fall into the hands of the enemy,” observed O’Grady. “For my part, I’d sooner blow up the ship.”

“Not much to be gained by that,” answered Devereux. “Let us fight like men and yield with dignity, if we are overmatched.”

“The right sentiment,” said Captain Walford. “There is no disgrace in being conquered by a superior force.”

“As I fear that we shall be,” muttered the master of the Guava. “Now, if I’d been left alone, I’d have knocked under at once. We’ve not the shadow of a chance.”

“Then it’s not like Captain Turtle’s own shadow,” whispered O’Grady, who could even at that moment indulge in a joke.

Matters were indeed becoming serious. The stranger was, it was soon seen, a powerful vessel, cither a large corvette or a small frigate, against which the heavily-rigged, ill-manned and slightly-armed merchant ship, had scarcely a chance. Still, such chance as there was, the English resolved to try. The order was given to fire high at the enemy’s rigging, and the rest of the crew stood prepared to make all possible sail directly any of the Frenchman’s spars were knocked away. Paul had been so accustomed to believe that whatever his captain undertook he would succeed in doing, that he had no fears on the subject. The Guava rolled on, the stranger approached, close-hauled. Captain Turtle, with a sigh, pronounced her to be a privateer, and a large frigate-built ship. She would have to pass, however, some little way astern of the Guava, if she continued steering as she was then doing. Suddenly she kept away, and fired a broadside from long guns, the shot flying among the Guava’s rigging and doing much damage. The merchantman’s guns could not reply with any effect, her shot falling short. The Frenchman saw his advantage. His shot came rattling on board the Guava, her spars and blocks falling thickly from aloft. At length the former was seen drawing near, evidently to range up alongside; and many of the crew, fancying that resistance was hopeless, ran below to secure their best clothes and valuables, while the officers, with heavy hearts, throwing their swords overboard, saw Captain Turtle haul down the colours. The Frenchmen were soon on board. They proved to be, not regular combatants, but rascally privateers; fellows who go forth to plunder their fellow-men, not for the sake of overcoming the enemies of their country and obtaining peace, but for the greed of gain, careless of the loss and suffering they inflict. These were of the worst sort. Their delight was unbounded, when they found that they had not only taken a rich prize, for sugar at that time fetched a high price in France, but had taken at one haul a post-captain and several officers, for besides the three midshipmen, there were two lieutenants, a surgeon, and master, going home for their health. The privateer’s-men began by plundering the vessel and stripping the crew of every article they possessed about them, except the clothes they stood in. They took the property of the officers, but did not, at first, take anything from their persons. Captain Walford retained his coolness and self-possession, notwithstanding the annoyances he suffered, and the insults he received. The other officers imitated him. They were all transferred to the privateer.

“To what French port are we to be carried?” he asked of his captain.

“To Brest—and it will be a long time before you see salt-water after that,” was the answer.

“Probably never—if we are not to be liberated till France conquers England,” said Captain Walford, quietly.

“Sa-a-a, you may be free, then, sooner than you expect,” cried the Frenchman.

In about five days, the privateer, with her rich prize, entered Brest harbour. The prisoners were treated on landing with very scant ceremony, and were thrust into the common prison—the officers in one small room and the men in another. In those days the amenities of warfare were little attended to. It was all rough, bloody, desperate, cruel work. In truth, it is seldom otherwise. The prisoners were not kept long at Brest, but one fine morning in spring, after a not over luxurious breakfast of black bread, salt fish, and thin coffee, were mustered outside the prison to begin their march into the interior. The midshipmen kept together and amused themselves by singing, joking, and telling stories, keeping up their spirits as well as they could. Their guards were rough, unfeeling fellows, who paid no attention to their comforts, but made them trudge on in rain or sunshine, sometimes bespattered with mud, and at others covered with dust, parched with thirst, and ready to drop from the heat. The country people, however, looked on them with compassion, and many a glass of wine, a cup of coffee, and a handful of fruits and cakes, were offered to them as they passed through the villages on their road.

“Och, if some of those pretty little villagers who are so kind with their cakes would just increase their compassion and help us to get out of the claws of these ugly blackguards, I’d be grateful to them from the bottom of my soul to the end of my days,” said O’Grady to Paul, as they approached a hamlet in a hilly, thickly-wooded part of the country.

It was in the afternoon, and, although they generally marched on much later, to their surprise, the captain of their guard, for some reason best known to himself, called a halt. Instead of being placed in prison, as there was none in the village, they were billeted about in different houses, with one or two guards over each. Paul and O’Grady found themselves, together with Reuben Cole and two other men, in a neat house on the borders of the village. They were the first disposed of, so that where their companions were lodged they could not tell. The people of the house did not appear to regard their guards with friendly eyes, so that they concluded that they were not attached to the present order of things.

“See that you render them up safe to us to-morrow morning,” said the captain to an old gentleman, who appeared to be the master of the house.

“I am not a gaoler, and can be answerable for no one,” was the reply, at which the captain shook his fist and rode off, exclaiming, “Take care, take care!”

Though very unwilling to receive the prisoners, the old gentleman treated them with a courtesy which seemed to arise rather from respect to himself than from any regard he entertained for them. The two midshipmen were shown into one small room, and the seamen, with their guards, into another. In the room occupied by O’Grady and Paul, there was a table and chairs and a sofa, while the view from the window consisted of a well-kept garden and vineyard, a green meadow and wooded hills beyond. As far as accommodation was concerned, they had little of which to complain; but they were very hungry, and O’Grady began to complain that the old Frenchman intended to starve them.

“I’ll go and shout and try to get something,” he cried out, but he found that the door was locked outside.

The window was too high from the ground to allow them to jump out, and as they would probably be caught, and punished for attempting to run away, they agreed to stay where they were. At length the door opened, and a bright-eyed, nicely-dressed girl came in with a tray covered with edibles, and a bottle of wine in her hands. They stood up as she entered, and bowed. She smiled, and expressed her sympathy for their misfortunes. Paul had, hitherto, not let the Frenchmen know that he understood French.

“I think that I may venture to speak to her,” he said to O’Grady. “She would not have said that if she didn’t wish to assist us.”

O’Grady agreed that it would be perfectly safe, and so Paul addressed her in the choicest French he could command, and told her how they had been coming home in a merchantman, and had been captured, and robbed of all they possessed, instead of being, as they had hoped, in a few days in the bosom of their families, with their mothers and brothers and sisters.

“And you both have brothers and sisters, and they long to see you, doubtless,” said the little girl.

“Oh yes, and we long to see them,” exclaimed Paul, believing that he had moved her heart.

She sighed. “Ah, I once had many, but they are all now in the world of spirits; they cannot come to me, but for their sakes I will try to serve you,” answered the girl.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” said Paul. “If you could help us to get out of this house, and to hide away till the pursuit is over, we should be eternally grateful.”

She smiled as she answered—

“You are too precipitate. If you were to escape from this house, my father would be punished. Means may be found, however. We have no love for these regicides, and owe them no allegiance; but you must have patience.”

“It is a hard thing to exercise; however, we are very much obliged to you,” said Paul.

“Just ask her her name,” put in O’Grady. “Tell her we should wish to know what to call one who for ever after this must dwell like a bright star in our memories, especially one who is so lovely and amiable.”

“That’s rather a long speech to translate, and perhaps she won’t like all those compliments,” remarked Paul.

“Won’t she, though?” said O’Grady, who had seen rather more of the world than his companion; “try her, at all events.”

Paul translated as well as he could what Paddy had said, and as the latter stood with his hand on his heart, and bowed at the same time, the young lady was not left in doubt as to who was the originator of the address. Paddy was remarkably good-looking and tall for his age, and the young lady was in no way displeased, and replied that her name was Rosalie, and that she was her father’s only daughter. She had had two brothers, both of whom had been carried away by the conscription. One had been killed in a battle with the Austrians, and the other was still serving in the ranks, though he ought long ago to have been promoted.

“Ah! the cruel fighting,” she added; “our rulers take away those we love best, and care not what becomes of them, or of the hearts they break, and bring with sorrow to the grave.”

Rosalie soon recovered herself, and, wiping her eyes, told the midshipmen that she would come back again when they had eaten their supper, and would in the meantime try and devise some means to enable them to make their escape while they were travelling.

“She’s a sweet, pretty little girl,” observed O’Grady, after Rosalie had gone. “She’ll help us if she can, and do you know I think that she is a Protestant, for I don’t see any pictures of saints and such-like figures stuck about the walls as we do in most other French houses?”

“It is possible; but what difference can that make to you?” asked Paul.

“Why, you see, Gerrard, I have fallen in love with her, and I’m thinking that if she helps us to make our escape, when the war is over, I’ll come back and ask her to marry me.”

Paul laughed at his friend’s resolve. It was not at all an uncommon one for midshipmen in those days to entertain, whatever may be the case at present. They enjoyed their meal, and agreed that they had not eaten anything half so good as the dishes they were discussing for many a long day. Rosalie came back in about an hour. She said that she had been thinking over the matter ever since, and talking it over with an old aunt—a very wise woman, fertile in resources of all sorts. She advised that the young Englishmen should pretend to be sick, and that if the captain consented to leave them behind, so much the better; but if not, and, as was most probable, he insisted on their walking on as before, they should lag behind, and limp on till they came to a certain spot which she described. They would rise for some time, till the road led along the side of a wooded height, with cliffs on one side, and a steep, sloping, brushwood—covered bank on the other, with a stream far down in the valley below. There was a peculiar white stone at the side of the road, on which they were to sit to pretend to rest themselves. If they could manage to slip behind the stone for an instant, they might roll and scramble down the bank to a considerable distance before they were discovered. They were then to make their way through the brushwood and to cross the stream, which was fordable, when they would find another road, invisible from the one above. They were to run along it to the right, till they came to an old hollow tree, in which they were to hide themselves, unless they were overtaken by a covered cart, driven by a man in white. He would slacken his speed, and they were to jump in immediately without a word, and be covered up, while the cart would drive on. They would be conveyed to the house of some friends to the English, with whom they would remain till the search for them had ceased, when they would be able to make their escape to the coast in disguise. After that, they must manage as best they could to get across the Channel.

“The first part is easy enough, if Miss Rosalie would give us the loan of a little white paint or chalk,” observed O’Grady; “but, faith, the rest of the business is rather ticklish, though there’s nothing like trying, and we shall have some fun for our money at all events.”

“I wish that Reuben Cole could manage to run with us. He’d go fast enough if Miss Rosalie’s friends would take care of him,” remarked Paul.

“You can but ask her,” said O’Grady. “Tell her that he’s been with you ever since you came to sea, and that you can’t be separated from him.”

Rosalie heard all Paul had to say, and promised that she would try to arrange matters as he wished. Paul then described Reuben, and gave Rosalie a slip of paper, on which he wrote: “Follow the bearer, and come to us.” Though Reuben was no great scholar, he hoped that he might be able to read this.

“Tell her she’s an angel,” exclaimed O’Grady, as Rosalie took the paper. “I wish that I could speak French, to say it myself; but I’ll set to work and learn at once. Ask her if she’ll teach me.”

Rosalie laughed, and replied that she thought the young Irishman would prove an apt scholar, though she could not understand how, under the circumstances, she could manage to do as he proposed.

“Och! but I’ve a mighty great mind to tell her at once all I intend to do, and just clinch the matter,” cried Paddy; but Paul wouldn’t undertake to translate for him, and advised him to restrain his feelings for the present.

It was getting near midnight, when a gentle rap was heard at the door, and Reuben poked in his head. The arrangements which had been made were soon explained to him, and he undertook to feign lameness and to drop behind and roll down the bank as they were to do.

“You sees, young gentlemen, if they goes in chase of me, that’ll give you a better chance of getting off. If they catches me, there’ll be no great harm done; they won’t get me to fight for them, that I’ll tell them, and if I get off scot free, why there’s little doubt but that I’ll be able to lend you a hand in getting to the coast, and crossing the water afterwards.”

The arrangements being made, Reuben stole down to rejoin the other seamen, and the midshipmen then coiling themselves up in their blankets in different corners of the room, resolved to remain there till summoned in the morning, were soon asleep.

When their guards appeared, they made signs that they could not move, O’Grady singing out, “Medecin, medecin,” by which he wished to intimate that he wanted physic, and they thought that he asked for a doctor. In spite, however, of all their remonstrances, they were compelled to get up and dress by sundry applications of a scabbard.

They found a breakfast prepared for them in the hall, though they had but a few minutes allowed them to consume it before they were driven on through the town to join the rest of the prisoners, no time being allowed them to bid farewell to Rosalie and her father. She, indeed, had wisely kept out of their way to prevent any suspicion. They limped along, looking as woe-begone as they could, though their hearts were in no way sad. Their only regret was, that they must part from Devereux and their captain, but they consoled themselves by believing that they could report where they were, and thus manage to get them exchanged.

“We are nearing the spot,” said Paul. “This is the scenery Rosalie described, and this must be the hill. I hope Reuben understands what he is to do. Ah! there is the stone. Come, let us sit down.”

They made signs to the last guard that they would follow. Believing that they were ill he allowed them to remain. They saw that Reuben was watching them.

“We mustn’t stay long, though,” said O’Grady.

“No; now’s the time. Over we go,” cried Paul; and suiting the action to the word, over he rolled, followed by O’Grady, and both were speedily hid from sight in the brushwood.

Chapter Nine.

The two midshipmen rolled away down the hill at a very rapid rate, and then, getting on their feet, rushed on through the brushwood, not minding how much they tore their clothes, and running no little risk of scratching out their eyes. As yet no shouts had reached their ears, which they knew would have been the case had their flight been discovered. They had got so far that they did not mind speaking, and were congratulating each other on escaping so well, when they heard several voices cry out, and some shots fired in rapid succession.

“That must be Reuben,” cried Paul. “Oh, I hope that they haven’t hit him.”

“The first shot did not, or they wouldn’t have fired others, and they wouldn’t have fired at all had he not got to some distance before they shouted, on discovering that he had escaped,” observed O’Grady. “However, as we cannot help him, we must push on, or we shall be retaken ourselves.”

Paul saw that his friend was right, though he did not like the idea, as he thought it, of deserting Reuben.

“If he does not join us, we must send or come and look for him. He is not likely to leave the shelter of the wood,” he observed.

They spoke as they ran on, verging always to the right. They forded the shallow though rapid stream, found the road, and continued their flight, till they came to the remarkable old tree which had been described to them. There was an entrance on one side into the interior.

“Up, up, Gerrard!” said O’Grady. “If we are pursued, they are certain to look in here, but I see a cavity, some way up, into which we may get, and the soldiers might look in and still not find us.”

They climbed up. There was not room for both in one hole. Fortunately Paul found another, and there they sat, as O’Grady said, like owls in their nests, waiting for the cart. They heard voices—men shouting to each other. They must be the soldiers still searching for them. They came nearer and nearer. There was a laugh and an oath. Paul heard a man say, “Ah! they must be in there—just the place for them to hide in.”

He gave up all for lost. He drew in his legs, shut his eyes, and coiled himself up in as small a space as possible, hoping that O’Grady would do the same. He heard a man stop and lean against the tree, as if looking in. Fortunately a cloud at that moment passed across the sun, and prevented the man from seeing the holes.

“No, they are not here—they must have gone the other way,” shouted the soldier.

“Then the sailor must have gone with them. It is strange—they must have known the country. Such a thing could not have happened at any other spot on the road.”

“Very glad that we did not miss the opportunity,” thought Paul. “Reuben, too, has not yet been taken—that’s a comfort.”

They waited and waited. They were afraid to get out of their holes, lest their enemies should still be looking for them. At length, the wheels of a cart were heard in the distance. Paul, by climbing a little higher, could look out. It was a covered cart, driven by a man in white.

“All right,” he said; “we must be prepared to jump in.”

The cart came slower. They slid down, and a quick pair of eyes alone could have detected them as they ran across the road, and, without a word, leaped into the cart. The driver did not even look behind him, but, as soon as he heard Paul whisper Nous sommes ici, he lashed his horse and drove on faster than ever.

“Miss Rosalie is a brick,” whispered O’Grady, as he and Paul crept under some sheepskins which the cart contained. “Hasn’t she done the thing beautifully?”

They drove on rapidly for many miles. Of course they had not the slightest notion where they were going. Paul was chiefly anxious about Reuben, while O’Grady feared, as they were going so far away, that they might not meet Rosalie. Still, they were not very unhappy, though rather hot under the sheepskins. They would, however, have gone through greater inconvenience for the sake of gaining their liberty. At last, passing through a forest, the trees of which had lost most of their branches, lopped off for firewood, they reached an old grey château, with high pointed slate roof, and no end of towers and turrets, and gable ends, and excrescences of all sorts. The cart drove into a paved court-yard, on two sides of which were outhouses or offices. The entrance-gate was then shut, and the driver backed the cart against a small door on one side. Not a soul appeared, and he did not shout for any one to come and help him. Pulling out the skins, he whispered, Descendez, mes amis—vite, vite; and Paul, pulling O’Grady by the arm, they jumped out, still covered by the skins, and ran through the open door. Had any curious eyes been looking out of any of the windows of the château, they could scarcely have been seen. They were in a passage, leading on one side to a sort of store-room, but the man told them to turn to the left, and to go on till they came to a door, where they were to wait till some one came to let them through.

“What fun,” whispered O’Grady. “I delight in an adventure, and this will prove one and no mistake. We shall have some old woman coming and shutting us up in an apple-loft or a ghost-haunted chamber, or some place of that sort. It may be weeks before we get to the coast, and something new turning up every day. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

He was running on in this style when the door opened, and Miss Rosalie herself appeared, with a countenance which showed how pleased she felt at the success of her arrangements. O’Grady was, at first, quite taken aback at seeing her, and then very nearly bestowed a kiss and an embrace on her in the exuberance of his delight. Whether she would have found great fault with him it is impossible to say; she merely said, “I must not stop to listen here to what you have to tell me—but come along to where we shall not be interrupted, and then I will gladly hear all that has happened.”

She forthwith led them up by a winding stair to the top of one of the towers, where there was a small room with very narrow windows.

“There you will be safe enough,” she remarked, “for if you were to look out of the casement, no one could see you from below, and it will be pleasanter than being shut up in a cellar or a lumber-room, where, if anybody came to search the château, they would be sure to look for you. See, too,” she added, “there are further means of hiding yourselves—for we cannot be too cautious in these sad times. Here is a panel. It slides on one side, and within you will find a ladder, which leads to a space between the ceiling and the roof. You might there manage to exist for some days—not very pleasantly, but securely at all events.”

The ceiling was pointed the shape of the roof, and it was difficult to suppose that there could be space sufficient between the two to admit a person. Rosalie, however, pulled aside the panel and showed the ladder, that there might be no mistake. She charged them also not to leave anything about which might betray them. “If I were to tell you all we have gone through, you would not be surprised at my caution,” she remarked.

She then inquired about the sailor they hoped would have accompanied them. Paul told her that he believed Reuben had escaped from the guards, and was probably still lurking about in the same neighbourhood.

“We will send and try to find him,” she answered at once. “Our faithful old servant will undertake the work. Here, write on a slip of paper that he is to follow the bearer and do whatever he is told. It is important to find him before night, as he might otherwise, growing hungry, come out of his hiding-place in search of food, and be discovered. I will tell our worthy Jaques to sing out his name as he drives along, and perhaps that may draw him from his lair. What is it?”

Paul told her. “Oh, that is a very good name to pronounce,—Rubicole! Rubicole! Jaques can cry out that very well.”

So away she went, leaving the midshipmen to their own reflections—O’Grady more in love than ever. As they had nothing to do, they looked through the window, and saw the cart which had brought them driving rapidly away. Rosalie came back soon afterwards with a very nice dinner on a tray. She said that she alone would attend on them, for though she could safely trust the people in the house, the fewer who knew that they were there the better. The château, she told them, belonged to her uncle, a Royalist, a fine old gentleman, who had nearly lost his life in the Revolution. She had come over that day, as had previously been arranged, to attend on her uncle, who was ill, and would, therefore, be unable to see them, but hoped to do so before their departure. She concluded that they were in no great hurry to be off.

“Not in the slightest, tell her,” exclaimed O’Grady, when Paul explained what she had said: “we are as happy as bees in a sugar-bason.”

Rosalie did not object to stay and talk with the midshipmen, but she had her uncle to attend on. She told them that she would close a door at the bottom of the turret steps; when opened, it would cause a small bell to ring in the room, and that the instant they should hear it, they were to retreat by the panel and take refuge in the roof. She again cautioned them not to leave anything in the room which might betray them; and having placed a jug of water, a bottle of wine, and some bread and cheese in the recess, she carefully brushed up the crumbs, and carried the tray with her down-stairs.

“Well, she is first-rate,” cried O’Grady; “she’s so sensible and pretty. I don’t care who knows it—I say she’ll make a capital wife.”

“I dare say she will,” said Paul. He did not think it prudent to make any further remark on the subject.

Having exhausted the subject of Miss Rosalie, and declared fully fifty times over that she was the most charming person alive, Paddy relapsed into silence. They waited hour after hour for the return of the cart, hoping that it might bring in Reuben. At last they rolled themselves up in their blankets and went to sleep. Rosalie had brought them in with pillows, and reminded them that they must drag the whole up with them into the roof, if they heard the bell ring. When Rosalie appeared the next morning, she said that Jaques had returned, but that he had seen nothing of the English sailor.

Several days passed by, and at last Rosalie said that her uncle would be well enough, she hoped, to visit them on the following day. They would have found their time pass somewhat heavily, had not she frequently visited them. She also brought them a French book, and, with it to assist him, Paul set to work to teach O’Grady French. Rosalie, when she came in, corrected his pronunciation, which was not always correct. O’Grady learnt very rapidly, and he declared that he thought it was a pity that they should not remain where they were till he was perfect.

“You see, Gerrard,” he observed, “we are living here free of expense. It’s very pleasant, and we are not idling our time.”

Paul, however, who was not in love, though he thought Rosalie a very amiable young lady, insisted that it was their duty to get back to England as fast as they could. He also wished to see his mother and sisters, and to put them out of their anxiety about him. At last he told O’Grady that he wouldn’t help him any longer to learn French if he did not put such foolish notions out of his head, and that he was very sure without him he would never get on. Paddy had sense enough to see that he must knock under, and that Paul was, in reality, the better man of the two. They were to see Mon Oncle, as Rosalie always called the owner of the château, on the following day. They were not allowed to have a light in the turret, lest it should betray them; so, as soon as it was dark, they went to sleep. The weather outside was unpleasant, for it was blowing and raining hard. They had not long coiled themselves up in their respective corners, when there was a loud knocking at the chief door of the château, the noise resounding through the passages up to their turret.

“Some benighted travellers seeking shelter from the storm,” observed O’Grady. “I am glad that we are not out going across country in such a night as this.”

There was a pause, and again a loud knocking.

“Old Jaques is in no hurry to let in the strangers,” observed Paul. “He suspects that these are not friends; we must keep our eyes open. Remember what Rosalie told us.”

“Ay, ay, mate, I am not likely to forget what she says,” answered Paddy, who had not quite got over his feeling of annoyance with Paul.

They listened attentively. Those outside were at length admitted, they fancied; but, further than that, they could make out nothing. They waited all ready to jump up and run into their hiding-place, for they were persuaded that this evening visit had reference to them. They heard doors slamming and strange sounds produced by the blast rushing through the passages and windows.

“Yes, I am certain that there is a search going on in the house,” whispered O’Grady. “I hope Mon Oncle won’t get into a scrape on our account, or dear Rosalie,” (he had got to call her “dear” by this time.) “Hark! how the wind roars and whistles.”

There was a door banged not far from the foot of the stairs; it made the whole tower shake. They were silent for a minute, when a bell tinkled. Before it had ceased to vibrate, the midshipmen had started up, and, seizing their bed-clothes, had rushed to the panel. They started through and closed it behind them, but only just in time, for the door opened as the panel closed. What midshipmen were ever in a more delightful situation? They were not frightened a bit, and only wished that they could find some crevice through which they could get a look at the intruders, and O’Grady regretted that they had not a brace or two of pistols with which they could shoot them. They sprang up the ladder only as cats or midshipmen could do, and had placed themselves on the roof, when they heard the clank of sabres and spurs, and the tread of heavy men, and a gleam of light came through a crevice in the wooden ceiling. It was close to Paul’s head, and looking down he saw three gendarmes peering round and round the room. They were evidently at fault, however. Behind them stood old Jaques with a lantern from which he sent the light into every corner of the room. There was a book on the table, and a chair near it.

“Who reads here?” asked one of the men.

“My young mistress, of course,” answered Jaques, promptly.

“She said just now that she was here to attend on her uncle,” remarked the gendarmes.

“So she is, and good care she takes of the old gentleman; but he sleeps sometimes, so I relieve her,” returned Jaques. “She is fond of solitude.”

“That is a pity; I should like to keep her company,” said the gendarme, with a grin, which made O’Grady clench his fist, and Jaques look indignant. The man put the book under his arm, and having been unable to discover anything apparently, ordered his companions to fallow him down-stairs. O’Grady was for descending into the room at once from their uncomfortable position; but Paul held him back, observing that they had not heard the door at the foot of the stairs shut, and that they might easily be surprised. He advised that they should as noiselessly as possible take their bed-clothes up to the roof, and sleep there, however uncomfortable it might be to do so.

“Not for our own sakes alone, but for that of Rosalie and Mon Oncle, we are bound in honour to do so.”

That settled the question—fortunately—for before long the door opened softly, and one of the gendarmes crept in on tip-toe. He crept round and round the room with a lantern in his hand, like a terrier hunting for a rat which he is sure has his hole thereabouts. O’Grady had gone to sleep, and had begun to snore. Happily he had ceased just as the man appeared.

Paul was afraid that he would begin again, and he dared not touch him lest he should cry out. He leaned over towards him till he could reach his ear, and then whispered, “Don’t stir, for your life!”

O’Grady pressed his hand to show that he heard. He moved his head back to the chink. Had he made any noise, the storm would have prevented its being heard. The gendarme was not yet satisfied. He ran his sword into every hole and crevice he could find, and attacked several of the panels. For the first time Paul began to fear that they should be discovered. As yet he had passed over the moving panel. He began to grind his teeth in a rage, and to utter numerous “sacrés” and other uncouth oaths, and at last made a furious dig close to the panel. His weapon, however, instead of going through the wood, encountered a mass of stone, and broke short off. The accident increased his rage, and produced numerous additional sacrés, and, which was of more consequence, made him trudge down-stairs again, convinced that there was no hole in which even a rat could be concealed. He slammed the door after him; but Paul, suspecting that this might be a trick, persuaded O’Grady to remain where they were.

The night passed on, and both midshipmen fell asleep. When they awoke they saw that daylight was streaming full into the room below them, though it was dark up in the roof; still they wisely would not stir, for they felt sure that, as soon as the gendarmes were fairly away, Rosalie would come to them and bring them their breakfast.

“I hope she may,” observed Paddy, “for I am very peckish.”

Paul thought that he could not be so very desperately in love.

At last they heard the tramp of horses’ hoofs, and about a quarter of an hour afterwards, though they thought it much longer, Rosalie appeared with a tray, with coffee, and eggs, and bread, and other substantial fare. They were down the ladder in a twinkling, and warmly expressing their thanks. They did not require much pressing to set to; indeed, O’Grady had begun to cast ravenous glances at the viands alternately, with affectionate ones towards her, while Paul was translating what he desired him to say. She looked very pale, and told them that she had been very anxious, though the gendarmes had come, not to look for them, but for a political criminal, a royalist of rank, who had been concealed in the château, but had fortunately escaped. About noon she came back with a very nice old gentleman, a perfect picture of a French man of rank of the old school—buckles, knee-breeches, flowered waistcoat, bag, wig, and all. She introduced him as Mon Oncle. He at once began to talk with Paul, and soon became communicative.

“I once had two brave boys,” he said. “I have lost both of them. One perished at sea; the other has been desperately wounded fighting in a cause he detests; yet he was dragged away without the power of escaping. I scarcely expect to see him again; but if he recovers, my prayer is that he may be taken prisoner, for I am sure that he will be kindly treated by the brave English people. That is one of the reasons that I desire to help you. I have other reasons. One is, that I hope through the English the cause I espouse may triumph. I am sorry to say, however, that my château is no longer a safe abode for you. It will be subject to frequent visits from the police, and I myself may be dragged away with all my domestics, when you must either starve or be discovered.”

The midshipmen agreed to the wisdom of this, and Paul, after thanking the old gentleman again and again for the refuge he had afforded them, said that they thought with him that it would be wise for them to start immediately on their journey to the north. They had consulted with Rosalie how they were to proceed, and they thought with her that they might make their way dressed as country lads from some place in the south of France where a patois was spoken scarcely known in the north; that he, Paul, was to act as spokesman, and that O’Grady was to pretend to be deaf and dumb. As a reason for their journey, Paul was to state that their father was a sailor, and that they had heard he was lying wounded at some place on the coast, and wanted to see them before he died.

This story, it must be understood, was concocted by Miss Rosalie, whose active fingers had been engaged night and day for nearly a week in making the costumes for the two midshipmen. They had reason to be thankful to her. The day was spent in preparing for the journey. The clothes fitted beautifully. Rosalie said that she did not know she was so good a tailor. The difficulty was to make them look sufficiently worn. Rosalie suggested, however, that they were to be the grandsons of a small farmer of a respectable class, by whom they had been brought up, and that therefore they would be well clothed, with some little money in their pockets. She had also fastened up in two belts some gold and silver coins, all the little money she possessed, and she told them that they must take it and repay her when they could. O’Grady, who fully intended to come back, had no hesitation about accepting the money, but Paul wished that they could manage without it; however, he yielded when the former observed, “You don’t suppose that we can get on without money in France more than in any other country, and if we intend to starve we had better have remained prisoners.”

In the afternoon Jaques drove the cart into the court-yard, and backed it up to the door by which they had entered. Rosalie came up to the midshipmen; her eyes were red with crying; still she looked very pretty.

“I have come to tell you that it is time for you to go; you will follow out the directions you have received as nearly as possible.”

It had been arranged that they should go on in the cart till dark, and then walk as far as they could on foot during the night, concealing themselves in some secluded spot in the day-time. If they were discovered, they were to plead fatigue for resting; they were not to court observation, though they were not to dread it, if it could not be avoided. They were, however, on no account to enter a town, by night or by day, if they could help it. No one, indeed, could have arranged a more perfect plan than Miss Rosalie had done. There’s nothing like the wits of an honest clear-sighted woman when people are in trouble, to get them out of it.

Rosalie had provided them with wallets well filled with food, so that they need not for some days stop at any village to procure food—not, indeed, till they were well to the north of the line of road the Brest prisoners passed.

Both the midshipmen were very, very sorry at having to part from Rosalie, and O’Grady felt more in love with her than ever; still they must be away. Her uncle gave them a kind embrace, and she accompanied them down-stairs, and kissing them both as if they were young brothers going to school, hurried them into the cart. It was loaded with sacks of corn going to the mill to be ground, with several span new sacks to fill with flour. There was a clear space formed by placing two sacks across two others, with the empty sacks thrown over the inner end. Into this they crept. They could look out from behind the loose sacks, and as the cart drove out of the court-yard they could see Rosalie watching them with her apron to her eyes. They drove rapidly on, though more than once Jaques stopped and talked to some one, and then on he went at the same pace as before. One man asked for a lift, but he laughed and said, that the cart was already laden heavily enough with so many sacks of wheat, and that it would break down if a burly fellow like the speaker were to get into it, or the horse would refuse to go. It was getting dark, but the sky was clear, and as they could see the stars by which to steer, they had little doubt that they should find their way. Jaques drew up in a solitary spot a little off the read.

“Farewell, young gentlemen, farewell!” he said, as he helped them to get from under the sacks: “may you reach your native land in safety. Go straight along that road; you will make good way before the morning. I wish that I could go further with you, but I dare not. Farewell, farewell!” Saying this, he shook them by the hand, and giving them a gentle shove on in the direction they were to take, as if his heart longed to go with them, he jumped into the cart and drove rapidly away.

They now felt for the first time how helpless they were, and the difficulty of their undertaking; but they were brave lads, and quickly again plucked up courage. They had been provided with sticks, and trudged on boldly. Mile after mile of dusty road, up and down hill, and along dead flats, were traversed.

“It will make us sleep all the sounder,” observed O’Grady, who had a happy facility for making the best of everything. “If we were at sea now we should have to be pacing the deck with a cold breeze in our teeth, and maybe an occasional salt shower-bath.”

Paul agreed, though they were not sorry when daylight came and warned them to look out for a resting-place. They saw a forest some way from the high road, and, going into it, before long discovered numerous piles of wood prepared for burning.

“They are not likely to be removed for some time,” observed O’Grady; “if they do, they will begin on the outer ones, and we shall have time to decamp. Let’s make ourselves some nests inside; see, there is plenty of dry grass, and we shall sleep as comfortable as on beds of down.”

By removing some of the logs the work was easily accomplished, and no one outside would have observed what they had done. They crept in, and were very soon fast asleep. They awoke perfectly rested, and prepared to resume their journey; but on looking out they found that it was not much past noon, and that they had the greater part of the day to wait. This they did not at all like. O’Grady was for pushing on in spite of their first resolutions; Paul wished to remain patiently till the evening. No one had come to remove the wood, so that they were not likely to be disturbed. As they were hungry they ate some dinner, emptying their bottle of wine, and then tried to go to sleep again—not a difficult task for midshipmen.

Paul, after some time, was awoke by hearing some one singing. He touched O’Grady’s arm. They listened. The words were English, and they both had an idea that they knew the voice. The singer appeared to be near, and employed in removing the logs of wood. Paul slowly lifted up his head. A shout and an expression indicative of astonishment escaped from the singer, who stood, like one transfixed, gazing at Paul. The shout made O’Grady lift up his head, and they had ample time to contemplate the strange figure before them. His dress was of the most extraordinary patchwork, though blue and white predominated. On his head, instead of a hat, he wore a wisp of straw, secured by a handkerchief; his feet were also protected by wisps of straw, and round his waist he wore a belt with an axe stuck in it. Altogether, he did not look like a man possessed with much of this world’s wealth. The midshipmen looked at him, and he looked at the midshipmen, for a minute or more without speaking.

“It is—no it isn’t—yes it is!” exclaimed the man at length. “Why, young gentlemen, is it really you? you looks so transmogrified, I for one shouldn’t have known you!”

“What, Reuben Cole, is it really you? I may ask,” cried Paul, springing out of his lair, and shaking him by the hand, followed by O’Grady. “This is a fortunate meeting.”

“Why, that’s as it may turn out; but how did you come to look like that?”

Paul told him, and then put the same question to him.

“Why, do ye see, when I got away from our Jennydams, I found a hole in the hillside close under where I jumped off the road. Thinks I to myself, if I tumbles in here, they’ll all go pelting away down the hill through the wood, leaving me snug; and so they did. I heard them halloing, and cursing, and swearing at one another, and I all the time felt just like an old fox in his cover till they’d gone away on their road wondering where I’d gone. I then started up and ran down the hill just in time to see a cart driven by a man in white. I shouted, but he didn’t hear me, and so I hoped it would be all right for you, at all events. Then I went back to my hole, and thinks I to myself, if I goes wandering about in this guise I’ll sure to be taken: so I remembers that I’d got in my pocket the housewife my old mother gave me, and which the rascally privateer’s-men hadn’t stolen; so out I takes it and sets to work to make up my clothes in a new fashion. I couldn’t make myself into a mounseer—little or big—by no manner of means, so I just transmogrified my clothes as you see them, that I mightn’t be like a runaway prisoner. It took me two days before I was fit to be seen—pretty smart work; and that’s how the servant the old gentleman sent out missed me. At last I set out for the sea; but I was very hungry, and I can’t say if I’d fallen in with a hen-roost what I’d have done. I got some nuts and fruit though, enough to keep body and soul together. Three days I wandered on, when I found myself in this very wood. I was getting wickedly hungry, and I was thinking I must go out and beg, when I sees a cart and a man coming along, so I up and axes him quite civilly if he’d a bit of a dinner left for a poor fellow. I was taken all aback with astonishment when he speaks to me in English, and tells me that he’d been some months in a prison across the Channel, and knows our lingo, and that he was treated so kindly that he’d sworn he’d never bear arms against us again, if he could help it. With that he gives me some bread and cheese and wine, and when his day’s work was over he takes me to his house, at the borders of the forest, near a village. As I wouldn’t eat the bread of idleness, I offered to help him, and as I can handle an axe with most men, I have been working away ever since as a wood-cutter. Now I know that if you’ll come with me to his cottage, he’ll gladly give you lodging and food as long as you like to stay, and then, of course, I must pack up and be off with you.”

The midshipmen told Reuben how glad they were to find him, though they agreed that by his travelling on with them their difficulties would be somewhat increased, as they were puzzled to know what character he could assume. He was so thoroughly the English sailor that even his very walk would betray him.

He acknowledged this; but after scratching his head for five minutes, and giving sundry tugs at his rather curious-looking breeches, he exclaimed: “I’ve hit it. I’ll go on crutches and follow in your wake; when no one is looking I’ll make play, and I’ll keep up with you, I’ll warrant. If I’m axed who I am, I’ll pretend that I’m a ’Talian, or some other furriner, who can’t speak the French lingo, and just make all sorts of gabblifications. Just you leave it to me, young gentlemen, if you’ll let me come with you.”

Though there was considerable risk in the plan, the midshipmen could think of no other. They agreed to go to the wood-cutter’s hut, and if, after talking the matter over, they could not improve on Reuben’s plan, to start the following evening. Having assisted him to load his cart, they set forward at once. The path led them for most of the way through the forest. It was still broad daylight when they approached the cottage. It stood at the edge of a green, on which a number of villagers were seen collected. They were themselves perceived before they had time to retreat, which it would have been wise for them, they felt, to do.

“Let us put a bold face on the matter and go forward!” exclaimed O’Grady. “Reuben, go on with the cart; we had better have nothing to say to you at present.”

They at once walked on towards the villagers without exhibiting any marks of hesitation. Reuben looked after them with as indifferent an air as he could assume, as he drove his cart up to the woodman’s cottage.

“I see a high road; let us turn towards it, and walk along it as if we were not going to stop at the village,” observed Paul; “we may thus avoid questions, and we may come back to the wood-cutter’s when it is dark; Reuben will prepare him for our appearance.”

O’Grady agreed to this plan, and they were walking along pretty briskly, hoping to pass an auberge, or inn, at the side of the road, when the aubergiste, or inn-keeper, who happened to be in very good humour after his evening potations, caught sight of them, and shouted out, “Come in, come in, mes garçons! there is no other auberge in the place, and you would not pass by the house of François le Gros!” And he patted his well-stuffed-out ribs, for there are fat Frenchmen as well as fat Englishmen.

Thus appealed to, the midshipmen thought it wiser to go up to the man, and Paul told him that as they had very little money, they preferred stopping out at night when the weather was fine.

“That will never do,” cried honest François. “Tell me all about yourselves, and you shall have board and lodging free. Numerous great people stop here, and so does the diligence, and as I am patronised by all around, I can afford at times to help young wayfarers like yourselves.”

Paul, anxious especially to avoid so public a place as an inn, made more excuses. While he was speaking the landlord looked very hard at him. Several other villagers did the same.

“Why, you do not look very like what you say you are!” he exclaimed. “Come nearer, and let me have a better look at you.”

“Thank you,” said Paul; “if you don’t believe me, I won’t ask you to do so; but let us go on, and we will not trouble you.”

This speech did not satisfy the landlord, and several disagreeable remarks were made by the bystanders. Altogether, matters were looking very bad, when the attention of the villagers was called off by the sound of the loud cracks of whips, the tramping of horses, the rumbling of wheels, and the appearance of a cloud of dust, out of which emerged a huge lumbering vehicle with a vast hood in front, a long big body covered with boxes and baskets, and drawn by six horses, governed by two postillions dressed in huge jack boots, cocked hats, and gold-laced coats. They dashed up to the inn with as much clatter and noise as they could make. More of the villagers collected; and while the horses were being brought out, and the landlord was engaged in attending to his customers, O’Grady whispered to Paul that he thought they might possibly slip out of the crowd unobserved; and while some of the villagers had to move out of the way of the released horses, they moved round on the other side of the diligence and walked rapidly along the road.

At that moment François had come out with a jug of wine for an old gentleman in the inside, and as he was returning, his eye fell on the fugitives. His suspicions now increased; he shouted to some of his cronies to make chase and bring them back. As the villagers were making holiday and had nothing to do, a dozen or more set off in chase.

“I wish that we hadn’t tried to get away,” said Paul. “Let’s go back boldly, and say that we hoped to get on to the next village; but as they are determined to keep us, we will stay with them.”

They, however, had barely time to turn before their pursuers were upon them; and in no very happy state of mind they were dragged back to the village. They came in sight of the inn just as the diligence had driven off. One passenger had remained behind, who stood watching them with a look of considerable interest while the landlord was describing to him how they had made their appearance, and expressing his opinion that they were no better than they should be.

Chapter Ten.

Paul and O’Grady, as they were dragged back by the villagers to the inn, felt certain that their true character would be discovered, and that they would be sent to prison. Paul was especially unhappy under the belief that his bad French had betrayed him. He wished that he could give Reuben warning to keep out of the way of the meddling villagers, lest he also should be captured. Still, he was not a lad to give in, and he determined to play the part he had assumed as long as he could. When the villagers saw François, they shouted out to him that they had got the young rogues fast enough. Paul at once began to expostulate with the inn-keeper, and, with a volubility which did him credit, gave the whole story which had been arranged by Rosalie. The traveller, who had retired on one side, but had remained near enough to hear what Paul said, now stepped forward, exclaiming, “Of course—all they say is true. I know all about them. Their grandfather is a most estimable man—a tenant of my maternal uncle, the Sieur Caudbec. I saw him when last I was in the south of France, and these lads, I think I saw them—yes, surely I know both of them. You know me, the son of the Baron de Montauban—one who was always kind to the poor, and a friend of true liberty.”

Paul glanced at the speaker; he was very young. He looked again. There could be no doubt about it. Though somewhat disguised by his travelling costume and civilian’s dress, there stood before him Alphonse Montauban. He ran forward and took Alphonse’s hand, not to shake it, however, but, remembering their supposed relative ranks, to put it to his lips. O’Grady, though not understanding what had been said, and wondering why he did so, followed his example.

“Come, worthy François,” said Alphonse; “though I had intended to proceed across the country, I will rest here to-night; and as I take an interest in the family of these lads, they shall spend the evening with me, and live at my cost. Let a good supper be prepared for us all, and, mark you, a bottle of your best wine.”

Saying this, Alphonse led the way into the inn. He stopped at the door, however, and taking some money out of his purse, handed it to the landlord, saying, “Let some of these honest people here, after their quick run, have wherewithal to drink my health.”

Alphonse, with considerable dignity, walked into a private room in the inn, and taking a chair, beckoned to the seeming peasant lads to sit near him, while the landlord received his orders for supper. As soon as François had retired, he burst into a fit of laughter, and, jumping up, shook the midshipmen warmly by the hand, and begged them to tell him how they came to be there. They gave him, as rapidly as they could, an account of their adventures.

“And do you not know the name of the old gentleman, ‘mon oncle,’ as you call him, and that of the château? But I do. He is my dear father, and that pretty little Rosalie is my very sweet cousin. The story is just such as I could have supposed she would have invented. And they think me dead. That is very natural, for when the Alerte escaped from the Cerberus, of course her people would have reported all on board their consort drowned. You will be surprised that I should not have reached home before this, but I had a long voyage, and as I had no wish to go to sea again, when I found on landing that it was not known I had escaped, I made the best of my way to the house of a relative near the coast, who provided me with clothing and funds, and I have only lately been able to commence my journey homeward. Now, however, I have a great inclination to turn back and to see you safely embarked to cross the Channel.”

The English midshipmen would not, however, hear of his carrying out such a proposal. If caught, he would be more severely dealt with than they would, and they felt sure that, if they were cautious, they should be able to reach the coast by themselves. At length, Alphonse, seeing the wisdom of their arguments, and remembering his duty to his father, consented. He, however, said that he must first communicate with Reuben Cole, and let him know the road they had taken, that he might follow them. Alphonse had become quite an Englishman in his habits, and the three old friends spent a very pleasant evening. They were up before daylight, when Alphonse, slipping out, hurried off to the woodman’s hut. The woodman and his new mate were on foot, and Reuben, having ascertained that the young strangers were at the auberge, was very doubtful how to proceed. He rubbed his eyes, and hitched away convulsively at his belt, when he saw Alphonse, for some minutes, before he dared believe his own eyes.

“Well, sir, things do come about curious,” he exclaimed at last. “First I falls in with the young gentlemen, and then they falls in with you, just in time for you to save them from being packed off to prison.”

As Alphonse knew that part of the country well, he was able to fix on a spot about three miles from the village, where he suggested that they and Reuben should lie concealed during the remainder of the day, and travel on, as they had proposed, at night. Having made these arrangements with Reuben, he returned to the auberge. Once more, after an early breakfast, the friends parted; Alphonse starting in a wonderfully old-fashioned calèche on two wheels, which gave promise of breaking down on its way to his father’s château, and the midshipmen proceeding northward on their own sturdy legs. They fell in with Reuben Cole at the spot arranged on, and then all three, plunging into the forest, made themselves comfortable for the rest of the day. Night after night they travelled on. Sometimes they met people during the day, and either little notice was taken of them, or Paul easily answered the questions put to him. Reuben always had his crutches ready, and in a wonderfully quick time he was on his wooden leg, and hobbling along at a rate of a mile or so an hour, so that no one would have suspected that he had a long journey before him. The whole party were in very good spirits, for as they had found friends when they least expected it, and got out of difficulties when they thought that they were irretrievably lost, so they hoped that they might be equally fortunate another time. O’Grady declared that this life was that of a perpetual picnic. They generally took shelter during the day in a wood, or among hills, or in some deserted hut, or, like gipsies, under a hedge in some unfrequented district; or, if it rained, which was not very often, they got into some barn or shed in the outskirts of a hamlet; and twice they found caves into which they could creep, and several times some old ruins of castles or châteaux afforded them shelter. Their plan was to walk on till daybreak, and then O’Grady or Paul climbed a height or a tree, and surveyed the country ahead. If no habitations were to be seen, they pushed on further, and then took another survey of the country, to find a place of shelter for the day. When they required food, they generally first passed through a village, and then Paul went back, towards the evening to purchase it. As soon as he had bought it, they proceeded onward, so that, should the villagers have any suspicions, they were not likely to overtake them. They were now approaching the coast, and greater caution than ever was, of course, necessary. Their greatest difficulty, however, would be finding a fit boat, and getting away unperceived.

“I suppose that it will not be wrong to steal a boat,” said Paul. “I don’t quite like the thoughts of that.”

O’Grady laughed, and remarked, “Why, you see, Gerrard, that necessity has no law. The owner of the boat will not be pleased to lose it, but then he is one of a nation with whom England is at war, and we have as much right to run away with his boat, as his countrymen have to keep us prisoners.”

At length, after a long walk, at break of day the sea appeared in sight in the far distance, somewhere between Cherbourg and Barfleur. With beating hearts they went on. They could not resist the temptation of trying to ascertain whereabouts they were, and if there was a boat near which might serve their purpose. It might have been wiser had they, as usual, lain by during daylight. They walked on till they reached the top of a cliff overlooking the Channel. Across those waters was the land they so earnestly desired to reach. To the west a blue line of land stretched out into the sea. It was the promontory on which Cherbourg is situated. If they were able to get to the end, they would have much less distance to go by sea, and might, in the course of little more than a day, reach the Isle of Wight. The great point was to find a boat. Not one was in sight. It was a question whether they should go east or west in search of some fishing village, where they might find one. They carefully examined the coast, and as the sun rose in the sky, his beams lighting up the shore on the west, they fancied that they could make out some buildings in the distance. They at once turned in that direction. As they advanced, they found that they were not mistaken. Before concealing themselves, as they proposed doing, till night, they carefully reconnoitred the place from the cliff above it. There was a tower, and a small harbour with several small craft and boats at anchor in it, and two or three better sort of houses, besides numerous cottages and huts, and, at a little distance, a château of some pretension to architecture. They would have preferred a place where there were no gentlemen, who would naturally be less likely to believe their story. In other respects, they could not have desired to reach a more satisfactory locality. The cliffs appeared to be full of caves, in one of which they could lie hidden till night. They calculated that their food would last them for a couple of days, so that by husbanding it, even if their voyage were prolonged, they would have enough to support life. After hunting about for some time, they selected a cave half-way up the cliff, which sailors alone, and that not without some difficulty, could reach. The entrance was small, but there was ample room for them to lie down, and, what was of importance, they were not at all likely to be disturbed. As they had walked all night, and had been scrambling about all the morning, they were very tired, and directly they had taken some breakfast, they fell fast asleep. Paul was awoke after some time by the roaring sound of the waves dashing against the shore. He could see through the narrow opening dark clouds scouring across the sky, the rain descending in torrents, while ever and anon there came vivid flashes of lightning, followed by loud, rattling peals of thunder, which seemed to shake the very rock above their heads. The wind, too, blew fiercely, and the whole ocean before them was covered with white-topped billows. Reuben awoke and looked out. He came back and seated himself.

“Well, young gentlemen,” he said quietly, “one thing is certain—we may make up our minds to have to remain here for some days to come. That sea won’t go down in a hurry, and till it does, it will be hard to come at a French boat which will carry us safe across.”

It was very evident that Reuben’s observation was correct, yet it was very provoking to be thus, delayed when their expedition was so nearly, as they thought, brought to a happy conclusion. Two days passed, and the gale did not abate. It now, therefore, became necessary for Paul to go in search of provisions. His companions wished to accompany him, but he preferred going alone, and, if possible, to some inland village where there was less risk of their object being suspected. He set off early in the morning, and after walking for nearly three hours, he entered a village where he hoped to find both bread and meat. He could not get it, however, without being asked some rather searching questions. He replied promptly, that he had a brother with him, and that as they had still some way to go, and did not wish to delay on the road, he wished to lay in a stock of provisions at once. Fortunately there were three or four small shops in the place, at each of which he made some purchases, filling up his wallet at a farm-house, where he got a supply of eggs and a ham. Highly satisfied with the success of his undertaking, he took his way back to the cave. He had got within a couple of miles of the end of his journey, rather tired with the weight of the provisions he carried, when, on sitting down on a bank to rest, he saw that somebody was following him. He was puzzled what to do. Should he go on, his retreat would be discovered; if he stopped, he would be overtaken, and disagreeable questions might, perhaps, be asked of him. So he got up and went on again as fast as his legs could carry him. More than once, however, he looked back. The man he had seen was still behind. “He may, perhaps, only be going the same way that I am,” thought Paul. “I will take the first turning I can find to the right or left, and he may then, perhaps, pass on and miss me.”

The opportunity occurred sooner than he expected. The road made several sharp turns. A narrow path, between high banks, led off to the right. He turned sharp into it, and by running rapidly along, was soon out of sight of the high road. He sat down and waited. No one came. He hoped that he had escaped his pursuer. At last he came cautiously out and looked about. No one was in sight. He walked on swiftly towards the cliff. He had to descend and then to mount again to reach the cave. His companions welcomed him on their own account as well as on his, for they were nearly starved. There was a stream, however, of good water close at hand, which had prevented them from suffering from thirst. They had now provisions to last them, they hoped, till they reached England. Paul had bought a tin saucepan, in which they could boil their eggs and make some soup, and as O’Grady had collected a supply of drift wood, they were able to cook their dinner and to enjoy the warmth of a fire. Altogether, they had not much reason to complain of their detention. Three more days passed, and the wind abating, the sea went down, and once more the calm ocean shone in the beams of the rising sun.

“Hurrah!” cried O’Grady; “we may sail to-night, and, if we’re in luck and the wind holds, we may sight the shore of old England before the world is two days older.”

The day passed very slowly away, as they had nothing with which to employ themselves. Fortunately, midshipmen, as O’Grady boasted, have a powerful knack of sleeping; and so they passed most of the time, in the intervals of their meals, lost in oblivion of all sublunary matters. As the shades of evening drew on, they roused up and were all animation. They had reconnoitred the path to the village, and found that it would be necessary to get down to the beach while there was still daylight to enable them to see their way. They hoped to find shelter in some boat-shed or out-house till the inhabitants had gone to bed. They went on cautiously, Paul in advance, lest they should meet any one; Reuben hobbling forward on his wooden leg and sticks. The lights in the village were being put out as they approached. “They are early people—so much the better for us,” thought Paul. “We can easily seize a boat and get off.”

The thought had scarcely passed through his mind, when a voice exclaimed, “Hallo! who goes there?”

“A friend,” answered Paul.

“How many friends?” asked the man. “Let me see: two young lads and a lame man—answers the description. Come along with me, my friends, for I have more to say to you.”

The two midshipmen and Reuben followed, much crest-fallen. They were in the hands of the police; of that there could be no doubt. Should they keep up their assumed characters, or acknowledge their true ones and brave the worst. They could not venture to speak to consult with each other. Paul thought that the best plan would be to keep silent till compelled to speak. He therefore got as near O’Grady as he could, and, pretending to stumble, put his finger against his friend’s lips. O’Grady passed on the signal soon afterwards to Reuben. This matter arranged, they quietly followed their captor—O’Grady doing his best to hum a tune which he had heard Rosalie sing, and forgetting that he pretended to be deaf as well as dumb. There was still sufficient light for them to see that their captor was a gendarme, a discovery far from pleasant, as it led them to suppose that some person in authority was at the place, who might dispose of them in a somewhat summary manner. The man turned round once or twice, and told them, in no pleasant voice, to walk quicker, while he led the way to the château they had observed from the cliff. They found themselves standing before the château. It looked vast and gloomy in the dark. In another minute they were in a large hall in the presence of several persons, one of whom, a fierce-looking bearded official, inquired who they were, where they had come from, whither they were going.

Paul, with a fluency which surprised himself, narrated the story which had been arranged by Rosalie, O’Grady going through his part, pointing to his lips, and making inarticulate sounds, while Reuben imitated him in a way which seemed to try the gravity of those before whom he stood. Paul thought that all was going on smoothly, when he was considerably taken aback by seeing the officer laugh, and hearing him say in fair English:—

“You speak well, certainly, for one who has been so short a time in the country, but I should have understood you better had you spoken in English; and now I should like to know what your young friend here, and your lame companion, have to say for themselves. There’s a salt-water look about them which makes me suspect that they know more about a ship than a vineyard.”

The midshipmen saw that all further disguise was useless.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed O’Grady, “if you know that we are English officers, you will understand that we were captured in a merchantman returning home invalided, and that as we were not on our parole, we had a full right to endeavour to make our escape.”

“Granted, young sir,” said the officer, blandly; “and not only had you a right to endeavour to escape, but you shall be allowed to proceed if you will answer me a few simple questions.”

“What are they?” asked Paul and O’Grady, in a breath.

“Oh, a mere trifle,” said the officer. “Who concealed you when you first made your escape? who assisted you to obtain your disguise? who invented your well-arranged story? and who forwarded you on your way?”

The midshipmen looked at each other.

“Shall I answer, Paddy?” asked Paul, eagerly.

“No, no, it’s myself that will spake to the gentleman,” exclaimed O’Grady, in that rich brogue in which an Irishman indulges when he is about to express a sentiment which comes up from the depth of his heart. “If your honour is under the belief that British officers are made up of such dirty ingredients that they would be capable of doing the vile, treacherous, ungrateful act you have insulted us by proposing, you never were more mistaken in your life. We are prisoners, and you have the power of doing whatever you like with us; but at least treat us with that respect which one gentleman has a right to demand from another.”

The French officer started back with astonishment, not unmixed with anger. “How have I insulted you? How dare you address me in that style?” he asked.

“When one man asks another to do a dirty action, he insults him, and that’s what you’ve asked us to do, Mounseer,” exclaimed O’Grady, indignantly. “And just let me observe, that it is possible we may have had wits enough in our own heads to concoct the story we told you without being indebted to any man, woman, or child for it, especially when we were stimulated with the desire of getting out of this outlandish country, and being at you again; and as to the clothes, small blame to the people who sold them when they got honest gold coins in exchange.”

“That story will not go down with me, young gentleman,” observed the officer with a sneer. “However, enough of this trifling; we shall see in a few days whether you will alter your mind. Monsieur,” he continued, turning to an elderly gentleman standing at the side of the hall, “we must have these persons locked up in one of your rooms. I beg that you will send your steward to point out a chamber from whence they cannot escape, and give us the trouble of again catching them.”

“Monsieur,” said the old gentleman, drawing himself up with an indignant air, “all the rooms are occupied; my château is not a prison, and I have no intention of allowing it to become one.”

“Ho! ho!” cried the officer, pulling his moustache, and stamping with rage, “is that the line you have taken up? I was ordered to respect your château, and so I must; but take care, citoyen... However, sergeant, take them to the old tower; there is a room at the top of that where they will be safe enough. The wind and rain beat in a little, to be sure, but for any inconvenience they may suffer, they will be indebted to my friend here. Off with them!”

With scant ceremony the sergeant dragged them through the hall, Reuben stumping along after them on his wooden leg. They soon reached the tower, which was close to the little harbour. It was a very old building of three low stories, surrounded by sand, and the stones outside were so rough and so frequently displaced, that even by the light of the now risen moon it seemed as if there could not be much difficulty in climbing up to the top from the outside, or descend by the same means.

The sergeant shoved them on before him up a winding stair, which creaked and groaned at every step.

“En avant, en avant!” cried the sergeant when O’Grady attempted to enter one of the lower chambers; and at length they found themselves in a room at the very top. The sergeant, grumblingly observing that they would not require food till the next morning, gave Reuben a push which nearly sent him sprawling into the middle of the chamber, closed the door with a slam, and locked and bolted it securely.

Reuben whipped off his wooden leg, and began flourishing it about and making passes at the door whence the sergeant had disappeared, exclaiming with a laugh, “Well, the beggars haven’t found me out, and they’ll be surprised at what a man with a timber toe can do!”

He tied it on again, however, very soon, for a heavy step was heard on the stairs, and they saw by the light of the moon that their own wallets and a jug of water were placed on the floor just inside the door.

“We have a friend somewhere, probably the old gentleman at the château, or we should not have got back those things,” observed Paul; “so let’s cheer up: we might have been much worse off.”

All agreed to the truth of this remark, and, as they were hungry, took some supper, and then Paddy proposed that they should reconnoitre the premises.

The windows were very narrow, with an iron bar down the centre, so that it was impossible to get through them. There was not a particle of furniture in the room, nor anything which would serve for their beds.

“It isn’t cold yet, and we must make ourselves as comfortable as we can in the least windy corner of the place,” observed Paul.

“What do you think of trying to get away instead?” asked O’Grady.

“With all my heart!” answered Paul; “but what do you say to the moon? Should we not be seen?”

“It might help us, and it might betray us,” said O’Grady. “Let us ask Cole.”

Reuben said that he must have a look round from the windows, before he pronounced an opinion. The midshipmen helped him up to each of them in succession. He considered that in so bright a light they were nearly certain to be seen; but as the moon rose later every day they would have a fair chance of making good their escape. That they could not go at once was very evident, so they dusted a corner, and coiled themselves up to sleep. Daylight revealed the dirty condition of the room, and also the rotten state of the roof. Reuben pointed it out and remarked, “There, if we can’t get through the windows, it will be hard if we do not make our way out by the roof. If they keep us here many days, we’ll do it.”

In the course of the morning a man appeared with a fresh jug of water, and some bread and cheese, and dried figs. It was better than ordinary prison fare, and as the man did not look very savage, Paul thought that he would try and move him to procure them something on which to sleep. He explained, in the most pathetic language he could command, the misery they had suffered, and begged for bedding of some sort. The man nodded, and returned in the evening with some bundles of straw.

“But there is nothing to cover us, and barely sufficient to keep us from the floor,” observed Paul.

The man smiled, and replied, “To-morrow, perhaps, I may find something of more use to you.”

The following day he came again, loaded with a bundle of old sails. “Seamen have no reason to complain who can obtain such coverlids as these,” he remarked, as he threw them down, and again left the room.

Each time that he went, they heard the sound of the door being locked and bolted. On undoing the sails they found that ropes were attached to them, and on examining these they were found to be sound and strong.

“That man is our friend, and depend on it these ropes were not sent in here by chance,” observed O’Grady positively. “Very likely the old gentleman at the château sent him.”

They were confirmed in the opinion that the rope was intended for use, by the appearance of the man, in the evening, to bring them a fresh supply of provisions.

“I’ve heard it said that it’s no easy matter to keep English seamen in a cage when they have the will to get out,” he remarked, as he turned round towards the door.

“Are we likely to be kept here long?” Paul asked.

“Until directions have been received from head-quarters, and as they are some way off, and yours is not a matter of importance, it may be a month or more,” was the answer.

“He means to say that we may select our time for escaping,” said Paul when the man had gone; “unless the rope was sent as a trap to tempt us to try and escape.”

“Oh, they would not take that trouble,” observed O’Grady. “If they had wished to treat us ill, they would have done so.”

Three more days passed. The moon did not now rise till nearly midnight. This would give them ample time to get away out of sight of land before daylight. That evening their friend brought, with other provisions, a small keg of water, and a bottle of brandy, which he placed under the sails, and nodding, took his departure.

“No time to be lost,” said O’Grady; “as soon as our guard has paid us his last visit, we must commence operations.”

Just before dark a gendarme as usual put his head in at the door, looked round the room, and then stamped down-stairs again to a guard-room, in which it seemed that three or four men were stationed.

“There is no time to be lost, if it is to be done, gentlemen,” exclaimed Reuben, stumping about the room as soon as the man was gone. “If we can’t get through a window, I have marked two or three spots where we can through the roof, and we’ve rope enough to help us out either way. We have first to make up some packs to carry our stores.”

It was important to do all this while daylight remained, now fast fading away. The packs were soon made, and the various lengths of rope fastened together. Reuben then, with the aid of his younger companions, climbed up to the roof, and, without difficulty, pulled down first the wooden lining, and then the slates, which he handed to them to avoid making a noise, and soon had a hole large enough for them to get through. The slates and ropes and their packs were then hid under the straw, in case any one should visit them before the hour of starting, not that such an event was likely to occur. They then threw themselves on their beds to be ready to pretend to be asleep at a moment’s notice. The hours passed slowly. The night was calm; that was fortunate, or any little wind there was came from the south, which was better. They could hear a clock strike, that probably on the tower of the little church attached to the château. It was already nine o’clock, and they thought that all chance of interruption was over, when they heard steps on the stairs. The sergeant and a guard entered. He held a lantern in his hand. They lay trembling lest the light should be thrown upwards, and the hole in the roof be discovered.

“They seem to be asleep,” observed the sergeant; “it is wonderful what power of sleeping these Englishmen possess. However, I must awake them. Rouse up, my boys, and understand that you are to march to-morrow for Paris at an early hour; but the worthy citizen Montauban has directed me to say that he will supply you with funds for your necessary maintenance, and to enable you to make your defence should you be accused, as he fears you may be, of being spies.”

Paul started up on hearing this address, with as much terror as he could assume, considering that he had hoped in a few hours to be out of the reach of all French myrmidons of the law, and in a few words thanked the citizen Montauban for his kind purpose, adding that a French midshipman of the same name had long been his companion.

“Undoubtedly a nephew of citizen Montauban’s, and his heir. The young man was long supposed to be lost; but he was here a short time back, and it is owing to the kind way he was treated by the English, that the old gentleman takes so warm an interest in you. However, lie down; I will tell him what you say, and he will communicate with you to-morrow, unless something should occur to prevent him. Good night.”

“I hope that something will occur,” cried Paul, jumping up as soon as the officer was gone. “Very kind of the old gentleman, and just like Alphonse to interest his uncle in our favour.”

“Yes, indeed,” said O’Grady; “curious, though, that we should have fallen in with so many of his relations.”

Just then, however, they were too much engrossed with the work in hand to talk on the subject. They considered it safer to wait another hour or more before moving, lest they should encounter any straggler on their way to the harbour, or be seen descending the tower.

“Time to start,” cried O’Grady, who, as the senior officer, was to take the command.

Their knapsacks were soon secured to their backs. Reuben used his wooden leg to assist in securing the rope by driving it into the wall. They all soon climbed up to the roof, and let down the rope, which reached nearly to the bottom, as far as they could judge. Should it not prove long enough, and stones be underneath, broken limbs would be the consequence. Paul was certain that there was sand (as they had gone nearly round the tower when looking for the door), and, as the youngest and lightest, volunteered to go first. He without hesitation flung himself off; but at the moment he began to descend, it occurred to him that he might possibly have to pass before one of the windows of the guard-room, and he half expected to find himself seized and dragged in by a gendarme. It was too late, however, to go back. All must be risked. So down he cautiously slid, doing his best to make no noise. He kept his feet tightly pressed against the rope, that he might ascertain when he had reached the end. Suddenly he felt that there was no more rope. At all events all the windows had been avoided. He lowered himself more cautiously than ever, till his hand grasped the very end in which Reuben had made a knot. He hung down by it by one hand, and looked down. He could see the ground; but it seemed still some way below him. Should he risk a fall? He recollected the uneven character of the wall, and hauling himself up a little, he was able to stretch out his feet sufficiently to reach it. He put out one hand in the same direction, and caught hold of an iron staple. He could now clutch the wall, and feeling his way, he descended about eight feet to the ground. It was fortunate that he had not jumped, for, instead of sand, there was a slab of hard rock on which he would have fallen. Scarcely had he time to get under the rope, than he saw another figure descending.

“Try to get to the wall,” he whispered, “and I will help you down.”

It was Reuben. After several efforts he reached the staple, and scrambled down. Paddy quickly followed at a much greater speed. There was no time to warn him that the rope was too short, and had not Reuben and Paul stretched out their arms and broken his fall, he would very likely have broken his legs.

“I thought that I heard some one coming upstairs,” he whispered. “Not quite certain, but could not stop to learn. Away for the harbour!”

They stepped lightly till they were on the soft sands, and then they ran on as fast as their legs could move. They examined the harbour; but not a boat could they find of any size on the shore. They had all probably been removed by the order of the police, to prevent either prisoners of war or refugees from escaping. A small one, however, lay moored off a little distance from the shore.

“I will bring her in,” whispered Paul; and without another word he stripped off his clothes, and, with knife in his mouth, slipped noiselessly into the water, and struck boldly out towards the boat. O’Grady and Reuben anxiously watched him, or rather the phosphorescent wake he left in the water. Even that after a time disappeared. Could the brave boy have sunk? The hearts of both his friends trembled. Every instant they expected to be pounced upon by gendarmes; but though they listened earnestly as may be supposed, no sounds came from the tower. At length the boat began to move. Paul must have got on board all right, and cut the cable. Yes, there he was standing up on a thwart, and working her on with a single paddle.

“Jump in,” he whispered, as soon as he reached the shore; “there are lights in the old tower, and our flight will quickly be discovered. It may be some time, however, before they find a boat to pursue us.”

O’Grady and Reuben required no second bidding. The former, however, very nearly forgot Paul’s clothes. He sprang back for them, and narrowly escaped a tumble into the water.

“You dress while we pull out to look for a fit craft,” said Paddy, seizing a paddle. But Paul kept hold of his own, in his eagerness declaring that he did not feel the cold.

To select a craft was easy; but it was possible that there might be people on board who might dispute their possession. However, that must be risked. O’Grady pointed out a small sloop of some eight or ten tons. She was not likely to have many people on board. They must be surprised and silenced immediately. While the boat drifted alongside, Paul put on his clothes. It would not have been pleasant to fight as he was; and besides, he might not have had time to dress afterwards. Taking care that their boat should not strike against the side of the little vessel, the three adventurers leaped on board as noiselessly as possible. The after hatch was closed. No one could be in the cabin. But as they crept forward they discovered that the fore hatch was open. Reuben signed that he would go down first. The midshipmen waited an instant, when they heard a noise, and leaping down they found their companion struggling with a powerful man, whom a boy, who had just leaped out of his berth, was about to assist.

“You are our prisoners,” cried Paul, throwing himself on the boy; while O’Grady assisted Reuben, and so completely turned the tables, that the Frenchman was quickly secured. The boy who had struggled bravely with Paul, for the purpose, it seemed, of getting his head up the hatchway to sing out, then gave in.

“You will be well treated, my friends, if you remain quiet; but if you make the slightest noise, I cannot answer for your lives,” said Paul.

To prevent any risk of the sort the hatch was clapped on after they had examined the vessel.

“We will get ready to make sail, while you, Gerrard, cut the cable, and then go to the helm,” said O’Grady. “Cut!” he cried, in a few seconds.

A light breeze came off the land. Paul cut, and then hurried to the helm. He started as he turned his glance towards the shore; for there, in the direction of the old tower, a bright light was burning. It quickly increased in magnitude—bright flames burst forth. “It must be the old tower itself,” he thought, for there was no time to say anything. The flames increased, and it now became evident that it was the tower itself; for the whole building was soon wrapped in flames, the glare reaching far down the harbour, and lighting up the sails of their vessel.

“We shall be seen and pursued, I’m afraid,” cried Paul.

“Seen, or not, we must stand on; and at all events we shall have the start of them,” answered O’Grady. “It’s not impossible that they may think we have perished in the flames. I am sorry, though, for Reuben Cole’s timber toe. Ha! ha! ha! it would have enraged the monsieurs to find that they had been so completely duped.”

All this time the little vessel was gliding out from among a number of others, and the curious eyes of many persons were glaring at her, who wondered whither she was going. The probabilities that the midshipmen and Reuben would be retaken seemed very great.

Chapter Eleven.

The bold often succeed where the timid fail. The young midshipmen and their companion, nothing daunted by the dangers which surrounded them, kept on their course. The flames quickly ascending to the top of the old tower, sent their ruddy glare far across the ocean; and as their light fell on the adventurers and their little craft, it occurred to Paul that their strange, unseamanlike costume would at once betray them.

“The chances are that the Frenchmen have left some jackets in the after-cabin,” he observed; and as he spoke, jumping below, he soon returned with several garments and hats, with which they quickly dressed themselves.

“Now we look pretty decent mounseers,” observed Reuben, as he eased off the main-sheet a little. “If we’re hailed, you’ll have to tell ’em, Paul—I mean Mr Gerrard—beg pardon— that we’re bound for Cherbourg, and don’t like to lose the breeze. It’s coming pretty strongish, and if I could but find a squaresail, for I sees there’s a squaresail boom, we’d make the little craft walk along.”

Reuben was in high spirits, and indeed so were the midshipmen, at their hazardous enterprise having thus far succeeded. Still they were not out of danger. If it was believed that they had been burnt in the tower, they would not be pursued, unless the owners of the sloop or the remainder of her crew on shore should catch sight of her sailing away. There were still several vessels to pass; but they intended to give them as wide a berth as possible. O’Grady was at the helm. Paul and Reuben were removing the main-hatch in hopes of finding the squaresail, when a cry from O’Grady made them jump up, and they saw the head of the Frenchman, with his mouth open, as if about to shout out, rising above the covering of the forehatch. An Englishman generally carries a weapon ready for immediate use, which at the end of a stout arm is of a somewhat formidable character—his fist. Reuben with his dealt the Frenchman a blow which stopped his shout, knocked three of his teeth down his throat, and sent him toppling over into the fore-peak, from which he had emerged; he, Reuben, and Paul following so rapidly, that the boy, who had been capsized by his companion, had not time to pick himself up. They this time took good care so to secure both their prisoners, that there was very little fear of their escaping, as the man had done before by expanding the muscles of his legs and arms while Reuben was securing him.

“Please tell them, Mr Gerrard, that if they cry out or attempt to play any more tricks, we must shoot them,” said Reuben. “And now we’ll go and look for the squaresail.”

The sail was found and bent on, and, Paul going to the helm, O’Grady and Reuben managed to set it. The vessel felt the effects of the additional canvas, as she drew out more from the land, and rapidly glided past the different vessels in the roadstead. There were only two more. One of these, however, they were compelled to pass uncomfortably near.

“When we are clear of her, we shall be all right,” said O’Grady, looking back, and seeing nothing following. “She looks like an armed vessel—a man-of-war perhaps; but it won’t do to go out of our course; we must chance it.”

They stood on. Although they were now some distance from the land, the old tower continued blazing up so fiercely, that a strong light was still thrown on their canvas. Being between the suspicious vessel and the light, they were abreast of her before they were seen. Just then a hail came from her, demanding who they were, and where they were bound.

“Answer, Gerrard, answer!” cried O’Grady.

But he did not tell him what to say; so Paul put up his hands and shouted, “Oui, oui; toute vite!” with all his might.

“Heave-to,” shouted the voice, “and we will send a boat aboard you.”

“Very likely,” said Paul; and so he only cried out as before, “Oui, oui, to-morrow morning, or the day after, if you please!”

As a vessel running before the wind cannot heave-to at a moment’s notice, the sloop got on some little distance before any attempt was made to impede her progress. Another hail was heard, and after the delay of nearly another minute, there was a flash from one of the stranger’s ports, and a shot came whizzing by a few feet astern.

“If any of us are killed, let the others hold on to the last,” cried O’Grady. “We are suspected, at all events, and may have a near squeak for it.”

Reuben, the moment the first shot was fired, jumped down into the hold—not to avoid another; no fear of that. Directly afterwards he shouted out, “I have found the square-topsail. Lend a hand, Paul, and we’ll get it up.”

The square-top-sail was got up, rapidly bent on to the yard, and in another minute or two hoisted and set. The man-of-war meantime kept firing away; her shots falling on either side of the little vessel; but as she was riding head to wind, it was evident that only her stern chasers could be brought to bear.

“I wonder that she does not follow us,” observed Paul, as the shots began to fall wider and wider of their mark.

“Perhaps most of her crew are on shore, or we are thought too small game to make it worth while to get under weigh for,” answered O’Grady. “However, don’t let us be too sure; perhaps she will come, after all. We’ve got a good start of her though.”

“The mounseers are generally a long time getting under weigh, and to my mind they don’t know what to make of us,” observed Reuben, as he eyed the Frenchman with no loving glance.

The breeze continued freshening, and the little craft, evidently a remarkably fast one, flew bravely over the water, increasing her distance from the French shore, and from the light of the burning tower. As the night was very dark, there was yet a chance of her escaping in the obscurity. The adventurers were already congratulating themselves on having got free, when Reuben exclaimed, “The Frenchman thinks more of us than we hoped. He’s making sail.”

A sailor’s eyes alone, and these of the sharpest, could have discovered this disagreeable fact; and even Paul could distinguish nothing but the dark outline of the coast. Reuben kept his eye on the enemy.

“I doubt if she can see us,” he observed. “And if she doesn’t, we may still give her the go-by. I’d haul up a little to the eastward, Mr O’Grady, sir. The tide will be making down soon, and we shall just check it across. She’ll walk along all the faster, too, with the wind on the starboard-quarter, and no risk of jibing. We’ll take a pull at the main-sheet, Mr Gerrard. Now we’ll ease off the squaresail sheet. That’ll do, sir. Now the sail stands beautifully.”

O’Grady wisely followed Reuben’s advice, and took no notice of his doing things which were so clearly right without orders.

The sloop was now steering about north-east by north, and should the Frenchman stand a little to the westward of north, the two vessels would soon be out of sight of each other. Reuben declared that he could still see the enemy now making all sail in chase, but could not tell exactly how she was standing. It was anxious work. O’Grady made her out, as well as Reuben, and all hoped devoutly that she was a slow sailer. They kept the little vessel on a steady course, and for an hour or more scarcely a word was uttered. Sometimes Reuben lost sight of the enemy; but before long she was again seen. It proved that she did not sail very fast, and that the course they had taken was suspected. Thus hour after hour they stood on, till dawn began to break.

“It’s all up with us if she sees us now,” cried O’Grady. “But I vote we die game any how, and not give in while there’s one of us alive to steer the craft.”

The increasing daylight soon revealed them to the Frenchman, who at once began blazing away in a manner which showed that the long chase they had given him had made him not a little angry. The shot, however, fell short; but he on this made more sail, and soon gained on them. He ceased firing for half an hour or more, and then again began, the shot flying by on either side, or over the mast-head. They came, indeed, much too near to be pleasant. Reuben took the helm, and the two midshipmen stood facing their enemy, knowing that any moment might be their last; still, however, as resolved as at first not to yield. In another twenty minutes or half an hour they must be killed or prisoners; escape seemed out of the question.

“I wish that I could let my father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters at Ballyshannon know what has become of me,” said Paddy, with a sigh.

“And I wish that I could have again seen my dear mamma,” said Paul, “and my sweet sister Mary, and jolly old Fred, and Sarah, and John, and pretty little Ann. They know that I am a midshipman, and I suppose that that will be some consolation to them if they ever hear that I’ve been killed.”

“Don’t talk like that, young gentlemen. Look there. What do you say to that?” exclaimed Reuben, pointing to the north-west, where standing towards them, close-hauled, and evidently attracted by the firing, was a large, ship, the beams of the rising sun shining brightly on her wide-spread canvas.

“The enemy must see her, but fancy that she is French,” observed Reuben. “But they are greatly mistaken, let me tell them.”

“Hurrah! they’ve found out that they’re wrong, then,” cried O’Grady.

As he spoke, down came the Frenchman’s studden sails, and with a few parting shots, which narrowly missed their mark, he hauled his wind, and stood close-hauled towards the coast of France. He sailed badly before the wind; he sailed worse close-hauled. The stranger, which soon proved to be an English frigate, her ensign blowing out at her peak, came rapidly up. The adventurers cheered as she passed, and received a cheer in return. Those on board evidently understood the true state of the case.

“Why, I do believe that is Devereux himself!” cried Paul, in a tone of delight.

“Well, it is difficult to be certain of a person at such a distance; but it is very like him,” said O’Grady. “But, again, how could he be there? He could not have made his escape from prison.”

The sloop hove to in order to watch the chase, which was soon terminated, for the frigate came up hand over hand with the slow-sailing brig, which found to her cost that instead of catching a prize she had caught a Tartar. The midshipmen consulted together whether it would be wiser to continue their course for the Isle of Wight, or to get on board the frigate. But as the Channel swarmed with the cruisers of the enemy, they decided to do the latter; and accordingly, when they saw the frigate returning with her prize, they stood towards her. They were soon up to her, and, a boat being sent to them, as they stepped up her side the first person they encountered was Devereux.

“Why, old fellows, where have you come from in that curious guise?” he exclaimed, as he warmly wrung their hands.

“Oh, we ran away, and have been running ever since, barring some few weeks we spent shut up in an old castle and a tumble-down tower,” answered O’Grady.

“And the captain, and I, and a few others, were exchanged two weeks ago for a lot of French midshipmen without any trouble whatever.”

“As to that, now we are free, I don’t care a rope-yarn for all the trouble we have had, nor if we had had ten times as much. But we ought to report ourselves to the captain; and we think—that is, Gerrard does—that we ought to let our prisoners take back the sloop which we ran away with.”

“I agree with Gerrard, and so I am sure will the captain,” said Devereux.

The frigate on board which the three adventurers so unexpectedly and happily found themselves was the Proserpine, Captain Percy, of forty-two guns. As she was on her trial cruise, having only just been fitted out, she was short of midshipmen, and Captain Percy offered to give both O’Grady and Paul a rating on board if Reuben would enter. This he willingly did, and they thus found themselves belonging to the ship. The occupants of the berth received them both very cordially, and paid especial attention to Paul, of whom Devereux had spoken to them in the warmest terms of praise. The surprise of the Frenchman and boy on board the sloop was very great, when Paul and Reuben, accompanied by some prisoners from the prize, appeared and released them; and when Paul told them that they might return home, and that some countrymen had come to help them navigate the ship, to express his joy and gratitude, he would have kissed them both had they allowed him; and he seemed at a loss how otherwise to show it, except by skipping and jumping about, on his deck. When he shortly afterwards passed the Proserpine, he and his companions waved their hats, and attempted to raise a cheer; but it sounded very weak and empty, or, as Reuben observed to one of his new shipmates, “It was no more like a British cheer than the squeak of a young porker is to a boatswain’s whistle.”

The prize thus easily gained was sent into Portsmouth, and the Proserpine continued her cruise. O’Grady and Paul would have liked to have gone in her; but they thought it better to wait till the frigate herself returned to port, when they might get leave to go home and visit their friends, and perhaps take a little prize-money with them to make up for what they had lost. They easily got a temporary rig-out on board, so that there was no absolute necessity for their going. Paul had hitherto, young as he was, held up manfully in spite of all the fatigue and anxiety he had gone through; but no sooner had the prize disappeared, than his strength and spirits seemed to give way. He kept in the berth for a day or two; but could scarcely crawl on deck, when Devereux reporting his condition to the surgeon, he was placed in the sick list. Both his old shipmates, Devereux and O’Grady, attended him with the fondest care, and he would have discovered, had he possessed sufficient consciousness, how completely he had wound himself round their hearts. He had done so, not by being proud, or boastful, or self-opinionated, or by paying them court, by any readiness to take offence, or by flattery, or by any other mean device, but by his bravery and honesty, by his gentleness and liveliness, by his readiness to oblige, and general good-nature and uprightness, and by being true to himself and true to others—doing to them as he would be done by. They became at last very sad—that is to say, as sad as midshipmen in a dashing frigate, with a good captain, can become during war time; for they thought that Paul was going to die, and the surgeon gave them no hopes. No one, however, was more sad than Reuben, who for many a watch below, when he ought to have been in his own hammock, sat by the side of his cot, administering the medicines left by the doctor, and tending him with all a woman’s care and tenderness. The thoughts of his friends were for a time, however, called off from Paul by an event which brought all hands on deck—the appearance of a strange sail, pronounced to be a French frigate equal in size to the Proserpine. All sail was made in chase. The ship was cleared for action, and Paul with other sick was carried into the cockpit to be out of the way of shot. The gunner went to the magazine to send up powder; the carpenter and his mates to the wings, with plugs, to stop any shot-holes between wind and water; and the various other officers, commissioned and warrant, repaired to their respective posts. Paul had sufficiently recovered to know what was about to take place, and to wish to be on deck.

“Couldn’t you let me go, doctor—only just while the action is going on?” he murmured out. “I’ll come back, and go to bed, and do all you tell me—indeed I will.”

“I am sorry to say that you could be of no use, my brave boy, and would certainly injure yourself very much; so you must stay where you are,” answered the surgeon, who was busy in getting out the implements of his calling. “You will have many opportunities of fighting and taking other prizes besides the one which will, I hope, soon be ours.”

The remarks of the surgeon were soon cut short by the loud roar of the guns overhead, as the frigate opened her fire on the enemy. Then speedily came the crashing sound of the return shot, as they tore through the stout planks, and split asunder even the oaken timbers. It was evident that the two ships were very close together by the loud sound of the enemy’s guns and the effects of his shot. Not many minutes had passed since the firing commenced, when steps were heard descending the ladder, and first one wounded man, and then another, and another, was brought below and placed before the surgeon. He had scarcely begun to examine their wounds, when more poor fellows were brought below badly wounded.

“Ah! sir,” said one of the seamen who bore them, as he was hurrying again on deck, in answer to a question from the surgeon, “there are many more than these down for whom you could do nothing.”

“What, is the day going against us?” asked the surgeon.

“No, sir; I hope not. But the enemy is a big one, and will require a mighty deal of hammering before she gives in.”

Paul looked out; but he soon closed his eyes, and he would gladly have closed his ears to the shrieks and groans of anguish which assailed them, while the poor fellows were under the hands of the surgeons, or waiting their turn to have their wounds dressed, or their limbs amputated. Paul was more particularly anxious about his old friends; and whenever anybody was brought near him, he inquired after them. The report was, from those who had seen them, that they were at their posts as yet unhurt. Again he waited. Now there was a cessation of firing. Once more it was renewed, and the wounded were brought down in even still greater numbers than at first. Paul’s spirits fell very low. He had never felt so miserable, and so full of dread. What, if after all the Proserpine should be overmatched, and he and his companions again fall into the hands of the French, or should perhaps Devereux, or O’Grady, or his firm friend Reuben Cole, be killed! Suddenly he remembered what his mother often had told him, that in all troubles and difficulties he should pray; and so he hid his face in the pillow, and prayed that his countrymen might come off victorious, and that the lives of his friends might be preserved. By the time he had ceased his fears had vanished; his spirits rose. He had done all he could do, and the result he knew was in the hands of Him who rules the world. Still the battle raged. He heard remarks made by the wounded, by which he guessed that the enemy was indeed vastly superior, and that many a man, if not possessed of an indomitable spirit, would have yielded long ago; but that their captain would fight on till the ship sunk beneath his feet, or till not a man remained to work the guns. Several officers were among the badly wounded, and many were reported to be killed. At length there was a cry of grief, and their brave captain himself was brought below. Still the first-lieutenant remained to fight the ship, and his captain’s last order to him was never to yield while the remotest hope of victory remained.

“Am I likely to survive?” asked the captain of the surgeon, after his wound had been examined.

“It is possible, sir; but I will not disguise from you that your wound is dangerous,” was the answer.

“I should be resigned,” said the captain, “could I know that the victory would be ours.”

At that instant the sound of cheering came down into the cockpit. The captain heard it, and lifted up his head with a look of intense eagerness. Directly afterwards an officer appeared. His head was bound up, and his coat at the shoulder was torn and bloody. It was Devereux.

“The enemy has sheered off, sir, and is making all sail to the southward,” he exclaimed, in a hurried tone. “We are unable to follow, for our fore-top-mast and main-mast are gone, and the fore-mast and mizen-mast, until they are fished, cannot carry sail.”

“Thank heaven! thank heaven!” whispered the captain, falling back. The surgeon, whom he had sent to attend to others worse wounded than himself, as he thought, hurried back to him with a restorative cordial; but he shook his head as he vainly put it to his mouth: it was too late. In the moment of victory the gallant spirit of the captain had departed. The enemy with which the Proserpine had for so long thus nobly sustained this fierce engagement, was a 74-gun ship, more than half as large again as she was, and having on board nearly twice as many men. The sea was fortunately calm, and the masts being fished, sail was made, and in two days the frigate reached Portsmouth. As she had suffered much in the action, she required extensive repairs; and the sick and wounded were sent on shore to the hospital. In the list of the former was Paul; in the latter, Devereux. Paul still continued very weak and ill. Devereux was not dangerously hurt; but the surgeons would not allow him to travel to go to his friends, and they showed no disposition to come to him. Paul was too weak to write home himself, but he had got Devereux to do so for him, making, however, as light as he could of his illness.

Two days had scarcely elapsed, when they were told that a young lady was below, waiting to see Mr Gerrard.

“It must be my dear sister Mary,” whispered Paul. “Oh, do go and see her before she comes here, Devereux, and tell her how ill I am, and prepare her for the sort of place she is to come to.”

Hospitals in those days, especially in the war time, were very differently arranged to what they are now, when every attention is paid to the comfort and convenience of the patients. At that time, even in the best regulated, were sights, smells, and sounds, trying to the sensibilities even of ordinary persons, but especially so to those of a young lady brought up in the quiet and retirement of a rural village; but Mary Gerrard, who now entered the Portsmouth hospital, escorted by Devereux, had at that moment but one feeling, one thought—an earnest desire to reach the bedside of her brave young brother, who she thought was dying. After the first greetings were over, Paul, seeing her look very sad, entreated her not to grieve, as he was sure that he should get well and go home and see them all.

She prayed he might, and so did Devereux, though from what the doctor said, there could be little doubt that he was very ill. Mary did not tell him that his dear mother was very ill also, being sure that the knowledge of this would agitate him, and retard, if it did not prevent, his recovery. She entreated that she might remain night and day with her brother; but this was not allowed, and so she was obliged to take lodgings near at hand, where she remained at night when turned out of the hospital. Devereux, however, comforted her by promising that he would sit up as long as he was allowed with his friend, while O’Grady and Reuben Cole came on shore and assisted in nursing him; so that Paul was not so badly off after all. The consequence was, that in spite of the doctor’s prognostications, Paul rapidly improved. As soon as he was in a fit condition to be moved, he was conveyed to some nice airy lodgings Mary had engaged; and here Devereux, who was also recovering from his wounds, and allowed to go out, was a constant visitor, that is to say, he came early in the morning, and stayed all day. He came at first for Paul’s sake; but it might have been suspected that he now came for the sake of somebody else. He was no longer a midshipman, for he had received his commission as lieutenant soon after landing, provisionally on his passing the usual examination, in consequence of the action in which he had taken part, when he had acted as second in command, all the other officers being killed or wounded. Mary could not fail to like him, and although she knew the whole history of the disastrous lawsuit between her father and the Devereux family, she had never supposed that he belonged to them in any way.

It did not occur to Paul that his friend and his sister were becoming sincerely and deeply attached to each other. He asked Devereux one day why, now that he was strong enough, he did not go home to see his friends.

“Do you wish me gone?” asked Devereux.

“No, indeed, I do not,” answered Paul; “but it surprised me that you should not be anxious to go and see them.”

“Did they show any anxiety to come and see me, when they supposed I was wounded and ill, and perhaps dying?” he asked, in an animated tone. “No, Paul; but there is one who did come to see my best friend, who saved my life, and watched over me with more than the tenderness of a brother when I was sick, and for that person I have conceived an affection which I believe will only end with my life.”

“Who can you mean, Devereux?” asked Paul, in a tone of surprise.

“Why, who but your sister Mary!” exclaimed Devereux. “Do you think that I could have spent so many days with her, and seen her tending on you like an angel of light, as she is, and not love her with all my heart?”

“Oh, my dear Devereux, I cannot tell you how I feel about it,” said Paul, warmly taking his hand; “though I am sure Mary does not know that you belong to that family we all fancy have treated us so ill; yet, when she does come to know it, as she ought to know, still I do not think that it will bias her in her sentiments towards you. When she knows that you love her, I am sure that she must love you.”

“Thank you, Paul; thank you, my dear fellow, for saying that. Then I will tell her at once,” said Devereux.

And so he did; and Mary confessed that Paul was not far wrong in his conjectures.

It had, curiously enough, never occurred to her to what family Devereux belonged, and when she heard, she naturally hesitated about allying herself to people who, if they could not despise, would assuredly dislike her. Devereux, however, overcame all her scruples, which is not surprising, considering that he was scarcely twenty-one, and she was only nineteen.

When Paddy O’Grady heard of the arrangement he was delighted.

“All right, my dear fellow,” he exclaimed. “When you marry Mary Gerrard, I’ll run over to France and pop the question to little Rosalie Montauban, and bring her back to live in some snug box of a cottage I’ll take near you. Won’t it be charming?”

Midshipmen, when they think of marrying, always think of living in a snug little box of a cottage, just big enough for themselves, forgetting that they may wish for servants, and may some day expand somewhat in various ways.

Devereux ventured to suggest that Miss Rosalie might not be as willing to come away as O’Grady supposed, at which Paddy became very irate, the more so, that some such idea might possibly have been lurking within his own bosom. However, as the war was not over, and might not be for some time, he could not go just: then.

Paul was now sufficiently recovered to be moved, and Devereux got leave to help Mary in taking him home. They were also accompanied by Reuben Cole. Mrs Gerrard had begun to recover from the day that she heard Paul was out of all danger. She joyfully and proudly received them at her neat and pretty, though small cottage; and from the day of his arrival Devereux found himself treated as a son. Devereux had admired Mary watching over her sick brother. He admired her still more when affectionately tending on her mother, and surrounded by her younger brothers and sisters. Paul was made so much of that he ran a great chance of being spoilt. He had to put on his uniform, and exhibit himself to all the neighbourhood as the lad who had gone away as a poor ship-boy, and come back home as a full-blown midshipman. At last, one day Devereux received a letter from his home, suggesting that as he was in England he might possibly be disposed to pay them a visit. He went, though very reluctantly. He was greatly missed, not only by Paul and Mary, but by all the younger Gerrards. Not ten days had elapsed when he again made his appearance.

“They have had enough of me,” he said, as he entered laughing. “But, Mary, dear,” he added, after he had gone the round of handshaking, and, it may be, with a kiss or two from the lady part of the family, “the best news I have to tell you is that they will not oppose our marriage, if we will wait till I am made a commander, and then my father promises me three hundred a year, which, with my pay, will be a great deal more than we shall want. To be sure, I had to undertake to give up some thousands which might some day come to me; but it would not be for a long time, at all events, and, in my opinion, perhaps never; and I was determined not to risk the danger of losing you for money, or any other cause.”

“Oh, my dear Gilbert! and have you sacrificed your fortune and your future prospects for my sake?” said Mary, her eye’s filling with tears; and yet not looking, after all, as if she was very sorry.

“No, no! not in the slightest degree. I have laid them out, as a merchant would say, to the very best advantage, by securing what I know will tend to my very great and continued happiness,” answered Gilbert Devereux, adding—

But never mind what he said or did after that. Certain it is, Mary made no further objections, and Mary and he were regularly betrothed, which is a very pleasant state of existence, provided people may hope to marry before very long, and expect, when they do marry, to have something to live on.

Soon after this Gilbert Devereux went to Portsmouth to pass his examination, and came back a full-blown lieutenant, with an epaulette on his left shoulder, which, when he put on his uniform, was very much admired.

Paul awoke very early the morning after Devereux had returned, in the same little room in which he slept before he went to sea, and which he had so often pictured to his mind’s eye as he lay in his hammock tossed by the stormy sea. A stout sea-chest stood open in the room, and over it was hung a new uniform with brass buttons; a bright quadrant, and spy-glass, and dirk, and gold-laced hat, lay on the table, and the chest seemed filled to overflowing with the articles of a wardrobe, and a variety of little comforts which his fond mother and sisters, he was sure, had prepared for him. He turned round in his bed and gazed at the scene.

“I have dreamed this dream before,” he said to himself. “It was vivid then—it is vivid now; but I will not be deceived as I was then!—oh, how bitterly—No, no, it is a dream. I fear that it is all a dream!”

But when the bright sunbeams came in and glittered on the quadrant and buttons, and the brass of the telescope, and on the gold lace, and the handle of the dirk, and the birds sang cheerily to greet the glorious sun, and the lowing of cows and the bleating of sheep was heard, and the crack of a carter’s whip, and his “gee up” sounded not far away from under the window, Paul rubbed his eyes again and again, and, with a shout of joy and thankfulness, exclaimed—

“It is true! it is true! I really am a midshipman!”

And when he knelt down to say his prayers, as all true honest Christian boys do, he thanked God fervently for having preserved him from so many dangers and granted him fully the utmost desire of his young heart. When Paul appeared at breakfast, did not his mother and brothers and sisters admire him, even more than they did Gilbert Devereux, except, perhaps, Mary; and she certainly did not say that she admired Paul less. They were a very happy party, and only wished that to-morrow would not come. But such happiness to the brave men who fight Old England’s battles, whether by sea or land, must, in war time at all events, be of brief duration. A long official-looking letter arrived for Devereux, and another of a less imposing character, from the first-lieutenant of the Proserpine, ordering Paul, if recovered, to join forthwith, as the ship was ready for sea. The letter for Devereux contained his appointment to the same ship, which was a great satisfaction to all concerned.

We will not describe what poor Mary felt or said. She well knew that the event was inevitable, and, like a true sensible girl, she nerved herself to endure it, though we dare say she did not fail to let Gilbert understand, to his satisfaction, how sorry she was to lose him. It is, indeed, cruel kindness to friends to let them suppose when parting from them that you do not care about them.

Reuben Cole, who had spent his holiday in the village with his old mother, and left her this time cash enough to make her comfortable, according to her notions, for many a day, came to the cottage to say that his time was up. The three old shipmates therefore set off together for Portsmouth. On their arrival they found that Mr Order, who had been made a commander in the West Indies, and had lately received his post rank, was appointed to command the Proserpine. The Cerberus had arrived some time before, and several of her officers and men had, in consequence of their regard for Captain Order, joined the Proserpine. Among them were Peter Bruff, still a mate, Tilly Blake, and old Croxton. The midshipmen’s berth contained a merry party, some youngsters who had come to sea for the first time, full of life and hope, and some oldsters who were well-nigh sick of it and of everything else in the world, and longed to have a leg or an arm shot away that they might obtain a berth at Greenwich, and have done with it. At that time, however, there were not many of the latter sort.

At first it was supposed that their destination was foreign; but whether they were to be sent to the North American station, to the Mediterranean, to the Pacific, or to India, they could not ascertain; so that it rather puzzled them to know what sort of stores they should lay in, or with what style of garments they should provide themselves. However, on the morning they were to sail Captain Order received a dispatch directing him to join the Channel fleet.

“Do you know what that means?” asked Peter Bruff of the assembled mess. “Why, I will tell you, boys, that we shall be attached to the blockading squadron off Brest, and that month after month, blow high or blow low, we shall have to kick our heels there till we have kicked holes in them.”

Those present expressed great dissatisfaction at the prospect in view; but Devereux, when the subject was discussed in the gun-room, was secretly very glad, because he hoped thus to hear more frequently from Mary, and to be able to write to her. His brother officers took up the idea that he was an author, from the sheets upon sheets of paper which he covered; but, as may be supposed, nothing could induce him to exhibit the result of his labours. While others were weary; discontented, and grumbling, he was always happy in the belief that Mary was always thinking of him, as he was of her.

Blockading is always disagreeable work, as there must be an ever watchful look-out, night and day, and ships are often kept till all their provisions are expended, or the ships themselves can stand the wear and tear no longer. The Proserpine had, as was expected, plenty to do. Paul, though not finding it pleasant more than the rest, was satisfied that it was calculated to give him ample experience in seamanship, and to make him the good officer he aspired to become.

However, as disagreeable as well as agreeable times must come to an end some time, if we will but wait that time, the Proserpine was relieved at length, and returned to Portsmouth. She was not allowed to remain there long, for as soon as she could be refitted, and had taken in a fresh supply of provisions, wood, and water, she again put to sea to join a squadron in the North Seas. Winter came on, and as she lay in Yarmouth Roads, directions were sent to Captain Order to prepare for the reception of an ambassador, or some other great man, who was to be conveyed to the Elbe, and landed at Cuxhaven, or any other place where he could be put on shore and make his way to his destination.

It was early in February, but the weather was unusually fine, and off the compact little island of Heligoland a signal was made for a pilot, who came on board and assured the captain that there was not the slightest difficulty in getting up the Elbe to Cuxhaven, if he would but proceed at between half-flood and half-ebb, when he could see the sand on either hand. All the buoys in the river had, however, been carried away, he observed, to prevent the enemy from getting up. With a favourable breeze the frigate stood up the river, guided by the experienced pilot. While the weather continued fine, the task was one of no great difficulty, though with a wintry wind blowing and the thermometer far down below the freezing-point, it was anything but a pleasant one.

“Faith, I’d rather be back stewing away among the niggers in the West Indies, would not you, Gerrard?” exclaimed Paddy O’Grady, beating his hands against his sides to keep them warm.

“I should not mind it for a change, if it was not to last long; but I confess I don’t wish it to be colder,” said Paul.

“Why, lads, this is nothing to what I have had to go through in the North Seas,” remarked Bruff. “I’ve known it so cold that every drop of spray which came on board froze, and I’ve seen the whole deck, and every spar and rope one mass of ice, so that there was no getting the ropes to run through the sheaves of the blocks, and as to furling sails, which were mere sheets of ice, that was next to an impossibility. I warn you, if you don’t like what we have got now, you’ll like still less what is coming. There are some heavy snow-clouds driving up, and we shall have a shift of wind soon.”

The frigate had now got up to within four miles of Cuxhaven, when, at about four o’clock, as the winter’s day was closing in, it, as Bruff had anticipated, came on to snow so thickly that the pilot could no longer see the marks, and it accordingly became necessary to anchor. Later in the evening, when darkness had already set in, the wind shifted to the southward of east, and the snow fell with a density scarcely ever surpassed, as if the whole cloud mass of snow were descending bodily to the earth. Added to this, the high wind drove the ice, which had hitherto remained fixed to the shore, high up, directly down on the ship, threatening every instant to cut her cables, when she must have been driven on shore and lost.

“All hands on deck!” turned many a sleeper out of his hammock, where, if not warm, he was not so cold as elsewhere. All night long the crew were on deck, fending off the ice, which in huge masses came drifting down on them.

“What do you think of this, Paddy?” asked Bruff.

“Why, by my faith, that when a thing is bad we have good reason to be thankful that it’s no worse,” answered O’Grady. “Can anything be worse than this?”

“Yes, indeed, a great deal worse,” said Bruff.

The morning broke at length, and as it was evident that the ambassador could not be landed at Cuxhaven, it was necessary to get out of the Elbe without delay, that he might be put on shore on the coast of Holstein, if possible.

The wind blew as strong as ever—a severe gale; but, the snow ceasing partially, the pilot was enabled to see the land. The ship stood on under one sail only—the utmost she could carry—a fore-topmast stay-sail.

“Hurrah! we shall soon be out of this trap, and once more in the open sea,” exclaimed O’Grady. “So the pilot says.”

“Are we well clear of the outer bank?” asked the captain.

The answer was in the affirmative; but it was scarcely given when the ship struck heavily, and, her keel cutting the sand, she thus became, as it seemed, firmly fixed. Then arose the cry from many mouths—

“We are lost! we are lost!”

“Silence!” exclaimed Captain Order; “until every effort has been made to get her off, let no one under my command say that.”

Chapter Twelve.

When a captain finds his ship on shore, even though he is in no way to blame, he feels as did Captain Order, that a great misfortune has happened to him. No sooner was the Proserpine’s way stopped, than the ice drifting down the river began to collect round her. Still the captain did not despair of getting her off. The boats were hoisted out for the purpose of carrying out an anchor to heave her off; but the ice came down so thickly with the ebb, which had begun to make, that they were again hoisted in, and all hands were employed in shoring up the ship to prevent her falling over on her side. Scarcely was this done when huge masses of ice came drifting down with fearful force directly on the ship, carrying away the shores as if they were so many reeds, and tearing off large sheets of the copper from her counter.

“I told you that matters might be worse. What do you think of the state of things?” said Bruff to Paul.

“That they are very bad; but I heard the captain say just now that he still hopes to get off,” answered Paul. “I suppose that he is right on the principle Mr Devereux always advocates, ‘Never to give in while the tenth part of a chance remains.’”

“Oh, Devereux is a fortunate man. He is a lieutenant, and will be a commander before long, and so looks on the bright side of everything, while I am still a wretched old mate, and have a right to expect the worst,” answered Bruff, with some little bitterness in his tone. “I ought to have been promoted for that cutting-out affair.”

So he ought. Poor Bruff, once the most joyous and uncomplaining in the mess, was becoming slightly acidulated by disappointment. He had good reason on this occasion for taking a gloomy view of the state of affairs.

The ice drove down in increasingly larger masses every instant. One mass struck the rudder, and, though it was as strong as wood and iron could make it, cut it in two, the lower part being thrown up by the concussion on to the surface of the floe, where it lay under the stern, the floe itself remaining fixed in that position by the other masses which had collected round the ship.

The ambassador and members of his suite looked uncomfortable, and made inquiries as to the best means of leaving the ship; but she was Captain Order’s first command, and he had no idea of giving her up without making a great effort for her preservation. At length came an order which showed that matters were considered bad in the extreme:

“Heave overboard the guns!”

Rapidly the guns were run out, and, aided by crowbars, were forced through the ports; but so strong was the ice that they failed to break it, and lay on its surface round the ship. Mr Trunnion, the gunner, hurried about, assisting in the operation; but as each gun went overboard he gave a groan, and made a face as if, one by one, his own teeth were being drawn.

“Never mind, mate, the good ship holds together, and we’ll get her off, I hope,” observed the carpenter.

“The ship! What’s the value of her compared to the guns?” exclaimed the gunner, turning on his heel.

The stores (to the purser’s infinite grief) and water followed. Anchors and cables were now carried out, and the ice astern with infinite labour was broken away; but the efforts of the crew were in vain, and the ship still remained firmly fixed in her icy prison when night drew on.

What a night was that! Down came the snow thicker than ever, the fierce wind howled and shrieked through the rigging, and when the ebb tide made, the ice in huge masses came down, crashing with fearful force against the sides of the frigate, mass rising above mass, till it seemed as if it were about to entomb her in a frozen mountain. The science and experience of the oldest officers were set at nought, all the exertions of the crew were unavailing; the wind increased, the snow fell thicker, and the ice accumulated more and more. The cold, too, was intense, and with difficulty the men could face the freezing blast.

Paul thought of how often he had heard people complaining of the heat of the West Indies, and now how glad would they have been to have obtained some of that caloric they were then so anxious to be rid of. Already the masses of ice reached up to the cabin windows. A loud crack was heard. It came from the after part of the ship. The carpenter and his mates descended to ascertain the mischief. He soon returned with a long face and a look of alarm on his countenance, and, touching his hat to the captain, reported that the stern port was broken in two, and parts of the stern stove in, so that there was small chance of the ship floating, even should she be got off.

“Well, well, Auger, keep up your spirits, man,” observed Mr Grummit, the boatswain, to his brother warrant officer; “the masts are standing, and in spite of the gale the spars are uninjured, and you may manage, after all, to copper up the old barkie to get her out of this.”

“Ah, that’s just like the way of the world, Grummit,” said Trunnion. “As long as your masts are standing, you don’t care how much harm happens to the hull under Auger’s charge; and while the hull was undamaged, Auger didn’t care for my guns; but just let’s see your masts going over the side, and we should have you singing out as loudly as any one—that we should, I know; and just you look out, they’ll be going before long.”

The indignant gunner turned away. It seemed very probable that his prognostications would prove true, for already in all directions the gallant ship cracked and groaned as the ice pressed in from every quarter on her stout timbers.

Paul met Devereux, and asked him what he thought was going to happen.

“One of two things, my dear Gerrard,” answered the young lieutenant; “we must either try to get on shore, or we must be ready to go down with the ship, should the wind drift her out of her present position. I know that you will be prepared for whatever we are called to encounter; but whatever occurs, keep near me. I shall not be happy if we are separated.”

As Paul was in Devereux’s watch, this he could easily promise to do. Hour after hour wore on. The cold increased. The weather gave no signs of mending. Death, in a form, though not the most terrible, yet calculated to produce intense suffering, stared them in the face. The men looked at each other, and asked what was next to happen. The captain and most of his officers, and the ambassador, were in consultation in the cabin. Many of the men believed that the ship herself could not much longer resist the violent pressure to which she was exposed, and expected every instant that her sides would be crushed together.

The calmest, as usual, was old Croxton, who had been actively going about his duty without making any demonstration.

“Lads, just listen to me,” he observed. “Some of you are proposing one thing, and some another; but let me advise you to go on steadily doing your duty, smartly obeying our officers, and leaving all the rest in the hands of Providence. It is the business of the officers to plan and command, and, depend on it, they’ll order us to do what they believe to be best.”

A few minutes afterwards the drum beat for divisions, and as soon as the men were mustered, the captain addressed them, and told them that, at the desire of the ambassador, it had been resolved to abandon the ship.

“At the same time, my lads, you will remember that while she holds together, you still belong to her,” he added. “While, for your own sakes, you will maintain that strict discipline which has done you so much credit ever since I have had the satisfaction of commanding you.”

A hearty cheer was the answer to this address.

The men were then directed to provide themselves each with a change of clothing, and a supply of provisions for two days. All knew that the undertaking was perilous in the extreme. The nearest inhabited part of the small island of Newark was upwards of six miles distant. No one knew exactly the direction. The snow continued to fall thickly, the cold was intense, and the wind blew fiercely, while it was possible that the ice might break away and carry them with it before they could gain the land.

They were to march in subdivisions, each under their respective officers. With heavy hearts the officers and crew went down the side of the ship, and formed on the ice under her lee. The sick—fortunately there were very few—were supported by their comrades. There were some women and children; for them it was truly fearful work. The captain, having ascertained that no man was left on board, was the last to quit the ship. He could not speak as he came down the side and took his place in the van. The order to advance was given. Slowly, with heads bent down against the freezing blast, the party worked their way. In some places the tide or the wind had forced the water over the ice, and pools of half-frozen slush had been formed, through which they were compelled to wade. In others they had to climb over the huge slabs of ice which had been thrown up in wild confusion. On they toiled, however, those who kept close together assisting each other; but some, alas! in the thick snow separated by the inequalities of the surface over which they travelled, sunk unseen, and not, in many cases, till their comrades had advanced too far to render assistance, was their absence discovered. A poor boy—who, though somewhat weak and sickly, was a favourite with the men—was one of the first missed. He had been complaining of the cold, but had been encouraged to proceed by those near him.

“Oh, let me just lie down and rest for a few moments, I am so weary, I will come on with the others,” he murmured.

“You will get no rest to do you good,” was the answer. “Cheer up, cheer up, lad!”

A friendly hand was stretched out to help him. For some way he struggled on. Then there arose a huge pile of ice slabs, and he escaped from the friendly hand which held him.

“Ah, now I will rest quietly,” he thought, as he laid himself down on a crevice of the ice filled with snow.

From that sleep he never awoke.

Among the women, one toiled on with a child in her arms. Many of the seamen offered to carry it; but she would not part with her treasure. On and on she moved. Her words became wandering, then scarcely articulate. She ceased at length to speak. Still she advanced. The snow fell thicker. The road became more uneven. Each person had to exert himself to the utmost to preserve his own life. They thought not of the poor woman and her child till they discovered that she was not among them. But not only did the weak sink down. Strong men in the same way disappeared from among their comrades. No one at the time exactly knew how. No one saw them fall. They were by the side of those who still walked on alive one moment, and the next they were gone.

Paul kept near Devereux. They conversed together as much as they could, and often addressed words of encouragement to the men, who, though often sinking, it appeared, with fatigue and cold, were revived, it seemed, and proceeded with as much spirit as at first.

Paul himself at length began to grow very weary, and to long to lie down and rest.

“If I could stop back for three minutes, I could easily run on and catch them up,” he thought to himself; yet he did not like to make the proposal to Devereux, who, he still had sense enough to believe, would not agree to it.

Poor Paul, was this to be the termination of all your aspirations for naval glory, to sink down and die on a frozen sand-bank, within a few miles of a spot where you may obtain food, shelter, and warmth?

“I can stand it no longer, I must rest,” he said to himself. “There is a snug spot between two slabs of ice, quite an arm-chair. I must sit in it, if only for two minutes.”

Devereux must have divined his thoughts, or probably observed the irregular and faltering steps he was making, for, seizing him by the arm, he exclaimed, with judicious roughness—

“Come, rouse up, Paul, my dear fellow! We must have none of this folly. I did not expect it from you.”

The words had their due effect. By a powerful effort Paul threw off his lethargy, and once more sprang on with the rest, continuing to talk and encourage his companions.

Still no one could tell whether or not they should ever reach their destination. The snow fell thicker than ever, and not a windmill, a spire, or a willow, or any of the objects which adorn the shores of the Elbe, could be seen to indicate that they were approaching the haunts of men. It was too evident that many of their number had passed from among them since they began their march, and no one could say who might follow. Many were complaining bitterly of the cold, and others had ceased to complain, as if no longer conscious of the effect it was producing.

Suddenly there was a shout from those in advance. The rear ranks hurried on. A house was seen, then another, and another. They were in the middle of a village. Kind people came out of their houses to inquire what had occurred; and at once there was no lack of hearty invitations, and the whole party were soon enjoying warmth, hot drinks, and dry clothing, which soon revived the greater number, though some who had been frost-bitten required considerable attention before they were set to rights.

The next day the storm raged as furiously as before, and so it continued for nearly a week, and all had reason to be thankful that they had reached a place of safety. At length, the weather moderating, and provisions on the island growing very scarce, the ambassador and his suite, and half of the ship’s company, proceeded on, though not without great difficulty and hazard, to Cuxhaven, while the rest remained on the island, in the hope of saving some of the ship’s stores.

Among the latter were Devereux, Paul, and O’Grady, with Reuben Cole. The next day they, with a party of men, volunteered to visit the wreck, to report on her condition, and to bring back some bread, of which they stood greatly in need. They succeeded in getting on board, and found the ship in even a worse condition than they had expected. She was on her beam ends, with upwards of seven feet of water in her, apparently broken asunder, the quarter-deck separated six feet from the gangway, and only kept together by the ice frozen round her. Their task accomplished, with a few articles of value and a supply of bread, they returned to the shore.

Considering that the risk was very great, the captain decided that no further visits should be paid to the ship.

However, one morning, the weather becoming very fine, it being understood that the captain had not actually prohibited a visit to the ship, Devereux, Paul, and O’Grady, with Cole and another man, set off to pay, as they said, the old barkie a farewell visit. The captain, who was ill in bed, only heard of their departure too late to recall them. The frost was so severe that the ice was well frozen, and thus they must have got on board; but it was supposed that they had remained on board till the tide changing made their return impossible. They were looked-for anxiously during the evening, but no tidings came of them. At night the wind again got up, and their shipmates, as they sat by the fires of their hospitable host, trembled for their safety. As soon as daylight returned the greater number were on foot. Not a vestige of her could be seen. The tide and wind rising together must have carried down the masses of ice with terrific force, and completely swept her decks.

When Captain Order heard of this, his feelings gave way. “To have lost my ship was bad enough,” he exclaimed; “but to lose so many fine young fellows on a useless expedition is more than I can bear. It will be the cause of my death.”

The few officers who remained with the captain could offer no consolation. The pilots and other people belonging to the place were consulted. They declared that from the condition of the ship when last visited, it was impossible that she could withstand the numerous masses of ice which during the past night must have, with terrific violence, been driven against her, that she had probably been cut down by degrees to the water’s edge, and that thus the ice must have swept over her. They said that if even those on board had been able to launch a boat, no boat could have lived amid the floating ice; and that even, had she escaped from the ice, she must have foundered in the chopping sea running at the mouth of the river. Probably, when the weather moderated in the spring, portions of the wreck would be found thrown up on the shore, and that was all that would ever be known of her fate. The captain, after waiting some days, and nothing being heard of the frigate or the lost officers and men, being sufficiently recovered, proceeded with the remainder of the crew to Cuxhaven.

Devereux, Paul and O’Grady were general favourites, and their loss caused great sorrow among their surviving shipmates; but sailors, especially in those busy, stirring days, had little time for mourning for those who had gone where they knew that they themselves might soon be called on to follow. Some honest tears were shed to their memory, and the captain with a heavy heart wrote his despatches, giving an account of the loss of his ship, and of the subsequent misfortune by which the service had been deprived of so many gallant and promising young officers. The ambassador and his suite had for some time before taken their departure, as the French were known to be advancing eastward, and might have, had they delayed, intercepted them. For the same reason Captain Order and his officers and crew anxiously looked forward to the arrival of a ship of war to take them away, as they did not fancy finishing off their adventures by being made prisoners and marched off to Verdun, or some other unpleasant place, where the French at that time shut up their captives. At length a sloop of war arrived, and they reached England in safety. Captain Order and his officers had to undergo a court-martial for the loss of the frigate, when they were not only honourably acquitted, but were complimented on the admirable discipline which had been maintained, and were at once turned over to another frigate, the Dido, lately launched, and fitting with all possible dispatch for sea.

But there were sad hearts and weeping eyes in one humble home, where the loss of two deeply loved ones was mourned; and even in the paternal hall of O’Grady, and in the pretentious mansion of Devereux, sorrow was expressed, and some tears were shed for those who had thus early been cut off in their career of glory. We will not attempt to pry into the grief which existed in Gerrard’s home. It did not show itself by loud cries and lamentations, but it was very evident that from one heart there all joyousness had for ever flown. Still Mary bore up wonderfully. All her attention seemed to be occupied in attending to her mother, who, already delicate, felt Paul’s loss dreadfully. Her young brothers and sisters, too, required her care. As usual, she taught them their lessons, made and mended their clothes, helped to cook their dinners, and attended them at their meals. None of these things did she for a day leave undone, and even Sarah and John, whispering together, agreed that Mary could not have cared so very much for Gilbert, and still less for poor Paul.

Some weeks passed on, when one day, when Mary was out marketing, Mrs Gerrard received a letter curiously marked over—not very clean, and with a high postage. Fortunately she had just enough to pay for it. She read it more than once. “Poor, dear, sweet, good Mary!” she exclaimed; “I almost fear to tell her; the revulsion may be too great. I know how much she has suffered, though others don’t.”

A writer has a great advantage in being able to shift the scene, and to go backwards or forwards in time as he may find necessary. We must go back to that fine, bright, but bitterly cold morning when Lieutenant Devereux and his companions set off to visit the frigate. They were strong and hardy, had thick coats, and, besides, the exercise kept them warm. The way was difficult, often through deep snow, into which they sank up to their middles. They looked in vain for trace of any of their lost shipmates. They were already entombed beneath the glittering snow, not to be again seen till the warm sun of the spring should expose them to the gaze of passers by. They at length reached the ship, and climbed up through a main-deck port. How silent and melancholy seemed the deserted ship, lately crowded with active busy human beings never more again destined to people its decks.

They looked into the cabins and selected a few articles they had before forgotten, taking some articles from the cabins of their messmates which they thought might be valued. On the main-deck the injuries which the ship had received were not so apparent.

“Would it be possible to save her?” exclaimed Devereux. “If she could be buoyed up with empty casks and got off into deep water, we might patch her up sufficiently to run her over to Yarmouth Roads. I would rather see her bones left there than here.”

“Anything you like I am ready for,” said O’Grady, and Paul repeated the sentiment.

“I do not mean to say that we can do it by ourselves; but if we can form a good plan to place before the captain, perhaps he will let us have the rest of the people to carry it out,” said Devereux. “However, before we begin, let us have some food. I am very hungry after our walk, and I daresay you all are.”

All hands agreed to this; there was no lack of provisions. Some time was occupied in the meal, and then they set to work to make their survey. As they wished to be exact, and to ascertain the number of casks on which they could depend for floating the ship, the business occupied a longer time than they had expected. They had nearly completed their plans when Paul, looking through one of the ports, saw the water rushing by with great rapidity, carrying with it large blocks of ice capable of overwhelming anybody they might have struck. The tide had turned, it was too evident, some time, and their retreat to the shore was cut off. Paul reported the circumstance to Devereux. There was no doubt about the matter. They stood at the gangway gazing at the roaring torrent, full of masses of ice leaping over and grinding against each other. No one but a madman would have ventured to cross it. It seemed doubtful if even a boat could live in such a turmoil of waters. If the flood ran up thus strong, what might be the effects of the ebb? It would not be low water again till past midnight, and it would then be very dangerous, if not altogether impracticable, to get on shore. They must, therefore, make up their minds to remain on board till the following day.

“The old ship is not going to tumble to pieces just yet,” said Devereux. “We might have had worse quarters than she can still afford, so we shall have to turn into our berths and wait till the sun rises again.”

Whether the young lieutenant felt as confident as he expressed himself might have been doubted; but he was one of those wise people who always make the best of everything, carrying out practically the proverb “What cannot be cured must be endured.” As they had plenty to do, and were able to light a fire in the cabin stove and another in the galley to cook their supper, they passed their time not unpleasantly. Their habits of naval discipline would not allow them to dispense with a watch, so, while the rest turned in, one officer and one man at a time walked the deck, though, as O’Grady remarked, “We are not likely to run foul of anything, seeing that we are hard and fast aground, and nothing will purposely run foul of us; and if anything does, it may, for we can’t get out of its way.” Devereux took the dog watch, O’Grady was to take the first, and Paul the middle. Paul was not sorry to turn in, for he was very tired. He had not slept, as he thought, when he felt O’Grady’s hand on his shoulder, telling him that it was time to turn out.

He was on deck in a minute, where he found O’Grady, who was waiting his coming. Just as O’Grady was going down, a loud, grating, crushing noise assailed their ears. It was blowing very strong, and freezing extremely hard. The night also was very dark, and occasionally heavy falls of snow came on, making the obscurity greater. The rushing noise increased. The tide they knew must have turned, and was now coming down with terrific force.

“I say, Gerrard, I doubt if Devereux’s plan will succeed, if the ice continues to come down in this fashion; more likely to cut the old barkie to pieces,” observed O’Grady.

“I am afraid so,” said Paul; “I’ll ask Cole what he thinks of the state of affairs.”

Reuben was found, and confessed that he did not like them. The wind had increased to a fearful gale, which howled and whistled through the shrouds, and between the intervals of these gusts the roar of the distant ocean could be heard, as the seas met together, or dashed in heavy rollers on the coast.

While the midshipmen and Reuben were talking, they became conscious that the ship was moving; her deck rose and fell very slowly certainly, but they felt the sensation of which perhaps only seamen could have been aware that they were standing on a floating body. They instantly called Devereux, and he was convinced of the awful fact that the frigate was moving. In her present condition she could not float long, and though they might lower a boat, it was impossible that a boat could live among the masses of ice rushing by. Perhaps the frigate might ground again. They sounded the well; she had not made much water since they came on board, so she might float for some time longer. Perhaps she was still in shallow water, and just gliding over the bottom. A lead was found and hove for soundings; but instead of striking the water, it came upon hard ice. The mystery was explained. The whole floe in which the ship was embedded was floating away. There could be little doubt about that. But where was it driving to? That was the question. It might drive out to sea, and becoming broken by the force of the waves, allow the ship to sink between its fragments. Still even then they might possibly be able to escape in a boat. One was therefore cleared and got ready for landing, and a supply of provisions, a compass, and water, were placed in her, with some spare cloaks and blankets to afford them a slight shield and protection from the inclemency of the weather. After this they could do no more than pray that warning might be given them of the ship’s sinking, and wait patiently for day.

The cold was so intense that they would have been almost frozen to death had they not been able to keep up a fire in the cabin stove, round which officers and men now clustered. It might possibly be their last meeting on this side a watery grave, and yet they had all, young and old, been so accustomed to face death, that they did not allow the anticipation of it altogether to quench their spirits. They talked of the past and even of the future, although fully aware that that future on earth might not be for them.

Day came at last, cold and grey. They looked out; they were, as they had conjectured, surrounded by a solid floe of ice—so thick that there seemed little danger of its immediately breaking up. Beyond it was the leaden sea foaming and hissing—but, in spite of the gale, not breaking heavily, owing to the floes of ice floating about and the direction of the wind; while in the distance to the south, and on either hand, was a low line of coast, with islands here and there scattered now and then.

The prospect was uninviting. The ship was driving out to sea, and could not then long hold together. O’Grady proposed making an attempt to gain the shore in the boat; but Devereux pointed out the difficulty there would be in making headway against the furious gale then blowing, in addition to the risk of having the boat stove in by the ice.

“No, no; let us stick to the ship as long as she keeps above water,” he added.

Of course all agreed that his decision was right. They were not idle, however. Paul suggested that if a boat could not live, a strong raft might; and as soon as breakfast was over, they set to work to build one. As they had plenty of time and materials, they made it big enough and strong enough to carry fifty men, and in the centre built a store-house to hold provisions for several days. Fortunately the ice did not move very fast; and before they had drifted far off the coast, the wind shifted, and drove them along it at the same rate as before. Still it continued freezing hard. A rapid thaw they had most to fear, as it would melt away the supporting floe, and let the ship sink. But then they might take to their boat. Had it not been for the anxiety they felt as to what might happen, they had no great cause to complain, as they had shelter and firing, and were amply supplied with provisions, besides, as O’Grady observed, enjoying the advantage, when the raft was finished, of having nothing to do. The third night they had spent on board came to a close. They kept a very strict watch, that should any change occur, they might not be taken unawares. On looking out they found the land much nearer than before. This was accounted for, as the wind had shifted, and now blew almost directly on shore.

“Our voyage will come to an end sooner than we expected last night,” observed O’Grady. “For my part I am almost sorry; it’s very good fun.”

“It will be no laughing matter, if the wind increases, and a heavy surf breaks on the shore,” said Devereux, who overheard the remark.

The ship, still surrounded by its mass of ice, to which it acted as a sail, drifted slowly, but steadily, towards the shore. The rate of progress was increased, however, before long by the rising wind, and the deck of the ship, hitherto only gently undulating, began to be tossed about with a motion more rapid than pleasant. As they drove on, the land opened out, and appeared on either hand; so that they found that they were at the entrance of an estuary, or the mouth of a wide river. But the sea rolled in very heavily, and they feared, if it increased, that the ice round the ship would break up. Still there would be ample warning given, and they dreaded no immediate danger. The raft and boat were both got ready. Should the ship sink, the former would in all probability float, and afford them a refuge should the boat be unable to live.

“And now all our preparations are made, we’ll pipe to dinner,” said Devereux.

And the whole party sat down to a not unsubstantial meal round the cabin stove. Dinner was over. It had been somewhat prolonged, for there was nothing to do, and they had been talking of by-gone days, and fighting their battles over again. It was time, however, to look out to see what progress they had been of late making. It was O’Grady’s watch, and when he opened the cabin door to go out, he saw a mass of smoke eddying round in the fore-part of the deck. His companions soon joined him to ascertain beyond a doubt that the ship was on fire. It might still be overcome. But the fresh water had been started; there was only ice alongside, and the pumps were choked. The party made a rush towards the fire, in the hopes of beating it out; but they were soon convinced that it had gained hold of the ship, and that no efforts they could make to extinguish it would avail. How it had originated there was no time to consider. Probably some coal jerked out of the galley-fire had found its way below, and had ignited some of the stores. The flames now burst forth, and spread rapidly—bursting through the hatchways and ports, and soon enveloping the whole of the fore-part of the ship. The party were now exposed to even a more terrible danger than any they had anticipated. Their raft would no longer avail them. Their entire dependence must be on their frail boat. Still till the last moment they were unwilling to leave the once stout ship which had so long been their home.

“We must go, my lads,” exclaimed Devereux, with a sigh, as the flames, fanned by the wind, rapidly approached the quarter-deck. “One good thing is, that should she drive on shore, and the French be in the neighbourhood, they will not benefit by her.”

“Hurrah! one cheer for the old barkie before we leave her!” cried Reuben Cole, as they launched the boat on to the ice. “Another good is, that not another mortal man will set his foot on her deck after us.”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” they shouted, as they ran the boat over the ice.

They did not leave the ship a moment too soon, for scarcely had they got their boat into the water to the leeward of the floe, than the fore-mast, already a pyramid of fire, fell with a loud crash on the ice.

“There is something more coming, and the further off we are, the better,” cried Devereux. “I should have thought of that before. Give way, lads; the fire will soon reach the magazine.”

So long as the boat was under the lee of the floe she made tolerably fine weather of it; but as she increased her distance, the seas came rolling up after her, threatening every instant to engulph her. A mast had been stepped, and a sail got ready for hoisting. This was now run up, and assisted her greatly. Devereux steered, and even he could scarcely keep his eyes from the burning ship. A cry from his companions made him for an instant turn his head. There was a thundering deep report; and as he looked for an instant, the whole ship seemed, with her remaining masts and spars one mass of flame, to be lifted bodily up out of her icy cradle into the air. Up, up it went, and then, splitting into ten thousand fragments, down it came hissing and crashing, some into the foaming sea, and others on to the ice, where they continued to burn brilliantly. There was no cheering this time. Paul felt more inclined to cry, as he witnessed the fate of the gallant frigate.

“If the wreckers on shore were expecting a prize, they’ll be mistaken,” observed Reuben, when all had been silent for some time.

They had enough to do to look after their own safety. It was already dusk. Masses of ice were floating about, not very thickly, but thick enough to make it a matter of difficulty to avoid them. The land was flat, and they were nearer to it than they supposed. A point appeared on the right. If they could get round it without being swamped, they would be in smooth water. They gave the point a sufficient berth. A heavy sea came rolling by them; luffing up, they ran in, and in another minute found themselves standing up a river of some size in perfectly smooth water. The weather was very cold, and they were anxious to get on shore as soon as possible. The further up they went, however, the more likely they were, they thought, to find satisfactory shelter, for as yet no houses of any sort could be seen. Shelter, however, must, if possible, be found, for although they had provisions, the weather was too cold to allow them to remain out, if it could be helped. They stood on for nearly half an hour, when a light was seen glimmering on the opposite shore. They steered towards it, fortunately lowering the sail when at some distance from it, for before the boat had lost way, her stem struck against the ice which fringed the bank, and very nearly stove in her bow. Searching about, however, they at length found a landing-place, and with hearts thankful for their escape sprang on shore. That they might not be a burden to the people whose hospitality they intended to seek, they loaded themselves, not only with the valuables they had rescued from the wreck, but with a good supply of provisions. They proceeded, therefore, boldly along a tolerable road in the direction of the light, or rather lights, for several appeared as they advanced.

“Oh, depend on it we shall have a cordial reception,” said O’Grady. “Very likely that is some fat old Burgomaster’s country residence, and he is giving a ball, or an entertainment of some sort, for which we shall come in.”

“As likely it is a flour-mill, and those lights we see are from its windows,” remarked Devereux.

“We shall soon settle the point, for we shall be up to the place directly,” said Paul. “The lights are lower than I at first thought, and appear to be in the windows of several houses. Hark! I hear the tramp of horses coming along the road.”

“Qui va là?” shouted a voice, in sharp, stern accents. “Stand and declare yourselves!”

“We are in for it,” whispered O’Grady. “What can the fellows be?”

“French dragoons, I am afraid,” answered Paul, “There is no use attempting to deceive them. They ask who we are.”

“Gerrard, you speak French better than I do; tell them,” said Devereux.

“Naval officers who have lost their ship, and are seeking for shelter this bitter cold night,” shouted Paul.

“Come then with us,” exclaimed the sergeant in command of the patrol, riding up. “Your story, friends, may or may not be true. If you are spies, the consequences may be unpleasant.”

Escorted by the horsemen, they were conducted to the building they had seen. It appeared to be a large country house. All the outhouses and lower rooms were converted into stables, little trouble having been taken to remove rich Brussels carpets or valuable furniture. They were led upstairs to a large room, where several officers were seated at supper, and were announced as prisoners just captured on the road, reporting themselves as naval officers.

“A likely story,” observed the commanding officer—a general apparently by his uniform. “What have you to say for yourselves?”

“That our tale is true,” answered Devereux. “Any person on the coast must have seen our ship burning. If you will send, you can ascertain the truth of that part of our account.”

“It is a considerable distance from the coast, and we cannot spare men to send,” said the general, gruffly.

“The boat by which we landed will be found at the bank of the river,” observed Paul, quietly.

“Very likely, but that will only prove that you landed from some ship off the coast,” exclaimed the general, in an angry tone. “You were found prowling about my head-quarters, the act of spies, and as spies you will be treated. If your story is not authenticated, you will be shot at sunrise.”

“Say, rather, brutally murdered!” said Devereux, indignantly. “I call all here to witness that I state that I am a British officer, that these are my subordinates, that all I have said is true, and that we landed here not knowing that the French were occupying the country.”

The general, once well known for his atrocious cruelties, had made a signal to the guard to lead away the prisoners, when a young man entered the room dressed in the uniform of an hussar. Paul looked at him very hard, struck by his strong likeness to Alphonse Montauban.

“What!” exclaimed the new comer, springing forward, and taking Paul’s hand, “Is it possible?”

His voice made Devereux and O’Grady turn their heads; and in spite of the astonished and angry looks of the general and some of his officers, he grasped their hands; then turning to the general, he cried out—

“What have these officers done? They appear to be treated as criminals. I know them well. They are old friends, who, when I was their prisoner, treated me with kindness, sympathy, and generosity. I will answer for it that whatever account they have given of themselves is the true one.”

“That alters the case, my dear Count,” said the general, in a blander tone than he had as yet used. “If they really have been wrecked, although we must consider them as prisoners, they shall receive all courtesy at our hands, and be exchanged as soon as possible.”

Of course Devereux again gave an account of their adventures, on the truth of which Alphonse staked his honour.

“Very well; then if they will pass their parole, they shall be committed to your charge, Count,” said the general, with a more courteous glance at the English officers than he had hitherto bestowed.

All arrangements having been made, the prisoners accompanied Alphonse to his quarters, where, with the aid of the provisions they had brought, an ample repast was soon spread before them. Of course they were all eager to know how Alphonse had happened so opportunely to make his appearance. He briefly told them that his father, who was no other than the old gentleman in the château whom Paul and O’Grady had known as Mon Oncle, was the Count de Montauban, and that his title having been restored by the Emperor, he had, on his death, succeeded to it; that having left the marine, of which his experiences had made him heartily sick, he had entered the army, and had rapidly risen to the command of a troop in a light cavalry regiment. His corps belonged to a division of the army which for some strategical object had been pushed forward, but was expected quickly to retreat, when he thought it very possible that the general would set them at liberty.

The old friends spent a very pleasant evening, much pleasanter, O’Grady remarked, for his part, than if he had expected to be taken out to be shot the next morning as a spy. He asked, not without a blush, increased when he saw Paul’s laughing eye fixed on him, after Rosalie.

“Oh, my dear cousin is well, and merry as ever, if I may judge by her letters, for she writes constantly to me; indeed, I may confess that our parents have arranged an affair between us which we neither of us shall be loath to carry out. When I saw her, she laughed a great deal at the attempts of my young Irish friend, as she called you, O’Grady, to learn French, and said that she was afraid she would have had to give you up as a hopeless case.”

Poor Paddy made an hysterical attempt to join the laugh of his companions against himself, and it was observed that he never again, at least not for some years, spoke about his dear little Rosalie.

After a detention of some weeks, the whole party were, as Alphonse had anticipated they would be, released, and having ample funds which the young Count pressed on them, they made their way without difficulty to Cuxhaven, which place of course the captain and officers and crew of the lost frigate had long since left. They succeeded, however, without much delay in getting over to England. Mary recovered her health, and on Devereux becoming a commander, they were married. O’Grady married one of her younger sisters a few years afterwards, and when peace came, paid a very pleasant visit to his old friends the Count and Countess Montauban.

Paul rose to the top of his profession, and used to take great delight in narrating to his grandchildren his adventures when he was a cabin-boy. To one of these grandchildren I am indebted for this history.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Peter Biddulph"

Chapter One.

The Settler’s Early Days.

From my earliest days to the present time I have been gradually climbing up the ladder towards a comfortable berth on the top; and if a ratlin has given way beneath my feet, I always have had a firm hold above my head. The first step I took was off the mud on to dry ground. I can recollect nothing clearly before that time. I was born on board a river barge, and never left it, winter nor summer, till I was fully six years old. One day the barge took the mud, which is not surprising, considering that I was the only person on deck. I ran to the helm to turn her head off the shore, but it was too late—there she stuck hard and fast. My mother was below, tending my father, and he lay dying. It was the barge’s last voyage, and his too. Both had seen much service. The barge never moved again, but went on rotting and rotting till the owner sold her and she was broken up.

Father died that night, and a boat came and took mother and me on shore, with father’s body, and such property as we possessed—not much, I fancy,—a kettle and pot, some plates, and knives, and cups, and a few clothes,—we hadn’t wanted furniture, and with these mother and I had to begin the world. She said things might have been worse, for she might have had a dozen children instead of one, and debts to pay—and she didn’t owe a farthing, which was a great comfort in her affliction.

My mother was indeed, while she lived, a very good mother to me, for she taught me to distinguish right from wrong, to love the former and to hate the latter. As may be supposed, she was very poor, and I was often without a meal. I know, too, that she frequently stinted herself to give me food. She lived on the banks of the Thames somewhere below London, and I very soon found my way down to the mud, where I now and then used to pick up odds and ends, bits of iron and copper, and sometimes even coin, and chips of wood. The first my mother used to sell, and I often got enough in the week to buy us a hearty meal; the last served to boil our kettle when we had any food to cook in it. Few rich people know how the poor live; our way was a strange one. My poor mother used to work with her needle, and go out as a charwoman, and to wash, when she could get any one to wash for, but that was seldom; and toil as hard as she might, a difficult matter she had to pay the rent of the little room in which we lived. She felt sorely the struggle she had to endure with poverty, for she had seen better days—far better, I suspect,—and was not accustomed to it. She was, I have reason to believe, well educated—at all events, much above most persons in the station in life she then occupied; and, young as I was, she taught me to read, and to repeat poetry, and to sing psalms; and though I forget nearly all the events of my life at that time, I remember many of the verses she taught me; they have been a wonderful comfort to me through life. My mother had married unwisely, I have no doubt, and if she ever had any relations, they discarded her; so she was very soon reduced to the condition I have described, aided by an illness which at length terminated in her death.

I was about eight years old when I became an orphan; but my intellects were sharpened by exercise, and I was as precocious as many children double my age. As I was able to do something to gain my own livelihood, the people of the house where we lodged took compassion on me, and, instead of sending me to the workhouse, gave me the corner of a garret to sleep in. I understood the compact, and worked harder than ever.

Young as I was I felt my mother’s loss most bitterly. We had been all in all to each other, and I should have broken down altogether with grief, had not my kind host roused me up and advised me to go out and try and do something to gain my livelihood. Hunger is a severe taskmaster; it makes many an idle man work.

I now became a regular mudlark, though I got employment when I could by running on errands and in assisting the boatmen on the river. I was one summer’s day, with a number of other boys, wading up to my knees in the water, when a boat with several gentlemen on a pleasure excursion came down the river, and pulled into the shore near where we were. Some of the gentlemen landed, while the others who remained in the boat amused themselves by throwing halfpence into the water for us to dive after. They scattered them about in every direction, so that many coins were altogether lost; for as the boys rushed after them they drove them into the mud.

At last, as I was standing some way from the other boys, a gentleman threw a penny towards me; but it passed over my head and fell into deep water, and directly afterwards I heard him exclaim—

“Dear me! I’ve lost my ring—my diamond ring, too. I would not have lost it for a hundred pounds.”

As he had been throwing pence in various directions, he had no notion where it had fallen, though he naturally concluded that it had come off at one of those times. As I saw that he was very much annoyed at his loss I felt sorry for him; so I went up to him, and told him that I would hunt about for his ring, and that if I found it I would gladly bring it to him, provided he would tell me where he lived.

“But don’t you bargain for a reward?” asked one of his companions.

“That depends upon how far off the gentleman lives,” I replied. “If near at hand this errand may be only worth a sixpence; but if far off, perhaps he won’t think a shilling too much to give me.”

“I’ll tell you what, my man; I’ll gladly give you ten shillings if you find it; but I fear there is little chance of your so doing,” replied the gentleman, smiling.

“There’s nothing like trying, sir,” I replied; “and if you’ll tell me your name and where you live, if I pick it up you shall have it again.”

“Well, then, you must inquire for Mr Wells, — Street, — Square, London,” said the gentleman.

“If you write it down I shall have less chance of forgetting it,” I replied.

“That would be little use to you, my man,” he observed; “you cannot read, I should suppose.”

“But I can, though,” I replied. “Give me your card, and you will see I speak the truth.”

On this one of the gentlemen drew out a card from his pocket, and wrote some words on it with a pencil, while I washed my hands and dried them in my shirt-sleeves. He then handed me the card. I looked at it and saw that it was in a language I could not understand.

“Those are Latin words, and I did not say I could read any language,” I observed, handing him back his card.

“You are right, my boy,” said the gentleman who had lost his ring; “but here are some lines in English: let us hear if you can read them.”

I looked at the lines attentively: they were at the commencement of a poem my mother had taught me; so I not only read them off fluently, but, to the great surprise of all present, went on repeating the succeeding ones.

“Bravo! bravo!” exclaimed the gentlemen, highly delighted. “You’re a genius, my lad—a perfect marvel. A mudlark spout poetry! Truly the schoolmaster is abroad.”

“Who taught you your learning, my boy?” asked another.

“My mother, sir,” I replied, calmly, and rather surprised at their expressions, for I saw nothing wonderful in my performance.

“I should like to see this mother of yours; she must be out of the common way too,” observed the same person.

“Mother is dead, sir,” I answered, crying; for the very mention of her name wrung my young heart with grief.

“There is something more here than meets the eye,” said Mr Wells. “My poor boy, don’t cry. Come to-morrow to my house, whether you find my ring or not. In the meantime here is half a crown; your poetry deserves it.”

I took the money almost mechanically; for I was thinking of my mother, and was scarcely aware of the amount of wealth I was receiving.

On seeing Mr Wells give me money, the other gentlemen did the same, and some even gave me as much as five shillings; so that I felt as if coin was raining down on me from the skies. My tears dried up, and, for a minute, I felt supremely happy; but on a sudden the thought occurred to me, that if my mother had been alive how happy it would have made her, and I burst forth into tears again.

Mr Wells on this asked me why I cried; so I told him the truth, and he believed me; though I believe, from the expression of some of the other gentlemen’s faces, that they fancied I was crying to gain their compassion: at all events, they gave me no more money, and their companions returning to the boat, they shoved off and continued their course down the river.

As soon as they were gone I began to collect my thoughts, and to consider my best chance of finding the lost ring. As I heard Mr Wells say that he would not have lost it for a hundred pounds, I believed that was its value, and though I had no just conception of how much a hundred pounds was, I knew that it must be a great deal of money. I was therefore very anxious to restore it to the kind gentleman.

Here I benefited by my good mother’s instruction; and I believed her spirit watched over me to keep me from evil; for it never occurred to me, as I am sorry to say it did to some of the other boys who overheard the gentleman’s observation, that it would be easier if the ring was found to sell it and secure its value, than to trust to the chance of obtaining a small reward by returning it to its proper owner.

I fortunately overheard them plotting to secure the ring for themselves, and I determined to counteract their plan. Though the water was deep where the ring had fallen there was no current, as it was in a little bay in the bank of the river, and what was more, I remembered that the ground was rather harder than that surrounding it, and that it rose slightly outside.

These circumstances gave me hopes of finding the ring; so I sat down at some little distance on the bank, pretending to be counting the money I had received, but in reality watching narrowly the spot where I thought it had fallen.

I do not mean to say that I was indifferent to my good fortune, but I honestly believe I thought much more of the pleasure it would give the poor people who had charitably taken care of me in my destitution, than of the benefit I should myself derive from it.

The tide had only run off a very little when the ring was thrown in, so that I had a considerable time to wait; but though I grew very hungry, and felt that I might enjoy a plentiful meal, I would not quit my post; indeed, I was accustomed to starve, so that did not incommode me much.

Slowly the tide receded, and one after one the other boys went away. At last the bank appeared, and the intervening space was left with very little water over it. I was in hopes that none of the other boys would return to interrupt me in my search; but, to my annoyance, just as the mud was left quite clear, two of them came back, and immediately tucking up their trousers, hurried into the mud.

Chapter Two.

New Friends.

Now it so happened that I had carefully noted where the penny had fallen, and if I had been alone, I could have gone straight to the place. But, wishing to mislead my rivals in the search, I waded into the water at a considerable distance from the spot. Glad of a clue, the other mud-larks came over to me in a hurry, and began hunting about. Leaving them there, I went to another place, and so on till I gradually approached the spot where I thought the ring had fallen. They again followed me, and as I was stooping down I heard one of them cry out, and I thought he had found the treasure, but it was only the penny Mr Wells had thrown me. “Ho! ho!” I thought, “the ring will not have reached as far as that, but I must make haste and find it, or it will be too dark to see anything.” The other boys thought the ring must be close to the penny, and kept turning up the mud in every direction round it, while I worked my way straight on to where the boat had been. I had begun to think that I must have passed it, when I saw something glitter in a little pool of water just under a large stone. I stooped down, and to my joy I found that it was the gold ring. My first impulse was to sing out, but then it struck me that I might run some chance of being robbed of my treasure, and that it would be a just punishment to the naughty boys to keep them still hunting for it; so, instead of saying anything about the matter, I pretended to be groping on as before, and at last, on getting near the shore, I exclaimed that there was no chance of any one finding it that night, and that I should go home. On getting on shore I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, eager to give my charitable friends an account of my good fortune, but with regard to the ring I said not a word. The instinctive caution I possessed taught me that it would be wiser to say nothing, even to them, about it. I told them, as was the case, that the money had been given to me by the gentlemen for repeating poetry to them.

We had a capital supper that night, the best I had ever enjoyed; and giving my wealth to my friends to keep for me, I set off the next morning, my heart beating high with satisfaction, to restore the ring to Mr Wells.

I found his house without much difficulty, although I had never been in that part of London before, but my wits were not at fault on this occasion more than on any other. A domestic opened the door, whom I at first took to be a very great lord, for I had seldom before seen a livery servant; but when he told me that his master was not at home, and he could not say when he would return, and without deigning any further answer slammed the door in my face, I guessed who he was. I accordingly sat down on the steps to wait patiently for the return of Mr Wells. As I had been thinking all night long of my good fortune, I had not slept a wink, and it was therefore not surprising that I fell very fast asleep where I sat. How long I thus remained dreaming of the events of the previous day I do not know, when I was awaked by the sound of a kind voice in my ear, and opening my eyes I saw Mr Wells standing before me.

“Ah, my little poet!” he exclaimed; “you here already!”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, jumping up; “and I have found your ring, and brought it to you too.”

“Have you indeed? That is more than I expected,” he replied. “But come in, and you can then give me the ring, and tell me something about yourself.”

So I went into his house, and he was evidently pleased when he saw the ring, which I had washed and wrapped up carefully in a bit of rag, and it looked clean and bright. He then took me into the parlour, where two ladies were sitting at breakfast, where he made me join them, all untidy as I was, at their meal; after which he desired me to give a full account of myself, and to recite some more poetry, all of which I did, apparently much to the satisfaction of the party present.

“’Twere a pity for the child to grow up neglected and uncared for, as will probably be his fate, till he becomes in no way superior to the uncultivated, ignorant men among whom he will be doomed to live,” observed one of the ladies to Mr Wells, who was, I found, his wife. “Can you do anything for him?”

“I was thinking on the subject, my love,” answered Mr Wells. “The question in my mind is, ‘In what position shall he be placed?’”

“Oh, my dear, that is very easy,” replied the lady, in an eager tone; “send him to a good school, and then make him one of your clerks.”

“That might not prove a real kindness after all,” said her husband; “he has already, by his own exertions and good conduct, made one step up the ladder, and I think it will be wiser to leave him to work his own way upward. He will then be less liable to slip down again. I will keep an eye on him, and give him advice when he requires it.”

This I believe he said for my benefit, that I might not fancy that I had nothing further to do than to wait for the coming of good luck, as is the case too often with certain people, who then grumble and find fault with the world because their luck never comes. I do not mean to say that opportunities do not occur to some men more frequently than to others, but I believe that they visit most of us at some time or other of our lives, and that it is our own fault if we do not take advantage of them.

“But I will learn what the boy himself has to say on the subject,” said Mr Wells.—“What would you like to do, my lad?”

“I want to be a sailor, sir,” I answered, promptly; for such had been the earnest desire of my life; “I wish to go to some of the places the ships I see passing up and down the river visit.”

“You are too young yet to go to sea, but when you are old enough you cannot perhaps do better. The sea requires people of sense more than any other, and yet some persons send the dunce of the family on board ship, and then are surprised that he does not get on. You shall now go back to the friends who have taken care of you, and who seem good people. We must find somebody to whom you may go when you wish to get some more learning, and I dare say you will find some means of earning your bread till you are old enough to go to sea.

“By-the-by, I must not forget the reward I promised you for finding my ring. I will bring it down to you to-morrow or next day, if you will in the meantime trust me.”

He said this smiling, and I felt sure he would not deceive me. At the same time I told him that he had paid me before handsomely, and that I did not want any other reward. He told me that must rest with him, and that I was fairly entitled to it. He then bade me good-bye.

With a joyful heart I returned home to record to my friends all that had happened.

Mr Wells was as good as his word, and the following day I saw him on horseback, inquiring his way to the street where I lived. I went up to him, and led him to the house. He then dismounted, and giving his horse to another boy to hold, he called me in, and told my friends that he had spoken to the curate of the parish about me, and that I might go to him two hours every evening after I had done my work. He then gave me five pounds, advising me to rig myself out neatly; and he told me besides that he had spoken to some of the boatmen in the neighbourhood, who he thought were very likely to employ me if I applied to them. After a few more words of advice the good gentleman took his departure.

Now Mr Wells was a man of sound sense, and his conduct was, I have reason to know, most judicious. He saw that I was accustomed to act for myself, young as I was, and that I should have less chance of slipping off the ladder, if I mounted each ratlin by myself; and he considered that as I was of somewhat a poetical temperament, if my mind received a hot bed forcing at too early an age, I should be unfitted to struggle on in this every-day working world. Had he, as his wife recommended him, sent me to a boarding school, where I should have had everything done for me, I should probably very soon have lost that habit of dependence on my own exertions which has been the great cause of my success in life; and the routine style of education I should there have received would certainly not have compensated for the loss of the other advantage, nor would the amount of knowledge I should have gained have been in all probability in any way equal to that I obtained from my evenings’ study with the good curate, Mr Hamlin.

Depend upon it, after children are shown what is right, the sooner they are taught self-reliance the better. It is the principle I have followed out with my own, and they are now independent men, and are grateful to me for it. I began with them as soon as they were weaned; before that time I did not consider I ought to interfere with my wife. I never let one of them have a meal before he had performed some task for it, nor a new frock or jacket. Sometimes I would set a week’s work, and let them get through it as they liked, provided they had earned their food. I thus very early found out their characters, and the amount of perseverance and energy they possessed, and managed them accordingly. They all got through their work in the set time, but in different ways. One would set to work the moment he knew what he was to do, and toil away till it was completed; another would commence more leisurely, then go to some other occupation or amusement, and then return to his regular labours; a third would take the whole time to complete the undertaking, but it was invariably done well. I taught my own boys the advantages of industry, and they soon learned to like labour for itself. They have never been idle, and consequently have never been vicious.

For six or seven years I lived on with my old friends, spending all the day on the river assisting the boatmen to take care of their boats, and, as I grew bigger, in rowing, till I had saved enough money to get a share of a boat myself, while every evening that Mr Hamlin was able to receive me I paid him a visit. At the time I was fourteen my wish to go to sea, grew stronger than ever, and Mr Wells at once acceded to it, and told me that he would gladly find me a berth in one of his own vessels, for he was, what I forgot before to say, an extensive shipowner. He advised me to sell my share in the boat, and to invest the amount, with my subsequent savings, in the savings bank, telling me that he had such entire confidence in me that he would gladly advance the money for my outfit.

I was accordingly entered as an apprentice, and made my first voyage, in the good ship the Mary Jane, to the Brazils. The next was round Cape Horn to the coast of Chili and Peru, and on my return I made a trip up the Baltic. Indeed, for many years I was constantly at sea, during which time I visited various parts of the world.

When I was out of my apprenticeship I began to lay by half of my wages, and then to do a little trading on my own account, by which I made money. I at last worked my way from before the mast to the quarter-deck, and became third officer of a fine ship trading to the Cape. I probably should have become master of her in time, but on my return home I fell in love and married. My wife was young, pretty, and well educated according to my taste—that is to say, she had been brought up at home by a good sensible mother, who never thought of letting her learn to play on the piano, nor to dance, nor any accomplishment useless to one in the rank she appeared destined to fill. Her father was the owner and master of a small trader running between London and Ramsgate. After I married I made two more trips to the Cape, and on my return from the second I found my father-in-law on the point of death. He made me promise to remain at home to take care of his widow and daughter, and on these conditions made me over his vessel and the goodwill of his trade. For some years I followed this line with varied success, but I did not save much money, as my family increased rapidly, and my expenses were proportionably heavy. I lost a considerable part of my savings through the failure of my poor friend Mr Wells, in whose hands my money was placed; but I did not repine at this on my own account, for I considered that the lessons he had taught me were of far more value than the amount of my wealth, but I grieved deeply that he should be the sufferer. He was by this time an old man, and his creditors allowed him a comfortable income till his death.

Chapter Three.

The Voyage to Australia.

At length my vessel wore out, and I was compelled to build a new one. She was a fine schooner of nearly sixty tons, and was a capital sea boat. I ran her for about three years, but I found that she was almost too good for the trade she was engaged in. At this time I met with an old shipmate who had made several trips to New South Wales, or, as it was then called commonly, to Botany Bay, and he gave me glowing accounts of the success of some of the free settlers who had gone out there. This made me think about the subject and set to work to collect information from all the people I met who knew anything about the country. One and all combined in asserting that it was a very fine country, and that large fortunes were to be made in one way or another, but they chiefly spoke in praise of the fine pastures for sheep which existed. From what I could pick up, however, I surmised that the sheep in general were of a very inferior quality, and that if some of the best breeds could be introduced, not only would the colony be benefited, but the person who brought them over. For some weeks I turned the subject in my mind. I had plenty of time to think about it in my passages up and down the river when obliged to bring up for the tide, and at last I broached it to my wife, and told her that my opinion was that a far better livelihood might be made in the new country than such people as ourselves could hope for in England.

“You see how it is, my dear Martha,” I said, “for many years your good father toiled on in this trade, and though he lived comfortably and brought you up well, he saved no money; and had he met with any reverse like the loss of his vessel the case might have been different, and he might easily have been ruined. Now, although I have worked harder than he was able to do, and consequently have kept my head above water, with a large family and greater expenses, I also have saved little, and am sadly puzzled to know what to do with our boys, and I shall be unwilling to send our pretty girls out to service; yet if they do not marry I can never expect to leave enough to support them.

“I have been thinking of a hundred different ways of improving our fortune in England, but not one has occurred to me in which the risk of loss has not been too great. Thousands of families are exactly in our position, and the fathers must feel that not only have they no chance of rising in the world, but that when they die they must leave their daughters exposed to all the dangers of a life of dependence. For the boys I fear less; they will if they survive make their own way in life as I have done, and are more fitted to bear its ups and downs. Now, my dear wife, I know you would be ready to follow me to the end of the world, even if it were to penury or death, but I am not going to ask you to do that. I am going to propose to go to a far distant land, where I trust we shall not only gain wealth, but happiness and contentment, and see our family happily settled.”

My wife, as I knew she would be, was ready to enter into my views, though, as she had never been at sea further than Ramsgate, she could not help looking with some dread at the long voyage, and she had read some rather exaggerated accounts of bush-rangers and savages in Botany Bay which were enough to frighten her. I soon, however, quieted all her fears about the voyage as well as about the savages and bush-rangers, and though I did not conceal from her that there were many difficulties to be overcome, and dangers to be encountered, I pictured the future to her in the bright colours it appeared to my own imagination. My eldest boy was at sea, but we expected his return every day, and at all events I determined to wait his arrival. The two next were accustomed to sail with me in the schooner, where I did my beat to give them all the learning I had gained from the good curate, Mr Hamlin, and had since then picked up by my own exertions. Though they were still boys, they were very useful on board, and could take the helm and work the vessel as well as any grownup man. I had eight of them, four boys and four girls, and the two youngest were still children. The elder ones were delighted at my proposal,—the boy, at the thought of making a long sea voyage, of seeing strange lands, and hunting the kangaroo; the girl, at being able to accompany me and their brothers, and having to tend a farm, and live under a bright blue sky. Whether it entered into the calculation of the eldest that she might be able to pick and choose a husband from the number of young men who were certain to be on the shore with speaking-trumpets to beg her to marry them, I do not pretend to say, but it was then the case as now,—no girl could remain in the colony without being asked to wed every day in the week till she made her choice.

Having made up our minds to go, the next thing to be thought of was the way to accomplish our objects. Without hesitation, I determined to perform the voyage in my own vessel. She was a remarkably good sea boat, and a fast sailer, and for her size was very roomy. She was called by a curious coincidence the May Flower, which was the name of the vessel which carried over the first pilgrim fathers to America; and certainly, when my vessel was named, I never contemplated attempting to cross the ocean in her. Although she was under sixty tons, I considered that properly handled she was as well calculated to double the Cape as a far larger vessel, and I felt sure from what I had heard, that if I got her out safe to the colony she would fetch a high price. If, however, she was to be swamped—as my whole family and property would have gone to the bottom at the same time—there would be no one left behind to mourn our loss. I do not mean to say that I for one moment thought we should be lost, but still I knew that it was possible, and I reconciled myself to the chance with that reflection.

The first thing I did was to haul up my vessel, and to give her a thorough repair, then to refit her rigging, and to raise her bulwarks somewhat, so as to make her snugger. As she was from the first fitted so as to be easily handled, her masts were short and very stout; and as her hull was as strong as wood and iron could make it, she was in every way suited for a long sea voyage. As I had made up my mind to attempt to carry out some sheep, I divided her hold into compartments, one as a pen, another for hay and water, a third for implements of agriculture, and a few select goods which I calculated would sell well, and provisions for ourselves. In the after part of the vessel were cabins for my wife, myself, and my daughters, while the boys with the two men who formed the crew were berthed forward.

Just as my preparations were ready my eldest son returned home from sea, and delighted he was to find that his next voyage was to be made with those he loved.

I was fortunate in disposing of my house and the heavier part of my furniture to advantage, and the remainder I stowed away on board. It is extraordinary what number of things the little vessel held. There were numerous casks of water, salted meat, potatoes, bread, rice, and many other sorts of provisions for six or seven months. I had no wish to be starved; then there was the hay for the sheep, which I got pressed into very tight packages in a way since become common, and by the time the sheep came on board there was not much space to spare, I can assure you.

When all was ready for sea, my wife and I and all my children took a last farewell of the house where we had lived, and the neighbours we had known so many years, and we then went to church to pray God for a safe passage, and as soon as service was over we returned on board, and that evening dropped down the Thames. I have not yet said a word about the sheep, for I did not take them on board till afterwards. I was acquainted with a man at Hamburg who understood sheep well, and to him I had written to buy for me the two finest merino rams he could find, and four ewes of the same breed. I calculated that I could not carry hay and water for more. We had fine summer weather and a fair wind to carry us across Channel, and when I put into Hamburg to take the sheep on board, I found that my friend had not disappointed me; he had in truth selected six magnificent animals, and I felt certain that if I could carry them safely to the colony they would fetch a pretty high price. Having filled up one water-cask, we again put to sea, and were now fairly on our voyage.

We had a beautiful run down Channel, and indeed from first to last Providence watched over us, nothing went wrong, and everything prospered far more than we could have expected. My wife and daughters turned out capital sailors, and soon learned to take their turn at the helm, to relieve my boys and our two men. Both of these were characters in their way. Old Bob Hunt had sailed with me for many years in the coasting trade, and a trusty hand he was, but he knew no more of the broad seas than the child unborn, or of geography either; and when I told him that I was thinking of going out to New Holland, he asked if I expected to make the place in a week or so, as he supposed it wasn’t very far from Old Holland, where the people speak Dutch. And when I told him that the natives were as black as his shoe, and spoke a language no Christian man could understand, he would scarcely believe me.

“Never mind,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “no one shall say I deserted you because you were bound on a long voyage; if we were to be a year about getting there I would go with you. I shall leave behind no more kith nor kin than you do, so that’s settled.”

Old Bob was a capital seaman, but what is strange, he never touched liquor, nor smoked, nor over chewed tobacco. He ate, too, as little as any man I ever saw at his meals; and as for sleeping, it was difficult to find him with his eyes shut. The least noise would awake him, and if the breeze freshened up a bit he was sure to be on deck in a moment to see that all was right. He was a most invaluable hand, and worth any two other men I ever had. In spite of his age Bob was active as a monkey, and short and thin, and so occupied wonderfully little space in the small craft; which was convenient, as also for another reason, for his companion, Dick Nailor, was one of the biggest men I ever met, a perfect giant, but gentle as a lamb, and with an excellent temper. He used to say that he and Bob together only took up their fair amount of room. If Bob was never seen asleep Dick was seldom found broad awake, but he was keeping a bright look-out notwithstanding, and when roused up he was active enough, and strong as a lion. The children were very fond of him. He could take them all up in his arms and dance a hornpipe with them hanging about him, as lightly as a young lady in satin shoes.

My eldest boy, Peter, named after me, was one of the steadiest fellows I ever met. At eighteen he was second officer of a ship, and might have been entrusted with the command. I was sorry to take him away from the line he was following, and yet it was a great thing to have all my family together. He wished to come, and did not disappoint my expectation.

Mark and John, my next boys, were always together, and yet very different. Mark was one of the merriest chaps you ever saw, and up to all sorts of harmless pranks. John looked like gravity itself, but that arose from his eyes and the shape of his mouth; give him anything to laugh at and he would indeed laugh heartily. Mark was his chief object of admiration. He thought no one his equal, yet many people liked John the most. He was so humble and gentle, and never thought a thing about himself.

My eldest girl, Mary, was like her elder brother as to steadiness and discretion, just what an elder sister should be; so good-natured and kind, too, it was pleasant to see her standing all the bothering the young ones gave her without a word of complaint. It was a valuable quality in a person who was to be shut up for four or five months in a small craft with a number of youngsters. She was next to Peter in age, and then came Susan, as kind-hearted, industrious a little creature as ever lived, not very bright, but wanting to do right; and then the two boys, and then Margaret, a bright-eyed, fair child, such a little dear; then another boy, Tommy, always in a mess because he didn’t know how to keep out of one; and one more girl, Sarah Ann, and there you have the whole lot of them; they, with their mother, a good woman if any one ever deserved the name, with the two men and myself, made up the complement of the human souls embarked on board the May Flower.

Then we had a dog, Steadfast, and a cat, Duchess, the only thing of much rank aboard us; two fine cocks and ten hens for laying eggs, besides a couple of dozen other fowls, to be eaten by my wife and the girls. We had a pair of pigeons, a pair of robins and sparrows, and a hen lark—her mate died just as we were going on board—belonging to Mark and John. I don’t think we had much else. Yes, we had some primrose, violets, snowdrops, daisies, and other roots and small plants, which took up little space, to remind us of old England.

We sailed in the autumn, so as to arrive in the summer, and to get housed before the rains set in. We took our departure from Ashanto, and shaped a course for Rio Janeiro, in the Brazils, there to take in a further supply of water and fresh provisions. Thence I hoped to carry the trade wind across the Atlantic, and round the Cape, though I thought it possible that I might have to touch at the Cape, unless we had an unusually fast run, for water. You see our little craft couldn’t carry enough for ourselves and the sheep for as long a time as we could have wished, and yet you may depend on it we wasted none. I have often thought of the story of the poor Arab who, wishing to make the caliph the most valuable present in his power, took him a skin bottle full of muddy water from the desert. He, when journeying across the desert esteemed it of more value than silver, gold, or precious stones. We, too, learned how to value fresh water, and I would not have filled up my cask with wine instead of it, had I been offered the finest in the world. We were especially favoured with fine weather and a fair wind, and we made good use of our time, for every one on board was as busy as a bee from morning till night. We had prayers regularly morning and evening out of the Prayer-book, and on a Sunday I read out of Galpin’s sermons, and that the lessons it taught might not be forgotten I used to talk about them every day for the week which the Sunday began, and asked the young people questions about it. Then I set them their lessons, and Mary or Peter heard them, and they got on famously. They gave their mind to the work, do you see, and did it well.

Chapter Four.

The Rescued Stranger.

We made the Desertas off Rio without having had one day on which my wife and the children couldn’t be on deck with comfort. They were tried somewhat by the heat, for it was hot in our little cabin with the sun striking down on the deck all day, but they didn’t mind that much. I was most anxious about the sheep. I had made up my mind that we were to do great things with them, and I dreaded any of them dying. We used to have them up on deck every day to walk about, two at a time, and they all became as tame as lambs; indeed, they lived like aldermen, and grew as sleek and fat, for we kept them well washed and clean, for I couldn’t help thinking that would be conducive to their health.

It was necessary to go into Rio, but I was sorry to have to do it on one account. It is so beautiful a place that I thought my wife and daughter might think meanly of our future home after it. It is a beautiful country, with its magnificent harbour, and surrounding hills, and tropical trees and villas, and the city looks very fine till you get into it. I hoped not to be detained there more than three days, so as soon as Peter had returned from the shore where he went to order our provisions, and to learn where we could get the best water, I took my wife and Mary and the rest of the children there, that they might see what a foreign city is like.

Scarcely had we set foot on shore than we saw collected on the quay nearly two hundred black people all huddled together, men and women, young girls and boys, and little children, with hardly a rag to cover them, looking wretched and startled and wild, very little like human beings. Mary drew closer to me.

“Oh, father, what are they?” she asked.

“Those are negroes just landed from a slave ship,” said I, for in those days the Brazilians had no law against slaving. “They are on their way to a shed, to be washed, fed, and dressed a little may be, and then sent up to the slave market, where they will be sold one by one, or a lot together, just as buyers may require, as a farmer sells his sheep and cattle to a butcher or a grazier, to kill or fatten.”

“And those poor people have souls just as we have,” exclaimed Mary. “How dreadful!”

As we walked on we passed numbers of negroes grunting under heavy loads, some working for their owners, others let out to hire like beasts of burden, but none labouring for themselves. A little further on we passed a shrine, a little house open in front, with a figure in it, and ornamented with flowers, and candles burning; and some people, women and old men, were kneeling down before it, and muttering words as quickly as their lips could move, and counting on necklaces with small and large beads, and a cross at the end; and suddenly, as soon as they had done, it seemed, up they jumped, and walked on, and other people passing just made a bow and the sign of the cross, and hurried away.

“Is that an idol, father?” asked Mary; “I didn’t know these people were heathen.”

I thereon told her that the figure was that of a saint, and that the people in their ignorance had got to worship the figure instead of saying prayers to the saint, though even that to our notion was very bad, as Christ had taught us to pray to God only. I saw that my dear wife, and Mary and Susan, were greatly shocked at this, but they were to see something worse, for before long we espied a great crowd moving towards us, and we got up into a porch to avoid them. Presently there came by first some men holding up a rich silken canopy, under which walked a priest in magnificent robes all gold and silver, and he had something in his hand; and as soon as the people saw him, whites and blacks alike fell down on their knees and worshipped him, or rather, as we were afterwards told, what he carried in his hands, which was the host. This is a wafer and some wine, which the people believe is turned into the real body and blood of Christ. After him came a number of people with masks on their faces, and large cloaks on, so that they could not be known, bearing on their shoulders a huge figure of the Virgin Mary, and the infant Jesus in her arms. She was dressed in robes of silk with a crown of gold on her head, and numberless jewels glittering on her shoulders. Many other figures followed—one of Christ bearing the cross, and of various saints; and there were little boys looking like girls dressed up in pink and blue silk, and gold and silver dresses all stuck out with glittering wings; and there were big boys or priests in red and white gowns swinging censers, and others ringing bells and chanting; and lastly there came regiments of soldiers with bands playing before them, and the procession went on through a number of streets, and at last into a church, when the soldiers marched away in different directions. We were told that it was a religious procession, though we could not understand how it was to advance the cause of religion; indeed, we were particularly struck by the indifference with which all the people looked on, and those especially who walked in the procession. The men in black masks and hoods who carried the figures were, we were told, doing penance for their sins, and that they believed that they were thus washing away all the sins they had committed for the year past; they, poor people, were not told by their priests that the blood of Christ can alone cleanse men from sin. We saw many other things, some of which we admired, for the city has some fine squares, and open places, and broad streets, and handsome buildings. I need not have been afraid of my wife wishing to remain in the country, for she was in a hurry to get on board again, and declared that no money would tempt her to live among people who held their fellow-creatures in slavery, and practised such wicked mummeries and idolatries.

“No,” she exclaimed, “let me live where I can have a parish church, in which all pray and sing praises to God together in our own language, and hear a simple sermon which we can understand, reminding us of our duties, and admonishing us of our faults. That’s what I call public worship.”

“And that’s what I hope we shall get, dear wife, in time, out where we are going, but I doubt whether we have much chance of it yet,” said I; for I knew that people when they get away from England are too apt to grow careless about their church, and their religion also.

We quickly got on board our water, and fuel, and fresh provisions, and some green stuff, and hay for the sheep, and corn for the fowls. The two boys went on shore with their brothers and brought off a bowl of gold and silver fish, as they said, to make amends for the lark and one of the robins which had died. Once more the little May Flower was ploughing the ocean with her head to the east. People at Rio were very much astonished when they heard of the long voyage we were making.

“I would rather be in that little craft with a clear conscience, than in many a ship ten times her size which I have met at sea,” I answered, and it was proved that I was right.

As we were losing sight of the coast of South America, my wife, looking back at it again, expressed her thankfulness that we were not compelled to live among its inhabitants.

“But,” said I, “it’s a beautiful place, Martha. So is this world a very beautiful world, but it’s man that mars it. If man were free from sin, it would be next to heaven itself.”

For ten days or more we had a beautiful run to the eastward. I never saw the little craft go along so fast; it was difficult to believe that, with the smooth sea we now had, we were out in mid-ocean, hundreds of miles from any land.

We were in the latitude of the Cape of Good Hope, and expected to make the land in a few days, when the weather gave signs of changing. We had hitherto been greatly favoured, and I had, with the rest, begun to believe that we should escape bad weather altogether. The sea got up, and the wind went on increasing, but we got the schooner under snug canvas in good time. As we were undermanned, it was necessary to be very careful in that respect. I told my wife and children that they must look out for a regular gale, such as they had not been accustomed to, and make everything fast in the cabins. We got the sheep slung, so as to prevent them being knocked over, and then at last battened down the hatches, intending to heave the vessel to, should the gale not abate.

I had been well accustomed to face bad weather in the Channel in my little vessel, and so had my boys; and I knew well what she would do; but when they saw the heavy seas now rolling up towards us, their young cheeks turned pale with alarm. It certainly did look as if one of those heavy, moving, dark green, watery hills rising up on every side, with the spoon-drift flying from their summits, must ere long engulf us; but the tight little craft, buoyant as a cork, with her stout masts and strong new canvas, every rope well served, and not a strand even chafed, rose up, and then sunk down the steep slopes into the wide valleys between the seas, not one breaking aboard us, though we were every now and then pretty well blinded with the showers of spray which drove across the deck. Still we could not tell what might happen, and the time was an anxious one. At last, when I found how beautifully the schooner was behaving, I determined to call my wife and daughters up, that they might witness a sight which I certainly hoped they might never have to look on again. I slid back the companion hatch and called them. My wife would not venture to move, but Mary and Susan came up. They stood for a minute or more with their eyes opening and very pale; Mary holding my arm, Susan her brother’s.

“I called you girls to show you what the ocean is like sometimes, happily not very often.”

Mary continued silent for some time. At last she gasped out, “Oh, father, what nothings we are!”

“That’s what many a seaman feels, even on board a line-of-battle ship, when in a sea like this, though he doesn’t say it,” I remarked. “Yes, Mary, we are indeed nothing, but we are in the hands of God, and He it is with His wise laws governs the movement of every one of those vast mountain billows. Let but one of them in our track go out of its course, and this little craft, ay, and the biggest afloat, would be utterly overwhelmed and driven down by the tremendous weight of water which would fall over her.”

Mary stood gazing, lost in wonder, and not a little fear also, and unable to speak. However, when I proposed her going below again, she was very unwilling to quit the deck. “I shall dream of this for many a night,” she said.

While I was speaking, I caught sight of a sail to the eastward. I looked for her again, as we rose to the top of the next sea, and pointed her out to Peter. “Yes, father, sure enough there is a sail, and a large craft too, though she has but little canvas set: we are nearing her, I fancy.”

The stranger was, however, nearing us, and as we occasionally got a glimpse of her through our glasses, we saw that she had carried away her main-topmast and mizzenmast, and that she was labouring much, running before the wind with only a close-reefed fore-topsail set. As far as we could judge she looked indeed in some distress. On she came towards us. The wind now again increased, and the seas became more dangerous. Fearing that one might break over us, I sent Mary and Susan and the boys below again, and secured the hatches over them; which done, we passed life lines fore and aft, to give us a holdfast in case of accidents. The stranger drew nearer and nearer. We now saw how deep she was in the water, and how terribly she was labouring. I watched her with double anxiety, on her account as well as on our own. In another ten minutes she would be down upon us, and from the course she was steering, it would be a miracle if we escaped destruction. Just then a signal of distress was run up, but the flag was instantly blown away, and the next minute she gave a plunge forward, and before she rose her remaining mast went over the bows, where the spars hung seemingly engaged in battering them in. Scarcely had this occurred than she broached to, and lay like a helpless log in the trough of the seas. Still she was fearfully near, and I was far from satisfied that she would not drive down upon us, and if so, inevitably with one touch send us to the bottom. Our only chance of escape was to make sail, but the alternative was a dangerous one. I was preparing to do this when we saw those on board stretching out their hands towards us imploring help. It was a piteous sight, for none could we afford, and all her own boats had, we saw, been washed away. Now, as we mounted to the summit of a sea, she began, it seemed, to climb up another watery height, but a still vaster billow came rolling on, and thundering over her deck; down she went beneath it, and the next moment, when we looked, not a trace of her was to be seen except a few planks and spars, which rose to the surface out of the vortex she formed as she sank. Yes, as we continued to gaze, between us and where she had been floated a grating, and to it clung a human form. He was alive, for he turned his head towards us, as if beseeching us to save him. It is strange that we felt more eager to do so than we had been to save all the poor beings who had just gone down before our eyes. The reason was plain; in the first instance we knew that we could not help them; there seemed a possibility that we might rescue the person now floating so close to us. He was being cast by the sea nearer and nearer to us. We got ropes ready at either end of the vessel to heave to him. Peter fastened one round his own waist. “Take care, Peter,” said I.

“He may not be able to seize a rope, father, as he drives by, and I may have a chance of getting hold of him,” he answered.

I couldn’t deny him, but I trembled for my son’s safety; still, when a right thing is to be done, when life is to be saved, we must not be too nice about calculating the loss we may suffer. Now we thought that the stranger would be driven away from us, now again he was washed towards the schooner; if our feelings of anxiety were intense, how much greater must his have been? Now he appeared on the foaming summit of a sea far above us, then he went sinking down deep into the gulf below. Truly there seemed to be a power above guiding him. I can have no doubt there was. Suddenly a sea drove him close to the schooner; I thought for a moment that it would have actually washed him on board. “Hold on,” cried Peter, springing into the foaming water; and before the drowning man was carried away again he had grasped him by the shoulders, the man still holding to the raft. Thus together they were towed alongside, and Peter holding on to the man with a strength which I scarcely supposed he possessed, they were hauled up on deck. The stranger immediately fainted, and Peter was in a very little better condition for a short time; however, he soon recovered. The stranger we took below, and by rubbing his body with hot flannels, putting bags of sand made hot to his feet and hands, and pouring a little weak brandy and water down his throat, he at length, to our great satisfaction, came round. He remained in bed all that day and the next, and I wouldn’t let him say anything, not even to tell us who he was, greatly to the disappointment of my wife and daughters, who were naturally curious to know.

Chapter Five.

Charley White.

One thought the stranger was a cabin passenger—another, an officer of the ship—another, a seaman; and Mary observed, that supposing he was a steerage passenger without a farthing in the world, it was equally our duty to take the best care we could of him.

“I hope that he isn’t quite a gentleman,” said Susan, “because, if he is, he’ll be thinking himself above us.”

“Not if he has right feeling,” remarked Mary. “I cannot see why we should fancy that people are always considering whether they are above or below each other, or better or worse than one another. I know that the Bible tells us to consider each person better than ourselves, and, in another place, not to mind high things, but to condescend to men of low estate. If people obeyed that rule, there wouldn’t be the disputes and quarrels there are between neighbours. I wonder if we shall find that sort of thing out in Australia.”

“I am afraid that a voyage half round the world won’t change people’s hearts,” said I; “the only difference is, that people have so much to do and think of, they have no time to attend to the private concerns of others; and so I hope that they keep on good terms at all events with their neighbours.”

“Do you think, father, that a voyage quite round the world, or twice round, would change a man’s heart?” asked John; “I should think it ought.”

“No, John, I am very certain that it would not,” remarked his mother, now first joining in the conversation; “there is but one way by which a man’s heart can change, and that is through God’s Holy Spirit, to be obtained through His grace by earnest prayer.”

My wife knew the truth, and showed that she did, not only by her words but by her life.

“Well, sisters, to relieve your minds about the young stranger whom I hauled out of the water,” said Peter; “I’m pretty certain that he is a gentleman, judging by a few words he uttered as I caught hold of him. His first object seemed to be to thank me for the risk I was running to save him. However, we shall see.”

The young stranger recovered sufficiently to talk without risk before the gale was over, and he then told us that his name was Charles White, that he was fourth officer of the ship we had seen go down—a homeward bound Indiaman—that he was an orphan, with very few friends in England or anywhere else; “Indeed,” he added, “had I shared the fate of my shipmates, there would have been but a small quantity of salt tears shed or crape worn for me; but I am wrong,—there is one who would have mourned for me; oh, if you knew her, such a good creature—Aunt Priscilla; she was my mother’s aunt; she has never married; Miss Beamish she is called. I believe that I am the only human male-being she cares for, except two tom cats and a dog, and one of them isn’t a tom; at least, it had kittens, and they are not human either. Whenever I go home, I always go and see Aunt Priscilla, and carry her all sorts of things, and feed the cats, and take the little dog out to walk; but when I went, I never intended to stay there long, because, you see, she and I are not much of companions to each other, and yet, somehow or other, what with telling her my adventures, and reading to her, and playing backgammon and such like things, we used to get on wonderfully well together. Then my coming was always a signal for her to give a series of tea-parties; they were not very large ones, because her room wouldn’t hold many people at a time, and then I used to have to tell my stories to each set of guests. Aunt Priscilla was never tired of listening to them, and I found out by the way she corrected me if I made the slightest variation. I had, therefore, to be very particular the first time I told a story, so that I might not afterwards be caught tripping. Yes; dear, good Aunt Priscilla, I am sure that she will be anxious when she finds that the old tea-chest hasn’t arrived at the time expected. There’s one comfort, I shall be able to give her notice of my safety before she hears positively of the fate of the ship.”

Though Charley White did not talk of himself, I was able to form a very fair judgment of his character from the way he spoke of the old lady, and I found afterwards that I was correct. We found him a very pleasant addition to our family party on board, and I soon got to look on him like one of my own sons; he was, besides, of great assistance to us in navigating the little schooner. The gale at length ceased, and we stood for Table Bay. I was afraid of venturing the run across the Indian Ocean without landing at Cape Town, lest we might get short of water; a want, which besides exposing us to suffering, would have caused the destruction of all our sheep. We remained but a few days at Cape Town. Charley White wrote home an account of the loss of the ship, and sent a letter to his Aunt Priscilla assuring her of his safety. I expected, and thought of it with much regret, that he would here leave us. I invited him, however, to cast in his fortunes with ours, and without hesitation, much to the satisfaction of all our party, he accepted my offer. “You know,” he said, “when we get settled, I can send home for Aunt Priscilla, or go and fetch her, and I think that she would like the life. It would be much more satisfactory than her round of tea-parties, and give her something to think of besides her cats and dog, and I am sure that you would all like her.”

We of course said that we had no doubt we should, though Susan remarked afterwards, that a real lady, as she supposed she was, from her giving tea-parties and having two cats and a poodle, would scarcely like to come out and live in the bush with such homely people as we were. I will tell you by and by what came of it.

The people at the Cape, when they saw the size of the May Flower and the way she was laden, were surprised at our having come so far in safety, and some chose to declare that we should never reach the end of our voyage. I replied that they did not know the qualities of the little craft; that many a big ship had gone down when small ones had floated; that it was not so much the size of a vessel as the way she was put together, and the quality of her gear, which made her safe or unsafe, and moreover, that the same Providence which had protected us hitherto was not sleeping. That was the feeling which kept me up from first to last throughout our undertaking.

We heard at the Cape some news which gave me more concern than anything else. It was, that war was again about to break out between England and France, and that as many other nations were likely to be leagued with France in arms against our country, we should have no small number of enemies among whom to run the gauntlet. My chief hope was that we should arrive at our destination before the news of the actual commencement of hostilities could reach the enemy’s cruisers in the Eastern seas. One thing, however, I remembered; it was, that bad news travels fast, and I have come to the conclusion that no news is worse than that which tells of two civilised nations going to war.

Earthquakes, fires, floods, disasters at sea, are very bad; but war means that thousands of the flowers of manhood are to be cut down in their prime, or maimed, or wounded; that numbers of children are to be made orphans; wives are to become widows; and fruitful lands laid desolate. Such is war; ah! such is war.

I had made up my mind to go on to Australia, though I had many tempting offers to remain at the Cape. I daresay that we should have found a happy home there, and it is a fine colony; but I have reason to be thankful that we persevered. My children enjoyed their visit to the shore, and the fresh bread and butter, and the fruit and vegetables; but after all, they said that there was nothing like home (meaning the little schooner), and they were glad to get back to her, thus showing that they were not tired of the voyage. Our old dog, Steadfast, made himself particularly happy, frisking and scampering about in every conceivable manner, till he looked, the children said, as if he would tumble to pieces in the exuberance of his spirits. They tried to induce our cat, the Duchess, to accompany them, but she had learned to look on the schooner as her home and wouldn’t go. Whenever they tried to catch her, she ran up the rigging, though on other occasions she allowed them to handle her as much as they liked. Curious as it may seem, the circumstance had a great effect on Bob Hunt and Dick Nailor, who were, like many seamen, very superstitious.

“She knows it’s all right aboard here, and that we shan’t come to no harm,” observed Bob to his mate.

“Oh, course,” answered Dick; “I never knowed a cat stick to a ship, if she could get away, which was to go down. They are wonderful wise creatures, and knows all sorts of things as is going to happen. To be sure they can scratch a bit when they fancies.”

Cats will certainly stick to vessels whether they are to be wrecked or not. I remember falling in with an abandoned ship, the only living thing on board being a cat; we took her off, and the vessel soon afterwards went to pieces.

Once more we were at sea. A westerly wind, which I was afraid we might lose if we stood to the southward, induced me to run along the coast closer in than I might otherwise have ventured. The weather had hitherto been very fine, and I persuaded myself that there was no risk. I was wrong. Suddenly, the wind shifted to the southwest of west, and blowing strong, and though we hauled up immediately, before we got a good offing it blew a strong gale from the southward directly on shore, and a heavy rolling sea came tumbling in. We could not venture to heave to, and yet there was more sea and wind than the little craft could well bear. All we could do was to keep sail on her, and to steer as close to the wind as she would lie. I watched the coast with deep anxiety, and couldn’t help feeling that the foaming, raging waters, which now dashed impetuously against it, might prove my grave and that of all dear to me.

Of course my son and Charley White and the two seamen saw our danger as clearly as I did, but we did not communicate our ideas to each other, and I was anxious not to alarm my dear wife and daughters. The little craft looked up bravely however, and my hopes revived; again they sank, for the gale came down stronger than ever on us, and I saw that we were driving closer and closer towards the shore. A large ship might possibly, by cutting away her masts have ridden out the gale at her anchors; we, had we made the attempt, should have foundered. My wife and Mary and Susan had one after the other appeared at the companion hatch, and with pale faces, as they saw the state of things, had gone below again. I hadn’t the heart even to tell them my fears. Bob Hunt and Dick Nailor took matters very coolly.

“The Duchess don’t think anything will come of it,” observed Bob to Dick, pointing to the cat who was sitting on a coil of rope on the head of a water cask lashed to the weather bulwarks.

“May be not, but she may be mistaken once in a way, Bob,” answered Dick, who, seeing the imminent danger in which we were placed, lost his confidence in the fore-knowledge of the cat.

From what may sound ridiculous, but was not really so, I must turn to a more serious matter. I suspected that my wife and daughters knew our danger, though I had not told them of it.

We had driven still nearer to the land, and wishing to ascertain exactly on what part of the coast we were, that I might, if possible, run the vessel on shore on some spot where we might have a chance of saving our lives I went below to examine the chart.

Chapter Six.

In Smooth Water.

The cabin was very dark, from the skylight being covered over and battened down. The schooner was however so tight and strong, that provided the hatches were on, I knew that she might almost roll over and over, and yet not fill. This gave me great confidence as long as we kept to the open sea; but driven on rocks or quicksands, with such a gale as was then blowing, there could have been no hope for the stoutest ship that ever floated on the salt ocean. As I was saying, I went into the cabin; although gloomy enough on deck, it was still darker below; for the gleam of light which came down the companion-hatch scarcely found its way beyond the foot of the ladder. I looked about me, and at first thought that my wife and daughters had, in their terror, turned into their berths; but soon, amid the creaking of the bulkheads, and the rattling of the rigging, and the roaring of the storm, a gentle, sweet voice reached my ears. It was that of my daughter Susan. She had not heard me enter. She was on her knees praying, so were her mother and sisters, all round the table in the cabin. She was lifting up her voice to our loving, merciful Father in Heaven;—to the same God who stilled the raging of the storm on Gennesaret, and said to the sea, “Peace, be still.” She was praying, dear girl, for me especially, that I might be preserved, even though the vessel were dashed to pieces; but, that if it was His will, that the schooner and all on board might be saved.

I cannot tell you how much confidence the prayer of that dear child gave me; I am sure—I was then sure—that God hears such prayers. The rest of the family too had been praying; they were not prayers forced out by fear, but just such trusting, hopeful prayers as God loves to honour. I stood for a few moments till Susan ceased, and when she did, I uttered a low “Amen.” The dear ones heard me, and looked up, but did not rise from their knees; indeed, the vessel was tumbling about so much, that it was with difficulty they could hold on. I told them what I was come down for, and striking a light, I took down my chart from the beckets in which it hung, and spread it out on the table. I anxiously marked down the position in which, by my calculations, I believed the schooner then was. A league or more to the eastward there was, I found, an island with a bay inside it, affording anchorage for small vessels. For a large ship it would have been utterly useless. Here, again, was an advantage which my humble little schooner possessed over a bigger craft. Giving a parting kiss to my wife and daughters, I leaped again on deck.

It was a question whether we should be able to keep off the shore till we could reach the island. I could see the surf breaking furiously on the rocks to leeward, and the gale blew as heavily as ever. A slight shift of wind might save us. If the wind held as it then did, I had no hopes for the little May Flower.

The day was drawing to a close. Every instant the danger increased. The gale, instead of breaking, raged more furiously than ever. Closer and closer the schooner drifted towards the shore. It would have been madness to carry more sail; for already her lee bulwarks were under water, and yet I dared not take any off her with the slightest hopes of being able to claw off shore. The seas came breaking on board, deluging our decks, and, had not the hatches been firmly secured, would quickly have swamped us. I was at the helm, with Charley White by my side, my boys and the two men having lashed themselves to the weather rigging. No one appeared to be terror-stricken, and yet the youngest, as well as old Bob Hunt, knew perfectly well that there was every probability of our being in a few short minutes overwhelmed among the foaming breakers under our lee. Anxiously I looked out for the island; and the wind blew fiercer and fiercer.

Suddenly there was a lull; but it was of no advantage to us, as the huge rollers were literally throwing us rapidly towards the rocks. Again the gale came down on us, but its direction was altered. It blew nearer from the westward, by several points, than it had before done. Already the schooner was heading off from the shore, but very slowly; and I was doubtful how far she would make way against the rollers, which sent her bodily back towards it. Still there was hope, and I could venture to slide back the hatch and to sing out to the dear ones below that the wind had changed. “Thank God for His mercy,” was the reply from below, for I had speedily to shut the hatch again. Just afterwards I saw an opening in the land to the westward, and I knew that it must be the passage between the island and the main. There was a hillock and a peculiar rock, which prevented me from having any doubt about the matter. What a comfort to feel sure that we were steering a right course for a safe harbour! I could now venture to keep away again a little.

The entrance to the sound became more and more distinct as we advanced. The various landmarks noted in the chart, appeared one after the other, and in half an hour we ran into a beautiful little harbour, with the water as smooth as a mill-pond. Our first care, directly the anchor was dropped, was to take off the hatches and give air to our poor sheep. The boys jumped below to ascertain if they had suffered.

“All the animals are alive,” they cried out; “but send us down a bucket of water.” The creatures sucked it up quickly. They probably would not have held out many hours longer; but we lifted them up, two at a time, on deck, and the fresh air soon revived them. We had only just light enough to see our way into the harbour, but we hoped in the morning to get on shore and to cut some grass, which would do them more good than the fresh air.

I should have said that directly we were in smooth water my wife and daughters came on deck, and, as they gazed on the sheltering shore under which we were running, they lifted up their hands in earnest thankfulness to that merciful God who had brought us into a haven of rest.

On sounding the well, we found that, notwithstanding all the tossing we had gone through, the stout little craft had not made a drop of water. We spent two very busy days in Refuge harbour, cutting grass and wood, and filling up our water casks. All this time no natives were seen. There are indeed but few on that part of the coast. Short-sighted mortals that we are—we had been inclined to complain of our detention, but we had reason to be thankful that we had gone into Refuge harbour.

As soon as we had filled up with wood and water, we got under weigh, and stood out through the eastern end of the sound. Before, however, we had got from under the shelter of the island—a long, low sandy point intervening between us and the ocean—we saw to the southward a dark bank of clouds coming, like an army in close rank, rapidly up towards us.

The breeze was light, and the sea comparatively calm, but underneath the cloud there came a line of white foam, beyond which the whole ocean seemed a mass of tossing seas. I knew what to expect, and, going about, stood back to our snug little bay. Scarcely had we dropped our anchor and furled sails than the hurricane burst above the island, and we could see the breakers dashing furiously on the opposite shore. For nearly three days the tempest—one of the most violent ever known on that coast—continued raging. Many a big ship went down, and many a stout one was cast upon the rooks and dashed to pieces.

We waited—grateful for our escape—till the wind moderated and the sea went down, and then once again sailed for our final destination. In our small vessel we had to economise fresh water, fodder for the animals, and fuel; and it was very important that we should have a quick passage. We had, therefore, again filled up with those necessary articles, and in every corner we had stowed away all the fresh grass we could cut. This, mixed with the hay, kept the sheep in excellent condition. We had ere long to be thankful that we had not neglected to prepare for all contingencies.

Chapter Seven.

Fresh Water.

We had for some time very fine weather, which confirmed Bob Hunt in his opinion that the cat, Duchess, was as wise as he had at first believed.

“She knowed it,” he observed, looking sagaciously at Dick Nailor, who was sitting on the capstan with his arms folded across his broad chest, looking out ahead, “she knowed it, and she’ll stick by this craft till we get safe into Port Jackson, you’ll see that.”

“As to that, I see that the cat is there, and that our little craft is afloat, and every prospect of remaining so!” answered Dick. It was seldom he uttered so long an expression. “You don’t even say that the cat has had any hand in keeping her afloat; and to my mind, it’s just this: she found the craft tight and wholesome, she was fond of us, and she saw that we didn’t leave her, and so she didn’t. No, no, Bob, the old Duchess had nothing to do with the matter. There’s one aloft who took care of us, and if the cat had fallen overboard, or gone ashore and been left behind, it would have made no manner of difference.”

“Then, I suppose you mean to say that there is no such person as the Flying Dutchman?” observed Bob; “everybody who has rounded the Cape has heard of him.”

“There might have been some villain of a Dutchman who swore that he’d beat about the seas till the Day of Judgment; but depend on it, if he ever did utter such an oath, he’s gone to answer for it long ago—far away from this world,” said Dick Nailor, solemnly. “I’ve heard many, many men talk of the Flying Dutchman, but I never yet met with one who had seen him.”

Neither had Bob Hunt, and so he had nothing to answer to this—indeed, talkative as he was, he always had to knock under to Dick’s sturdy, matter-of-fact arguments, or to his pertinacious silence, if no argument was forthcoming.

The quaint fellow would fold his arms, sit down, and look a picture of stolidity.

I have not said much about how my children passed their time during the voyage. The boys were generally employed in sailing the vessel, or about the rigging; for my object was not only to keep the vessel in good order during the voyage, but to take her into Port Jackson looking as fresh as I could. However, the boys had time to practice writing and to study their books, and both Peter and Charles White were able to help them. The girls had plenty of work to do, as my wife had laid in a store of all sorts of things to make up. They also were not idle with regard to their books; and they had several pleasant ones to read. I found also that Charley White was very happy to help them forward in their studies, and Susan took it into her head that she should very much like to learn navigation. She, however, gave up that idea, and took to singing, as Charley, who knew something about music, thought he could help her, and it was likely to prove a more amusing study, and quite as useful to her. I may safely say that no one was idle on board; and what is more, that not a real quarrel, and scarcely a dispute of any sort occurred among the inhabitants of our little world. If one differed in opinion from another, it was always good naturedly, and all discussions were finished amicably. People in families on shore would always be able to do the same if they kept a watch over their tempers, and did not allow envy, jealousy, and pride to spring up and hold dominion in their hearts.

Our tempers were occasionally tried. When within a week’s sail of the western shores of Australia the wind fell to a dead calm. The sea was smooth as glass, and the hot sun came down with fearful force on our heads, while the reflection of his rays from the glittering sea almost blinded our eyes. Long as I had ploughed the salt ocean, I had never felt the heat greater. For two or three days it was endurable, but after that every one began to complain; even Duchess looked out for a shady place, under the sail or bulwarks, to lie down in, and poor Steadfast went panting about the deck with his tongue out, the fowls hung down their heads, and the merry robins and sparrows ceased to chirp. If a chip or a feather was thrown overboard, it lay motionless alongside, though the schooner herself kept moving round, with her head towards all the points of the compass.

The heat created a violent thirst: everybody was thirsty—the men, my children, my wife and I, and the poor animals; they required water more than we did, for they got no moisture out of the packed hay. We gave them as much as we dared, and, as soon as the sun was down, had them on deck to give them fresh air.

We were not alone in our misfortunes, however, for when the sun rose, on the first morning of the calm, his rays fell on the white canvas of a ship, just rising out of the western horizon. After some time she disappeared, either because her sails had been clewed up, or that she was too far off to be seen unless the sun was shining directly on them. We had many discussions as to what she was. I need scarcely say that she caused us no little uneasiness.

Still the calm continued. Day after day the sun went down in the calm ocean, and rose again to cast a ruddy glow over its mirror-like surface, and there in the distance lay the stranger, though only sharp eyes could have detected her.

I began to be very anxious about the sheep. The success of the undertaking depended in a great measure on their being kept alive, still, we had to put them on an allowance, as we had ourselves. Little Margaret and Tommy couldn’t understand why they shouldn’t have as much water as they wanted, when there was plenty alongside. They could not understand that salt water was worse than no water at all; nor could the poor sheep, probably, when they were brought up on deck, and gazed out on the glittering ocean around them.

When matters had come to this pass, I began for the first time to lose heart. I was sitting with my head bowed down, resting on my hand, when my boy Peter said to me— “Father I have an idea—I have heard that fresh water may be got out of salt, and I think I can manage it, if you do not mind expending our fuel.”

These words restored my spirits. We had laid in a large supply of fuel at the Cape; water was of more consequence than anything else. It would be better to break up all the spare cases, and even the bulkheads and cabin furniture, than to go without it. Peter soon explained his plan; I agreed to try it. We, after a search among the cargo, found two large camp kettles. Soldering down their lids, we bored a hole in the top of one and in the side of the other, and joined the two with a piece of piping, three feet long. The one with a hole in the top we placed on the fire. We fitted a funnel to the spout, through which we poured in water; the other kettle was fixed on a stand, and we soldered a small pipe in at the bottom. Above the outside kettle we slung a bucket full of water also, with a small pipe in it, and the top of the kettle we covered over with cloths, which, by the means of the bucket, were kept constantly wet. The kettle on the fire was filled, the fire blazed up, and, as the water boiled, we watched with anxiety the result of the process. Some drops at length fell from the lower kettle, and a jug was ready to catch them. Peter eagerly poured the water into a mug, and, putting it to his lips, with a triumphant smile passed it round to us all. It was deliciously cool and perfectly sweet. It now came pouring out quickly, and we got up an empty cask to contain it. We all knelt down and thanked God that we had obtained the means for sustaining life, should our supply of water altogether fail. It took a long time, and used up a large quantity of fuel to produce even a gallon of fresh water, yet a gallon was sufficient liquid for everybody on board for a couple of days, and we might thus give a larger share to the sheep.

You might not think so, but the gale off the Cape did not cause me as much anxiety as this long calm. I ought, I confess, to have remembered that in both instances God was watching over us. In the one, I trusted to my stout little craft and my seamanship; in the other, my seamanship was of no avail—the stoutest ship would not have prevented all on board dying a frightful death had the calm continued. Here was my human folly: on both occasions, had I thrown all my care on God, I should have saved myself from all the anxiety I had suffered. This was increased by the uncertainty I felt as to the character of the sail we saw in the distance. I was in my own mind persuaded that she was a French privateer, and if we were discovered, her boats would probably pay us a visit, even if she did not.

We were all seated languidly about on the deck, under an awning rigged to give us some shade, when Peter started up, exclaiming, “There comes the breeze.” Some downy feathers, fastened by a silk thread to the after backstay, had, he thought, moved for a moment though the vane quickly dropped again. We were speedily on foot, but the first glance at the glowing, tranquil ocean, like some huge mirror on which we were resting, made me fear that my son had been mistaken. I shook my head, and a sigh escaped from several of our party, as they sank down again on their seats. Just then, however, I caught sight of a light cat’s-paw skimming over the water in the distance, and Peter, springing at the same moment into the rigging and pointing westward, exclaimed, “Here it comes, father, no mistake about it now.” I followed him up the rigging, and saw in the far west a wide-extending dark blue line moving quickly on towards us. Peter and I sprang back on deck, got the awning stowed, the head sails set, and the big square-sail ready for hoisting. The cat’s-paws came thicker and thicker, the dark blue line increasing in width, till in a short time we were staggering away before as brisk a breeze as the little craft could desire. All languor quickly vanished, and we served out an additional supply of water to our poor sheep. My anxiety, however, did not cease, for just afterwards, as I was sweeping the horizon with my telescope, I saw, rising above it, the royals of a square-rigged ship, the same, I concluded, which I had seen at the commencement of the calm. She might be a friend, or an English ship, and be ready to supply us with any necessaries we might require: but I had taken it into my head that she was an enemy, and I could not tell to what treatment we might be subjected. Sometimes French officers behaved very kindly to passengers captured by them, but during the republican period many of those in command were brutal men, who outraged all the laws of humanity when they got the crews and passengers of an English ship into their power. I, of course, said nothing of this to my wife or children. I, however consulted with Charley White and Peter, and we agreed that it would be more prudent to alter our course to the northward for a few hours, so as to allow the ship to pass us during the night. Though we were not now visible to her, when the sun came to set in the west she would have got so far nearer to us that his rays falling on our canvas, we should be probably seen from her tops.

This plan we followed. Charley White had become even more anxious than I was, and he was constantly going aloft to watch the stranger. Half an hour before sunset, we could see half way down her topsails from the deck. Though they looked no bigger than a small pocket handkerchief, the sharp eyes of my girls caught sight of them, and seemed much surprised that we were not eager to speak with the stranger. I was very glad when darkness hid us, as I hoped, from her. We arranged, however, to keep a bright look out all night, and to furl everything, should she pass near us, so as to escape observation. Charley and Peter kept a watch together. They insisted on my turning in after my first watch was over, and in truth I could leave the vessel in their care with as much confidence as if I had her myself.

Chapter Eight.

A Joyful Discovery.

More than once I saw in my dreams a big ship closing rapidly with us and the French flag run up at the main, and a voice ordering us to heave to. We were all to be made prisoners; horrible would be the fate of those dearest to me. I started up in a cold perspiration, though the weather was hot enough as may be supposed.

There was scarcely a sound except the rippling of the water against the vessel’s side, the breathing of those sleeping round me in our little cabin, and the tread of Peter’s feet overhead. Charley was at the helm I guessed. He said something, and then they both burst into a merry laugh. “All’s right,” I thought to myself, “I know why I had that uncomfortable dream. I was over anxious. I ought, having done my best, to have thrown all my care and anxiety on God; knowing that He cares for me and those dear to me.” I got out of bed, knelt down, and prayed, and when I lay down again I slept as soundly as I had ever done in my life. Awaking at daylight, I went on deck to relieve the young men. No sail was in sight. Once more we put the schooner on her proper course. I proposed touching on the western or southern coast of Australia for the sake of obtaining grass or hay for the sheep, and water and fuel. We had found the importance of having a good supply of fuel. I was no longer anxious about the stranger, but still I knew that if he was bound in the same direction that we were, owing to the uncertain winds and calms, we might very possibly again fall in with him. Still, he might after all be a friend. I would banish the subject from my mind. I did so. In the next week we had fine weather and a fair breeze, till the land, stretching away in the north, blue and indistinct, was seen on our larboard bow. We hauled up for it till we got near enough to distinguish objects on shore. I cannot say that the appearance of that part of the new country which was to be our future home was at all attractive. Backs and sand-hills, and slight elevations covered with dark green trees, were the only objects we could discern. We could obtain plenty of wood, but that we could find any water in that dry looking country seemed very doubtful, even if we could manage to land. We had all been so eagerly watching the coast, that for a long time no one had turned their eyes to the southward; Mary, happening to do so, exclaimed, “Father, there’s a sail in the horizon no bigger than my hand, but I see it clearly.”

Charley, on hearing this, sprang aloft with his glass. He quickly returned, and quietly remarked to me, “A ship standing in for the land, not unlike our friend of last week.”

I agreed with him it would be prudent to avoid her. The best way to do this was to stand close in, so that our masts should not appear above the land. The shore was here higher and more broken than that which we had before passed.

The stranger was drawing near, and judging from the cut of his sails I had little doubt that he was a Frenchman. Whether or not he saw us it was hard to say; I was afraid he did, as he was steering a course which would inevitably cut us off. I still did not like to communicate my fears to my wife and daughters. It must be done soon I felt, for the nearer the stranger drew the more convinced I was that he was French. While we were watching our supposed enemy we did not neglect to look out for a place of refuge, and we kept scanning the coast anxiously for any opening into which we might run to hide ourselves. My wife and daughters suspected, from what they observed, that I did not like the look of the stranger; and when at last I saw that it was no use concealing from them what I suspected, Mary, I think it was, proposed loading the boats with as many necessaries as they could carry, running close in, and, having deserted the vessel, hiding ourselves in the woods till our enemies had gone away.

Her sisters chimed in, and thought that it would not be at all unpleasant to picnic in the woods for a few days, or perhaps settle there altogether. They little dreamed of the inhospitable character of that part of the country; still I would say nothing to damp their courage. The breeze was fresh and from the south-west, and though it brought up the stranger, it enabled us to stand close in shore with less danger than if the wind had been dead on it. As far as we could judge, there was no opening to indicate a harbour or shelter of any sort. The big ship was approaching rapidly; I felt as if we were caught in a trap. We had no choice now but to stand on; the wind was too much to the westward to allow us to retrace our course, and so double on the stranger. I thought by this time that we must be seen. We were small, that was one thing; and another was, probably, that no one was looking for us. If not seen now, we should be in a few minutes; of that I felt sure. Again and again I examined the strange vessel, and became more and more convinced that if not a government ship she was worse; one of the large privateers which were known to infest the Indian seas, and which occasionally made excursions to other regions. They were generally commanded by ruffians, and manned with desperadoes of all nations—the scourings of the French galleys. To fall into such hands would be worse than death. I cannot tell you what fearful suggestions were offered to my mind. To run the vessel in among the breakers, to scuttle her, to set her on fire; anything seemed better than being taken.

We stood on; the atmosphere was so clear that it seemed impossible to escape the observation of the stranger. Just then a line of white foam appeared almost ahead. It was, I judged, a reef extending from the shore. Hauling round it, I observed an indentation in the coast, the first we had seen in that long, unbroken line of sandy shore. I steered towards it; an opening appeared; the lead was kept going; the wind favoured us; we shortened sail, and in a few minutes brought up within a high woody point, completely concealed from any vessel passing even close outside. As soon as the canvas was made snug, Charley and the boys hurried on shore to watch the strange ship. I followed them. She was steering it seemed for the very end of the reef. It struck me that perhaps she was looking for the very harbour in which we had brought up. If so, after all our efforts to escape, we should fall into her power. She drew closer and closer. Could the entrance of our harbour be seen from her deck?

“She is a good way to the eastward of the reef,” observed Charley. “Her lead is going; she intends to bring up; she is looking for a harbour, and probably this one.”

“She has missed it, though,” observed Peter, “see, she is standing on to the eastward.”

We remained on the height to which we had climbed, so hidden among the trees, that even if glasses had been directed towards us we should not have been seen. The stranger stood on for about three miles, and then, furling sails, brought up at the entrance of what we thought was perhaps a harbour, from the appearance of the land about it. Our hope was that she would send her boats to examine the harbour, and that if she went in we might put to sea late in the evening and escape her. We were, however, pretty safe in our present position, and we determined to profit by it.

We divided for this purpose into three parties: one to search for water, another to land the sheep, and a third to cut wood.

Charley and I set off to look for water. No signs were to be seen near where we landed. To the west the country looked especially barren, and we therefore agreed to go towards the east, although it was in the direction where the Frenchmen were supposed to be. We first explored the shore of the harbour, but found no stream running into it. Indeed it was a mere inlet of the sea and of small extent.

An old settler would have had far less difficulty than we experienced in discovering water, because he would have known exactly the sort of trees to look out for, such as grow only on the banks of streams or water holes.

“What a fearfully arid country this is,” I observed to Charley, “I hope the part we are going to is not like it.”

We were about to turn back in despair, when my companion, who was a little ahead, exclaimed that he saw some water just below us. We were not long in reaching a pure and clear pool or water-hole. We slaked our own thirst, but it was a long way to bring our sheep, while it would have been nearly impossible to fill our casks from it. We discovered, however, that water ran into it, therefore it must have an outlet. This we discovered, and traced it down towards the sea. Great was our pleasure to find that it ran into a small harbour, where we could quickly fill our casks. We hastened back, and trusting to be able to obtain as much as we required, brought a supply for the sheep from the vessel. We had as yet seen no natives; indeed, from the barren nature of the country, I could scarcely believe that any could exist there.

There were animals, however, for at night the boys, who were watching over the sheep, saw a creature approaching stealthily.

Mark fired, but missed, and then made chase. The creature got off, leaving some traces of blood seen in the morning. It was a dingo, or native dog. Early next day, the weather being very fine, we went in the boat with the casks to the small harbour we had discovered. We had brought some wooden pipes, and by placing them a little way up the stream, we were able to conduct the water so as to fall over a rock directly into the casks. While the boys were filling them, I climbed to a height at the mouth of the harbour. There the masts of the French ship were plainly discernible. This did not give me much concern, but directly afterwards I perceived, through my glass, a party of men coming along the beach and rapidly approaching us.

Chapter Nine.

Land, Hurrah!

I hurried back to the boat. The casks were filled. We got them in. Should we remain in the harbour and try to conceal ourselves, or should we boldly pull out with the certainty of being seen, but yet with the possibility of getting back to the schooner and putting to sea before the privateer’s men could reach us. We decided on the latter course, not a moment was to be lost. If we should succeed in getting out to sea we should be safe; for with so large a number of her people on shore it was not likely that the French ships would chase us.

“Now, my lads, pull for life and liberty!” I exclaimed, as I took the helm. “Gently at first till we are clear of the harbour. The Frenchmen won’t see us till then.”

The entrance was not very easy; as soon as we were outside the boys gave way. I every now and then turned my head round to ascertain if we were observed. The Frenchmen were most probably, as we had been, searching for water and did not see us. At length they caught sight of us, I concluded, as I saw them running along the shore as fast as their legs would carry them. My boys exerted their arms in a like manner. The Frenchmen, although they saw that we were beyond their reach, fired a shot at us. Another and another followed. It was done in mere wantonness, for they could not have known who we were. We were much too distant from them, however, for the shot to reach us. Heavily laden as was our boat, the boys urged her on fast, and in a short time we were alongside the schooner. Charley White, who had remained in charge, had heard the shots, and guessing who had fired them, had got the sheep on board with the wood and grass, and made everything ready for weighing. Happily, the breeze blew down the harbour. We speedily hoisted the boats on board and got the anchors up, and while the Frenchmen were climbing up a height which formed the eastern shore of the inlet, we ran out and were speedily clear of the land. We could see them through the glass stamping on the ground, apparently with rage at our having escaped them. The northerly breeze carried us in a short time out of their sight and indeed out of sight of the land itself. We were to the south of the equator, and that northerly wind was the hottest I ever experienced; from its very smell we could tell that it had blown over many hundred miles of burnt earth or dry sand. We kept south; for I purposed going round Van Diemen’s Land instead of through Bass’s Straits—not then very well known.

Next day we looked out with some anxiety for the Frenchman, but he was nowhere to be seen, and we entertained the hope that we had escaped him altogether.

We sighted the southern part of Van Diemen’s Land. But as we should not have been allowed to land at the new settlement then even had we wished it, unless we had put in there in distress, we continued our course for Port Jackson. It was time for us to be in port. We had eaten up all the fowls except those we wanted to land; the biscuits were becoming mouldy, the water bad, the hay was nearly consumed, and the sheep, put on short allowance, were looking thin, though otherwise healthy.

The lads were continually going to the mast-head, each one eager to be the first to discover land.

We were edging in for the coast, from which I knew that we were not far distant, when Mark, who was aloft, shouted out, “Land! land! Hurrah! the land we are bound for!” I was afraid that in the exuberance of his delight he would have let go his hold, and come down by the run on deck. John thought so too, and with alarm expressed in his countenance, ran under him to catch him in his arms. He held on, however, and in a few seconds his brother and White joined him, and shouted with almost as much glee as he had exhibited, “Land! land!” We stood in directly for it, for by my calculations we were not far off Botany Bay, or rather Port Jackson, for that in reality was the port for which we were bound.

In England in those days people always spoke of Botany Bay, because that was the place where Captain Cook landed before Port Jackson was discovered.

A strong breeze was blowing, which carried us rapidly towards the land. The wind increased, and dark clouds were seen gathering in the south-east. I had heard of a black squall off that coast, and from the darkness of the sky and the increasing wind, I was afraid that one was now brewing. Charley White was of my opinion, I found. This made me more than ever anxious to get into harbour before dark. Still it increased the danger of approaching the shore, and the bay afforded no shelter to the wind then blowing. We flew rapidly on; the dim outline of the coast became more and more distinct. At length we could distinguish some lofty headlands directly ahead.

Charley White knew that two such headlands mark the entrance to Port Jackson, but he reminded me that there is a third, which forms the side of False Bay, and that more than one ship had run in there, and that instead of finding a sheltering harbour they had been thrown against the rugged cliffs which form its sides.

The knowledge of this increased my anxiety. The sky in the east became darker and darker, and the wind yet further increased, till it blew almost a hurricane; heavy seas came rolling up, topped with white foam, leaping in eagerness it seemed to catch the little craft which had borne us in safety so far over the bosom of the ocean, and was about to escape altogether from their power.

Peter stood at the helm. Charley and I kept a keen look-out ahead. As we flew on, the land became more distinct, and the outline of the headlands appeared; still darkness was coming on—a mistake would be fatal.

“I see the heads!” exclaimed Charley at length. “There is no mistake; I am certain of it. Starboard a little, Peter. That will do, she is heading right in for the entrance. Take the bearings now; keep her exact on that course. My life for it, we shall get safe into the harbour.”

My anxiety was lifted off my shoulders. I had a confidence in Charley’s judgment and knowledge which I should have placed in few people, but he had already shown me that he was to be trusted. The darkness now came rapidly on, and so heavy a sea got up, and so furiously blew the gale, that I often doubted whether the little May Flower would stand it. I doubt whether alone I could have found the entrance; but Charley never wavered in his opinion. Keeping his eye towards the land, now gradually becoming shrouded in deeper and deeper gloom, he continued to direct Peter how to steer.

After a time the land rose up close ahead of us, but there was a deep slit in the centre, which seemed each instant to increase in width, and then the cliffs appeared on either side. The roar of the waves was tremendous, deafening to our ears; but we felt them less and less, till, rushing on, a wide, open, smooth expanse lay before us, and we were in smooth water—the haven where we would be.

Chapter Ten.

Our Convict Host.

Oh, the rest, the satisfaction, and, I may say, the thankfulness we felt. We shortened sail, and rounded to for a pilot, who came on board, and took us up to a berth opposite to Sydney, or the camp, as it was even then frequently called. As soon as we had dropped our anchor and furled sails, we one and all of us, young and old, my wife and daughters and my boys, and White and the crew, went down on our knees and returned thanks to the God of love and mercy who had thus brought us in safety in our small vessel across the great ocean. The tempest raged on without, but we lay quiet and secure within the harbour. I cannot describe to you how free from care I slept that night, and yet many people would have said that our troubles were only now going to begin.

As soon as the morning broke, all on board assembled on deck to look out on the new world to which we had come. The magnificent harbour, its surrounding heights and numerous points and inlets were the same then as now, but the ground on which the large city of Sydney now stands was then dotted over with a few Government buildings and merchants’ stores, and here and there a large private residence, and not a few big public-houses; but most of the dwelling-houses were of plank, and some even of canvas, belonging to newcomers. Still there was evidence of progress, and as the day advanced, and people began to move about, a good deal of animation and activity was visible.

We were soon surrounded by boats, with people eager to know where we had come from, and what cargo we had got. Many of the visitors were not pleasant-looking customers, and I was in no wise inclined to encourage them on board. Those who did come looked with very great interest at the sheep, and I soon found from their remarks that they considered them of much value, and that the speculation was likely to prove a good one.

Before, however, I entered into any engagements, I went on shore to ascertain the state of affairs. I found that I could obtain a large grant of land free, and that as many convicts would be assigned to me as I could maintain, to cultivate the land. I knew a little about farming, and I forgot at the time that the convicts were not likely to become very pleasant servants, so that everything to be done appeared plain and easy before me, and in high spirits I returned on board.

My family were, of course, all eager to get on shore, but as they had no home to go to, it was arranged that I and Charley White and John should set out at once to select some land, while Peter remained on board to take care of the family and look after the vessel. We none of us knew much about land, as to which was likely to prove good or bad, but then we could take advantage of the experience of earlier settlers. We could ascertain how some had failed, and others had been successful, and follow, with such modifications as circumstances might require, the example of the latter. We each carried a knapsack with provisions, and a cloak to sleep in at night; said Charley, who was a good shot, had a gun, that he might kill a kangaroo, or any other animal we might fall in with, for food. We each of us had also a pocket compass, without which no man should attempt to travel in a new country like Australia.

My wife and daughters seemed very anxious when we were all ready and about to set out, but I reminded them that we were only just going to do what we had come all the way from England to do, and that there were no wild beasts or other dangers that I knew of to fear. “Oh, but there are those hideous black men, father,” exclaimed Susan; “do take care of them, for I am sure that they look as if they would do any mischief.”

“No fear,” answered Charley, “they look worse than they are, and we shall be able to manage any number of them, even if they should take it into their heads to play us tricks. Mary is not afraid, you see.” Mary looked as if she thought Charley would be able, with his single arm, to put to flight a whole host of blacks. Those we had seen, though ugly enough, were not very terrific-looking fellows. We heard, however, that away from Sydney, where the white settlers had found some blacks pilfering, and had shot them dead, the survivors had retaliated, and murdered two or three white men.

As horses were at that time very dear, I did not wish to purchase any for our journey, and none were to be hired. We had therefore to trudge forward on foot. One thing we wanted, and that was a guide who knew the nature of the country, the best mode of traversing it, and where farms were situated. Unaccustomed to walking, we felt very weary the first day of our journey as night approached, and yet no house appeared in sight. We were travelling along a high road made by convicts. The worst characters were employed on the roads, a labour which they especially detested. They were generally doubly convicted felons. They were worked in chains, but sometimes even then they broke away, and, taking to the bush, robbed every one they met, and murdered those who resisted them.

We thought at last that we should have to camp out, instead of getting the shelter of a roof, which we had expected to do. Just, however, as we were about to stop, a light appeared ahead. We made for it. The door of a cottage stood open. We entered. A fire was blazing on the hearth, with a large damper baking under the ashes, and a huge teapot of tea was steaming away on a table set out for a meal; while a joint of a kangaroo was among the good things which gladdened our eyes.

“You may walk in, strangers, and welcome,” said a rough-looking man, who at that moment appeared from the back part of the cottage. “Here, missus, I see you have supper ready, where are you?” His wife, a buxom dame, came when called from an inner room, and welcomed us as her husband had done. We were soon seated at the table, doing justice to the kangaroo and damper. When our host and his wife heard that we had lately arrived, they were eager for us to tell them all the news from England, but what we had to say was not what they cared much to hear, that was very evident. As I examined their countenances, I did not like the expression they bore, nor warn the way they spoke altogether satisfactory. I suspected, and I was right, that they were convicts. At that time there were many of that class, who had already risen to considerable wealth, in the colony.

Chapter Eleven.

Our Journey Inland.

Although, as I have said, the faces of our host and hostess did not please me, and indeed gave me some disquietude, they both made themselves so pleasant, and were so civil and hospitable, that I could not help feeling it was ungrateful for me to harbour hard thoughts of them. While we were still at the table, a man came in and took his seat opposite to me. I supposed that he was living in the house, at all events that he was expected. He eyed me very hard, and then went on eating his supper. At last Charley White addressed me as Mr Biddulph, though he generally called me father. Immediately the stranger started up, and coming round to me and taking my hand, exclaimed, “Why, Mr Biddulph, I thought that I knew your face, but I little expected to see you out here.” When he spoke I recognised a man to whom I had once rendered a considerable service. He was in debt. I gave him a sum of money to save him from prison, and he promised to repay me. Before he did so he disappeared, and I did not expect to receive a farthing, but on two occasions small amounts were sent to me, which I knew came from him, though the larger portion still remained unpaid.

“I hope that you are doing well, Jacob,” said I, not thinking of the debt.

“Pretty well, but not as well as I could wish, Mr Biddulph,” he answered. “I have been in the country about five years, and know it as well as most men, but there are one or two things on my mind which I should like to get free of. One of them is my debt to you, and the honest truth is, that though I have worked hard, of money I have none. Most of my wages have come in the shape of rum, and I never yet heard of a man getting rich on such payment as that.”

I saw that our host and hostess exchanged glances, but I took no notice of them.

“If you know the country you are just the man I want, and can quickly repay me, and place me in your debt also,” I observed. “I want a guide through the country, and some one who knows the nature of the land, to help me in choosing a farm.”

“Just the thing I should like,” he exclaimed, jumping at the proposal; “I’m a free man, and can go where I like.”

I judged from this that he had not always been free. Our entertainers did not seem over well pleased at his so readily accepting my proposal. Still they treated us civilly, and we had no cause to complain. They brought us some sacks full of dry grass, which they spread on the floor, with some kangaroo skins to cover us; in those days sheep skins were rare. We lay down, commending ourselves to God, and felt as secure among convicts, with the possibility of a visit from the bush-rangers, as we had done in our tight little craft in the middle of the ocean.

We were on foot before daybreak, and with Jacob Rawdon as our guide, set out, as soon as we had taken some food, on our journey. Our host and his wife were evidently displeased at his leaving them.

After we had got to a distance I asked him why this was. “The reason is that I had become well-nigh their slave,” he answered. “They paid me my wages in rum, which I drank mostly, or exchanged at a great loss for necessaries, and so you see that I am not a shilling the richer than I was when I first began to work for myself. Still I hope to be able to repay you, and it will be a great satisfaction to me to do so.”

I did not doubt him, and had heard enough about the people I was likely to meet to know that it would not do to question him too closely as to why he had come to the country. I observed that he was frequently downcast, and that an expression of grief passed over his countenance; indeed, from several things he said, I felt great hopes that, whatever had been his errors, he was resolved to turn from them and to lead a new life. Under this belief I spoke seriously to him, and reminded him that he could not go on in his own strength, that the best man alive could not; and that if he would do right he must seek for aid from God the Father, through the influence of the Holy Spirit, trusting entirely and alone to the perfect sacrifice of Christ. He listened attentively. The doctrine seemed entirely new to him, but he did not in any way appear inclined to reject it. He walked on by my side, often silent, now and then he made a remark. His voice faltered. I saw that he was in tears. “Can God pardon such a vile, mad sinner as I have been?” he asked at length.

“If you are looking to Christ as the Lamb slain for you, you are pardoned, completely, entirely,” I answered; “though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow in God’s sight.”

His step became elastic; a brightness spread over his countenance. “I see it, I see it, but I would not have believed it,” I heard him saying to himself.

I cannot describe all the incidents of our journey.

One painful sight was a road-gang of convicts chained by the legs. They were certainly a villainous-looking set, mostly doubly convicted felons. Despair was depicted in the countenances of many. Jacob told me that he had known several who had been guilty of murder, that they might be hanged, and as they thought put out of their misery; others had committed suicide. Yet these men were once joyous, bright-cheeked, innocent little boys, the pride of their parents. Some had grown into manhood before they fell into open sin, though many probably were born among scenes of vice, ignorant even of the name of virtue or religion. “Still, debased as they are, all have souls to be saved,” I thought to myself, and I resolved that, though I could do those poor wretches no good, I would do my best to improve the convicts assigned to me as servants.

We soon came to the end of the road, and struck across the country. Here Jacob’s guidance became of great value. We were much interested by the novel appearance of the country, so different from anything we had seen before.

The huge gum-trees (eucalypti), with their evergreen, mistletoe-looking leaves, standing apart from each other, impressed us most. It seemed to us as if we were walking through a large park, with wide open spaces and clumps of trees here and there; only the leaves of the trees hung down long and thin, with their edges upwards, and the grass, though tall, was sparse, the blades growing apart from each other.

In some places the ground was covered with heather, and with other bright-coloured small flowers, but all without scent. This was supplied, however, in abundance from the groves of acacia, near which we passed. The birds with gay plumage, especially the parrots—parroquets climbing from branch to branch or flying amid the trees—made us feel still more that we had got into a new land.

The greatest excitement, however, was caused the first time we fell in with a kangaroo, now so scarce near the settled districts. Jacob seizing Charley White’s gun said that he knew we should soon fall in with some more, and going on cautiously ahead he very soon fired, and then shouted to us to give chase. He had severely wounded but not killed a large kangaroo; and the animal went leaping over the ground with his long legs, leaving, however, a thick trace of blood behind him, which showed that he could not run a long course. This encouraged us to follow with greater zeal, and we enjoyed it the more as we dashed through the forest after having been shut up so many months in our little vessel. At last we got up close to the kangaroo, a huge fellow, who turned round boldly to meet us. My son John, being close to the animal, was going to strike him with a stick, when Jacob Rawdon cried out to him to beware, and he had just time to spring back as the animal struck at him with the formidable claw of one of his hinder feet. However, it was his last effort before the animal sank exhausted from loss of blood to the ground.

Jacob told us that he had seen many a dog killed when rushing in on a kangaroo standing at bay, by being ripped up, and that John had had a narrow escape. The countenance of the animal had so mild an expression that we could scarcely believe that he could commit so much damage.

We at once set to work to cut him up, and then, each of us loaded with the best parts selected by Jacob, we continued our journey. We slept at the cottage of a settler, who received us very kindly. We feasted on our kangaroo flesh, and were able to repay him with a portion of it. The next night we camped out near a stream. Jacob Rawdon shot a number of parrots, which we roasted for supper. The next morning we reached a lightly timbered, undulating country, with a river running through it. Rawdon stopped and looked round.

“Here, Mr Biddulph, if you take my advice you will pitch your tent. You have grass and water for sheep and cattle, and timber to build your house, and barns, and fences, and to keep your fires burning. What more do you desire? the soil is good; you may grow corn and vegetables and fruit-trees. You think that we are now in a desert: in a few years you will find yourself in the midst of civilisation.”

I talked over the matter. Jacob showed me that he was right, and the boys agreed with him. He understood surveying, and we measured out roughly two thousand acres. He told me that as a free settler I should have no difficulty in obtaining a grant of it. We soon fixed on a site for a house—not far from the stream, but at a sufficient height to be out of its influence when swollen by rains. The stream ran into a navigable river not far off, and from a neighbouring height we could see it and the sea in the far distance. Charley and John were highly pleased with the country, and were eager to get back to Sydney to secure the grant, lest any one else should make application. Jacob laughed at their eagerness.

“It is a good big country, and there is room for all,” he observed.

He was right. A large part of half a century has passed since then, and a steady stream of human beings has been setting in ever since, and still there is room for all who come wishing to work.

John wanted Charley to stay and camp out with him while Jacob and I went back; but to that Charley would not agree. He did not like leaving me to travel alone with a doubtful character such as Jacob, and he besides wished, I have no doubt, to see Mary. I, however, was very strongly disposed to trust Jacob.

We got back to Sydney without any adventure, and found all well on board. The sheep had greatly improved in appearance. I sold a ram and four ewes for a price which fully covered all the charges of the voyage; the rest of those I had brought I kept, that I might have a good stock with which I might commence on my own property. I at once also made application for a grant of the land I had seen, and obtained it without difficulty. I got an excellent price for the whole of my cargo, and soon found a purchaser for our little schooner. She was to run between Port Jackson and other ports, either opened or about to be opened, to the north and south. Altogether my speculation turned out a most successful one.

I felt something like Noah coming out of the ark when I landed, for the last time, with my wife and family and chattels and sheep; and having selected a quiet place, we all knelt down and returned hearty thanks to God for the protection He had afforded us during our passage across the ocean. We asked Him to guide and protect us for the future; and I am very sure that He heard our prayers.

Chapter Twelve.

Bush-Rangers.

Having bought a couple of horses at great cost, and a light waggon, or dray rather, I stowed therein the most indispensable portion of our goods and provisions. The rest we stored, to fetch when we had got up a cottage. My wife and daughters insisted on walking, saying that they weighed more than all the tea and sugar we should require for many months, and they were sure it would be wise to take all the stores we could carry. The sheep were so tame that they did not require to be driven, but followed the boys, who took especial charge of them, like lambs.

Steadfast, the dog, ran alongside the horses, and Duchess, the cat, took up her post on the top of the dray with the cocks and hens, and cages containing the other birds. Bob Hunt and Dick Nailor, having made up their minds to quit the sea, speedily turned into sturdy draymen, though they kept to their sailor’s rig, and could not easily lay aside their nautical expressions. “As the horses, or their immediate progenitors, had, however, come across the sea, it was but natural that they should understand them,” observed Mark, when Dick shouted out occasionally, “Starboard Dobbin, lay the fore-topsail abaft, Bob;” “It’s time to shorten sail, and bring the ship to an anchor;” or, “Luff, lad, luff, or you’ll be into that tree on the lee bow.” Sometimes when the ground looked rougher and more impracticable than usual, Dick would cry out, “Breakers ahead; we must haul our wind and see if we can’t get round the shoal; won’t do to wreck the waggon out here, where shipwrights’, I mean blacksmiths’, shops are pretty scarce, I fancy.”

Notwithstanding the inexperience of our men, and our own also, indeed, we got on wonderfully well. We all gave our minds to the work, and thus made amends for other deficiencies. Rawdon proved a first-rate guide, and by his knowledge and sagacity we avoided many of the difficulties which might have impeded our progress.

Our boys and girls enjoyed the journey very much. They especially liked camping out at night, for the novelty of the thing, I suspect. The parrots and parroquets, and other gay-coloured birds, with which they now made an intimate acquaintance, were a source of great interest. The girls were rather horrified when several were brought in shot by Charley White and the boys. Rawdon at once plucked them, and put them before the fire to roast. Pretty Polly pie soon became a favourite dish in our establishment, as it was at that time in the houses of most settlers. He also showed us how to make damper, a wheaten cake baked under the ashes. At first it seemed very doubtful how it would turn out, as we saw the lump of dough placed in a hole, and then covered up with bits of burning wood.

Our chief prize was a kangaroo. The boys caught sight of the creature as we were moving on, and gave chase. Away he went, hopping along on his hind legs, with his little front ones tucked up, just as some women in cold weather hold their arms with their shawls drawn over their shoulders. Charley White, however, brought him down, and he soon shared the fate of the parrots. We pronounced the flesh not very inferior to mutton, and more suited to our taste in a hot climate. A good sportsman need not starve in the fertile parts of Australia, but there is one great necessary of life, of which he may find himself fearfully deficient—that is, water. We were obliged to make very irregular stages, that we might camp near a stream or water hole; and explorers dare not move from one source of supply till they have discovered a fresh one, at which they and their animals may drink.

At length we reached the spot we had fixed on for a location, and of which I had procured a grant. I had to make certain arrangements before I could get the assigned servants, or, in other words, the convicts who would be required to carry on farming operations on a large scale. I was glad not to have them in the first instance, and we were so strong-handed that we could do very well without them.

My wife and girls were delighted with the position of their new home. We camped on a spot close to a situation which seemed the best suited for our proposed house, on a gentle slope, with a hill covered with trees behind it, and a stream some distance below us. The spot was pretty clear of wood, that is to say, just out of the bush, and there was excellent pasture on either side for our sheep and for our cattle, whenever we should obtain them. They were not so plentiful as they now are.

As soon as we had pitched our tent we all knelt down and returned thanks to that merciful God who had brought us across the ocean into this lovely haven of rest—so it seemed, for we thought not then of the troubles before us.

What a privilege it is to be able to go direct to God in prayer, through the sure mediation of the loving Jesus, pleading His perfect, all-sufficient sacrifice— His precious blood shed for sinful man on Calvary. I felt it then: I have felt it ever since; and I would not give up that privilege of prayer for anything else the world can bestow. I have sometimes thought what a fearful thing it would be for a man who has enjoyed that blessing to lose it altogether, if that were possible; to be told, “You must not pray! God will not hear your prayers! From henceforth you must have no communion with the Most High!” The thought has just occurred to me as I have been speaking of this our first night on our new location.

We, of course, gave water to our sheep and penned them carefully before lying down to rest. We knew that we had not so many enemies to guard against as there are in many countries; but still there were some. First, there were dingoes, or native dogs, who play the part of wolves as well as foxes, in Australia, by attacking sheepfolds and poultry yards: they were certain in an out-station to visit us. Then we were told there were natives who might very likely come in the night to steal a fat sheep, or to attack us if they could find us unprepared; and lastly, there were some bush-rangers already abroad—ruffians who had escaped from road-gangs, and not being able to return to the settlement, lived a wild, desperate life in the bush, and procured their stores by plundering drays coming up from Port Jackson, or out-stations where they thought anything was to be got. However, as none had been heard of for some time, we had no apprehensions about them.

We were too strong a party to invite attack, and only a very hungry, and therefore desperate man, would think of molesting us. Still, it was prudent for one to remain on watch. Charley White took the first watch, as he had done at sea. Peter was to take the second. I heard Charley call him up, but not feeling disposed to sleep myself, I told him to rest on, as I knew that he was very tired, and that I would look out instead. I took a gun in my hand, and walked round and round our little camp. There was no moon, but the stars were very bright, proving the clearness of the atmosphere. Now and then I stopped and gazed up at them, admiring their beauty, and thinking how greatly increased must be our powers of comprehension before we should understand all about them. I must have been standing thus silent and quiet for some time, when, casting my eyes down on the earth, I thought I saw an object moving slowly among some brushwood or scrub at a little distance. I stood still a minute longer, and just as I was moving the creature came out of the scrub. It was a dingo, I had little doubt of that; I was on the point of lifting my gun to my shoulder to fire, when probably seeing me, it ran quickly back. I instantly went after it, hoping to get a fair shot at the other side of the scrub, which was but a small patch of underwood. I felt sure that he would go through it, and followed. I worked my way along—no difficult matter where the scrub is open, as it generally is out here—and once more caught sight of the creature stealing cautiously away at no great distance. They are cunning beasts, those dingoes. Often I have knocked one over, and left him for dead, when after a little time, turning round, I have seen him stealing off; but the moment he saw that he was observed, dropping down and looking as dead as before. I was sure that I should hit the dingo and prevent him coming again to visit our sheep; so I raised my gun to fire. At that instant I received a blow on the side of my head, which would have brought me to the ground had its strength not been broken by a bough. My hand was on the trigger, and I fired my gun. A man stood before me, and closing, attempted to wrench the weapon out of my hand. I had too firm a hold of it, however, for I was a stronger man than he. He was active though, and tried all sorts of ways to get the better of me. Finding that he could not succeed, he uttered several coos—a sound heard a long way in the bush, and just then coming into use among the settlers. Again he closed with me, so that I could not strike him with my gun, while he tried with his legs to trip me up. I thought that it was now high time for me to cry out; so I shouted at the top of my voice, as loud as if I was hailing a ship at sea in a gale of wind. It rather astonished my friend, I suspect; especially when I dropped my gun, and seizing him in my arms, lifted him off the ground. He begged me to let him go. “No, no,” I answered, “you wanted to rob me; but you find that you have caught a Tartar, and I shall not release you till you give an account of yourself.” The cooing had been heard by the man’s companions, for just as I had mastered him, two men appeared coming out of the wood which covered the hill under which we had camped. My assailant saw them, and began to struggle to free himself from me; but starvation and rough living had weakened him. Still it was hard work to get him along while he struggled in the hope that his comrades would come to his assistance. They were getting very near indeed, when I heard a shout close to me, and as the bush-rangers were darting towards me, Charley, Peter, the other boys, and Dick Nailor came rushing up from the other side.

The two bush-rangers took to flight, leaving their companion in our power.

“You have got the better of me, I must own!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps you will not believe me when I say that all I wanted was your gun and ammunition. If I had got that I might have demanded some food, for I am starving, but I did not wish to harm you or any one else.”

“A curious way you took to prove that, by trying to knock me down,” I answered, as Dick Nailor relieved me of the charge of the man, by taking hold of his collar and one arm and forcing him onwards.

“Come along with us to our camp, and we shall learn more about you.”

The man said nothing in return, and he felt that in the grasp of the giant resistance was useless.

We quickly reached the camp, where we found Bob Hunt trying to comfort my wife and daughters, who had been much alarmed at hearing the shot fired and finding me absent.

By the light of the lantern held to the prisoner’s face we saw that he was pale and haggard, that his hair was long and uncombed, and that a razor had not touched his chin or lips for many a day; while his clothes were rudely patched, and even thus hardly hung together. Thus we could not but believe the account he gave of his hunger and suffering—indeed, I had heard that most of the men who had taken to the bush soon died of starvation, or were killed by the blacks.

We quickly put some biscuits and cheese before our prisoner. He ate of it ravenously, giving way occasionally to an hysterical laugh. His eyes sparkled when I gave him some rum and water. I saw that he required a stimulant, and I would not allow him to take any more solid food. Compassion for the poor wretch predominated above any other feeling.

It was useless to inquire what circumstances had brought him to that condition. Sin was the cause of it, of course; but he required help, and, in spite of his attack on me, I felt that it ought to be given him.

While he was eating, it struck me that I was well acquainted with his countenance.

After looking again and again, I felt nearly sure that I was right, strange as it seemed; and grateful I was that I had not in our struggle taken his life or injured him.

Chapter Thirteen.

Our Prisoner.

We kept a strict watch over our wretched prisoner. For his own sake I did not wish him to escape, and, far from having an intention of delivering him up to justice, my earnest desire was to try and reclaim him. I think that, under the circumstances, I should have acted as I did had he been an indifferent person; but I felt sure, from the peculiarity of his features, that he was the youngest son of my kind old patron and friend, Mr Wells. Often in his childhood had he sat on my knee when I came home from sea, and often he had listened attentively to the accounts of my adventures. He was a pretty, interesting little fellow. As he grew up he altered very much; became disobedient to his parents, and ultimately growing wilder and wilder, went, as the expression is, to the bad. For some years I had not even heard of him.

Worn out with fatigue, our prisoner slept on till after the sun was up, and we were busy in marking out the ground for our slate hut, and making preparations for cutting down the nearest trees with which to build it. More than once I looked at his countenance while he slept, and called my wife to look at him. We were both convinced that my surmise was correct.

On awaking at last he gazed round with an astonished, puzzled look, and sighed deeply. I happened to be near, and went up to him.

“Arthur!” I said, gently, “what brought you here?”

“What!—Who are you?—How do you know me?” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I’ll answer you though—my own folly and vice and sin. I am in your power. I did not wish to take your life, but I hoped to get your gun and then to force you to give me and my mates food—that was all. You may, however, take me into camp and deliver me up to the governor and his men; if they hang me at once I shall be grateful to you, for I am weary of this life. I am a mere slave to my mates; they would murder me in an instant if I should become burdensome to them; and, bad as I am, they are so much worse that I can even now have no fellowship with them.”

Thus the unhappy man ran on, eagerly discharging, as it were, at once his long pent-up feelings and thoughts. For weeks and months he had been wandering about, nearly starved, and ill-treated and despised by his companions in crime. And this man had been in the rank of a gentleman, and had been educated as one, and had once felt as one! I know to a certainty that there are numbers of such wandering about the world, and others who have died miserably,—outcasts from their friends and, more terrible fate, from their God,—who little thought when they made their first downward step in the path of sin to what a fearful termination it was leading them.

I let our unhappy prisoner grow calm before I again spoke to him.

“You asked me,” I said, “how I know your name, and who I am.” And I then went over many of the incidents of his early life, when he was a happy, pleasant-mannered little boy at home.

He made no reply; but he seemed to guess who I was, and bent down his head between his hands. I saw tears dropping from between his fingers. It was a good sign. I thought of the parable of the prodigal son. “He has been eating the husks: perhaps he will soon say, ‘I will arise and go to my Father.’” I prayed that the Holy Spirit would strive mightily with him, and make him feel not only his sad moral and physical condition, but his terribly dangerous spiritual state. Such prayers are, I believe, never made in vain.

I was eager, I must own, to begin my mornings work, but I did not wish at that moment to interrupt the man’s thoughts. I waited therefore patiently till he should speak. After a time he lifted up his head, and said, “Who are you?” I told him that I remembered him as a boy—that his countenance was unchanged—and that his father had been my benefactor.

“Thank God for that! if such as I am may utter that name,” he exclaimed. “You’ll not have me hung, then; you’ll not deliver me up to a shameful death?”

“No indeed, Arthur,” I answered; “I will rather do my best to protect you. I do not know what crimes you have committed, and I do not wish to know; but I hope to see you restored to tranquillity of mind, and that you may find joy and peace in believing on that one only Saviour, through whom you can obtain pardon for your transgressions and reconciliation with God.”

I then and there unfolded to him God’s merciful plan of salvation. I was sure that then was the time. His heart was softened; he was ready to receive the truths of the gospel. It was a happy thing for me that I knew the plan of salvation before I left England. I was thus enabled to impart it to this poor man and to others. His idea was that if he could but be very sorry for all his misdeeds, and commit no more, and work away hard to please God in some sort of fashion, he might have a chance of going to heaven at last. He would scarcely believe me when I told him that I found nothing of that sort throughout the Gospels and Epistles; that Christ, the anointed One, had done all that was required for us sinners; that all we have to do is to accept His glorious offer, by faith in the perfect efficacy of His atoning blood, shed for all mankind on Calvary. These truths and many more I tried to explain to Arthur, and it was satisfactory to mark the readiness with which he accepted them.

He was for some time utterly prostrated and scarcely able to stand up, much less to work. We, of course, were all very busy from sunrise to sunset, and I could pay very little attention to him during the day. I gave him, however, the few books we had brought with us; but I was glad to see that the Book of books, long unread, was his chief delight. He would sit with it in his hand all day, and at night would draw near to the fire, and pore over its pages as long as the flames burnt with sufficient brightness. I felt sure from the first that he was in earnest, though J— warned me that he was only shamming, and that as soon as he could have a chance he would be off with anything he could lay hands on. I said that I had no fear about the matter, and should not keep a watch over him.

We had pretty hard work, you may be sure, and I doubt if any men could have worked harder; but we kept our health very well—indeed, in spite of the heat, I never felt stronger. We had first our own dwelling-house to get up, and then the huts for the men. Our own abode was, indeed, but a hut—larger than the others, with divisions; but there was very little finish or ornament about it. To be sure, it was a good deal larger than the cabin of the May Flower, though the girls complained that it was not half as neat; nor was it, indeed. Neatness was to come by and by, we said. With many settlers, it must be owned, it never comes at all. We, however, before long put up a verandah, almost a necessary appendage to a house in that hot climate. There was thus always shade and shelter on one side of the house or the other, and here my wife and daughters could sit and work, and carry on all sorts of operations.

Our very first work, I should have said, was to make a pen for the sheep, where they would be secure from the natives or dingoes at night. In the daytime, when out feeding, they could be easily kept together, and they were so tame that they would follow us about like dogs. Their offspring learnt the same custom; and so instead of the sheep being driven, as in England, they throughout the whole of the country follow the shepherd wherever he leads, and know his voice. Often have I thought of the parable of the Good Shepherd when I have heard a shepherd, in a slightly undulating or hilly country, calling to his sheep, and seen the flock come trooping over the ridges from afar, and gradually drawing round him, not one being missing.

As soon as we could, also, we got a garden fenced in and dug up, and a paddock for wheat. We had no wish to starve, and at that time provisions were often very scarce and enormously dear in the colony. At one time, indeed, in consequence of the non-arrival of store-ships from England, the settlers were nearly starved.

Chapter Fourteen.

A Settler’s Life.

The number of people who knew anything about farming or gardening was very small, and continued so long after the colony was settled. At first, indeed, there were none, and they actually did not know what to do with the seeds which had been sent out with them.

At the time of our arrival a change for the better had taken place, and a large proportion of free settlers were agriculturists, who soon taught the labourers they employed, and several farms were established.

We little thought at that time of the vast power of production possessed by Australia. Day after day we worked on, cutting down trees, splitting them with wedges, building huts, putting up fences, and digging and planting. The latter operations were very important; from the number of mouths we should soon have to feed, the expense of providing food would be very great unless we could produce some on the estate.

As soon as Arthur Wells had recovered his strength he willingly set to work, and no man could have laboured harder than he did. He knew more than any of us did about farming, though we had some books to help us. What was of great consequence, also, he understood the climate; for it was some time before we could bring ourselves to remember that the Australian spring is in October; and that Christmas is the hottest time of the year; and that the periods of seed-time and harvest are the opposite to those of the old country.

Jacob, besides being a good guide through the country, understood felling trees, and splitting timber, and putting up huts—very valuable arts in that country. He might have been a first-rate watchmaker or jeweller, have known Hebrew or Greek, or been a good draughtsman, or kept accounts in excellent style, or dressed to perfection, and been able to leap with the most perfect grace and nimbleness over counters, and yet have starved. Rough backwoodsmen, blacksmiths, carpenters, and ploughmen have from the first been able to secure good wages in Australia. Other men have succeeded by turning their hands to do whatever might offer; but for such men as I have mentioned, the demand remains as at first unabated.

Having got through the work requiring immediate attention, I resolved to return to Sydney to bring up the remainder of our stores, and to procure a few assigned servants. Such was the name given to convicts when made over to the charge of private persons. The duty of the master was to find them employment, to feed them according to a certain scale, and more than that, the original intention of those who formed the plan was that he should do his best to instruct and improve them. I am afraid that not many took much trouble about that; but some few conscientious masters did all they could, and the consequence was that very many poor fellows who might have been utterly lost, had they been turned loose at home, became reformed characters, and respectable members of society.

I took Dick Nailor and Mark with me to look after the dray, thinking that the assigned men might know very little about the matter.

We had a prosperous journey into Sydney. The first thing I did was to sell the horses, for which there was a great demand; and I consequently got a high price for them, more than double what I gave. Instead I bought four working oxen, ten milch cows, and a fine bull. There would be time enough to procure horses when they became more plentiful. Though useful, of course they were not absolute necessaries; and I hoped from the stock I had now got, to become possessed in a few years of a fine herd of cattle. I might have had fifty servants assigned to me, but I accepted only six; and those I had the opportunity of selecting. I determined with these and the assistance of our own party to bring under cultivation as many acres of ground as I could manage.

A settler’s life in a new country is not all plain sailing, as we were to find—though in many instances it may be somewhat monotonous. We had some expectation of meeting with an adventure, for we heard that several bush-rangers were out, who were levying black-mail on all travellers. We resolved at all events not to be taken unawares.

I felt pretty sure that we might trust our new men, and Dick Nailor was a man not to be attacked with impunity even by the most daring of robbers.

We found when we moved on that we had not more men than we required for conducting the dray and driving the cattle. Had we possessed more experience, half our number would have driven twenty times as many cattle as we had, and more than that, with ease.

We made good about twelve miles in the day. At night we had enough to do to keep our valuable cattle from straying. We found the simplest plan was to light a number of fires in a circle, beyond which the animals were seldom disposed to move. It, however, required constant attention to keep up the fires, for as soon as the flames dropped, the animals seemed no longer disposed to be restrained within the circle.

This occupied most of our party during the night, so that only two or three at a time could get rest. We slept very fast when we did sleep, to make up for lost time—as Mark observed. Either Dick Nailor or I was always on the watch, as I did not think it prudent to trust the convicts, though they had but little temptation to play us any tricks. They were pretty well aware that they would have no prospect of setting up for themselves, even if they should run away with our cattle.

We had got within three or four miles of our station, but as we could not reach it before dark, we camped as usual, hoping that we might get there the next morning.

Scarcely had we unyoked our oxen than several blacks appeared coming towards us from a neighbouring bush. I was not aware at the time of the dislike oxen have to the natives, and was astonished at the state of excitement into which the animals were put as the blacks drew near. We had the greatest difficulty, indeed, in restraining the animals from breaking off into the bush. I accordingly, followed by Dick Nailor, went forward to meet our visitors, both of us, however, carrying our guns, for we could not tell what might be their intention. They stopped when they saw the cattle snorting and turning about, seemingly as unwilling to draw near them as the animals were to have their company. They seemed to be a tribe not accustomed to white men, for they did not understand a word we spoke, nor could we what they said. We discovered, however, that they wanted something—it was tobacco,—we gave them some. We showed them that we were ready to be on friendly terms. They then begged for something to drink—rum, and seemed very much astonished to find that we had none. To my belief they had never themselves tasted any, but had heard of the white man’s fire-water from other blacks—his curse—their destruction.

After a little time they intimated to us, so we understood them, that there was something they wished to show to us in the bush at a little distance. They seemed so well disposed that I did not at the time dream of treachery. I told Dick Nailor that I would go forward and see what they wanted to show us. Even Dick hesitated.

“They may mean well, but if they don’t they will have us at terrible advantage all alone in the woods, and they are fearfully ugly fellows to look at, they must allow,” he observed, coming up close to me, to protect me rather than to seek protection for himself.

Still the blacks seemed so eager that we should go, and made so many signs to us, that I was sure that there was something particular they wished to show us. Had I been as well acquainted with them as I afterwards became I should not have ventured. Still the greater number of murders they have committed must be laid to the white man’s charge. They merely retaliated when treated by him with fearful cruelty and injustice. The white man set them an example which the savages copied. True, many of the convicts were reprobates and outcasts. Not once, but frequently men have gone forth with fire-arms and shot down the blacks as if they had been wild beasts. I speak of days happily gone by.

I called out to Mark to keep in the camp with the men and beasts, and Dick and I followed the black, I repeat that it was a very unwise thing to do.

However, on we went. I told Dick to keep his eyes about him, and his gun ready for use.

Having camped early, there was still plenty of daylight; indeed, the blacks themselves will never move at night, from superstitious feelings,—the dread of meeting evil spirits: of good ones they have no notion. There were a good many blacks about, so we signed them to go on ahead, and that we would follow. They did so—when suddenly they drew back, and we saw before us, on the side of an open glade, under a thick-stemmed tree, a rude hut, and just before it, on the ground, two men, wretched, haggard creatures.

On drawing nearer we discovered that the forms alone of the men were there, the spirit had fled. Not a particle of food was to be found near them, but there were the ashes of a small fire, and near it two or three pieces of burnt leather. They had been endeavouring, when too late, to satisfy the cravings of hunger with such food. We had more to discover.

Chapter Fifteen.

Conclusion.

It was a sad sight, but what we saw when we got closer was of even sadder significance. The blacks pointed to one of the bodies which lay stretched out. There was a cut on the head, and, as if just fallen from the right hand of the other man, an axe. There could be no doubt that the last act of one of the famished men had been to murder his companion—for what object it was horrible to think.

But who were these poor wretches? We were convinced that they were bush-rangers. It was even possible that they were the late companions of Arthur Wells. He alone, however, could answer that question. We made signs to the blacks that we would bury the bodies the following day, but that we had not time to do so then. They seemed to understand us, and apparently contentedly accompanied us from the spot. Although convinced that they did not intend us any harm we were watchful as before. This was the more necessary as the sun had set, and it would be difficult to defend ourselves in the dark.

We pushed on, therefore, to the camp as rapidly as we could. We found all safe, and collected some articles which we thought would please the natives. We presented them. They went away highly pleased.

We had scarcely sat down to tea round our watch-fire when curious shrieks and shouts—most unearthly sounds—reached our ears. They came from the direction where we had last seen the natives. Some of the men declared that the noise must be produced by evil spirits, and were in a great fright; but Mark, who was too sensible to entertain so foolish a notion, asserted that it must be made by the natives, and expressed his wish to go and see what they were about. He wanted Dick Nailor to go with him. Now Dick, though very big, and utterly fearless of human foes, had not quite made up his mind as to the cause of the strange sounds. I, therefore, fully agreeing with Mark, told Dick to take charge of the camp, and that I would accompany my boy. Poor Dick was really unhappy at this; but I, wishing to prove to the men that although Satan was busy enough in the country, it was not by making strange sounds in the bush, persisted in my determination. Mark, laughing heartily at the fears of our companions, set off with me.

We had not got far when we saw the light of a fire burning in an open space among the trees, and figures passing in front of it. For a short time the fire was hid from us by some thick bushes, but when we had got round them we both stopped, and I must confess even I drew my breath somewhat short, for just on the other side of the fire appeared twenty or more skeletons dancing about in the most fantastic manner. Suddenly they would disappear; then again return and frisk about more furiously than before. I rubbed my eyes, I thought that I must be in a dream, or deceived in some way or other. I asked Mark what he saw.

“A skeleton dance, and a very curious thing it is too, but it’s some trick of those black fellows,” he whispered. “Jacob was telling me that they have meetings at night and play all sorts of pranks. I caught sight of the figure of a man just now, between us and the fire, and I could not see through his ribs. He was no skeleton, at all events.”

We crept cautiously nearer, and then saw that what looked like the bones of skeletons were merely white marks painted on the bodies of the blacks, and that when they turned round these were concealed from us. Still I must say that their appearance was at first quite sufficient to startle anybody not prepared to see them.

Not wishing to disturb the natives we retreated quietly to our camp, but though we described the curious sight none of the men seemed disposed to go out and look at it. The natives kept up their revels for a considerable time, and prevented us from getting much sleep. They effectually prevented the cattle, however, from straying in their direction. The natives were keeping what is called a Corroboree, and I do not know that it is a much more barbarous amusement than many of more civilised people.

We were off by daybreak, and in three hours reached our settlement. All had gone well, and I need scarcely say that we were heartily welcomed. My purchase of cattle was greatly admired, and very valuable stock they proved. I had still a good amount of cash left as capital, so that I could go on for two or more years without having to sell any stock, and I now hoped that the land would produce enough corn to feed all those employed on the farm, with some over. I forgot to say that in the afternoon Dick Nailor, with Arthur and two other men, set out to bury the bodies of the white men. My suspicion was confirmed. They were Arthur’s wretched companions. Their fate has been that of hundreds who have attempted to follow the same course. It made a deep impression on Arthur Wells, who ultimately became, through God’s grace, a thoroughly changed man.

I was not disappointed in any of my expectations. God prospered me on every side. I was able to purchase more sheep in the course of another year, so that my flocks rapidly increased. Small flocks, as may be supposed, do not pay. In the course of time we got up a better and larger house. We wanted one indeed, for our family increased in a way we had not expected. Charley White was engaged, I should have said, to my eldest girl, Mary; and just before they were to be married he started off in the dray to Sydney. Whether or not Mary knew why he had gone we could not tell. He was a very short time absent, and when the dray appeared, there, seated under an awning in front, was a nice-looking old lady, and Mary exclaimed, “That’s Aunt Priscilla,” but instead of her cats she was accompanied by two young ladies.

It appeared that Charley had been sending home such glowing accounts of the colony, that Miss Beamish was seized with a strong desire to come out and join her nephew; and, like a sagacious woman, had brought out with her the commodity just then and ever since most required, in the shape of two honest, well-educated, nice-looking girls. Peter and Mark took a great fancy to them, and before long they became their wives.

Miss Beamish got a grant of land close to mine, on which Charley put up a house for her, he and his wife living with her and managing the farm, which she, indeed, made over to him and his heirs, of whom there were, in the course of a few years, no small number.

I was soon able to start Peter in an estate of his own; and Mark a few years afterwards.

Arthur Wells obtained a free pardon and married Susan. I did not consider that his having been a convict should be a bar to their marriage, for I never met a more thoroughly reformed character. He made her an excellent husband.

All my children married as they grew up—the girls at an early age, but the boys had to wait some time before they could find suitable wives. However, in the course of years—I need not say how many—all my children happily married, were settled either with me on my original property, much increased both in value and size, or else on estates around me.

I have been greatly blessed in life. I have, however, a difficulty which I do not think I shall ever get over—it is to remember the names of my grand-children. Already upwards of fifty muster together at our family meetings, and as far as I can judge, that number may be more than doubled in the course of a few years.

Australia still affords a fine field for settlers, but they must be industrious, persevering, and energetic; idlers, rogues, and vagabonds will starve there, as everywhere else. As in most parts of the world so in Australia; trust in God, industry, and perseverance will conquer all difficulties and lead on to success.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Peter the Whaler"

Chapter One.

“Peter,” said my father, with a stern look, though the tone of his voice had more of sorrow in it than anger, “this conduct, if you persist in it, will bring ruin on you, and grief and shame on my head and to your mother’s heart. Look there, boy, and answer me: Are not those presumptive evidences of your guilt? Where did they come from?” He pointed, as he spoke, to several head of game, pheasants, partridges, and hares, which lay on the ground, while I stood before him leaning on my gun, my eyes not daring to meet his, which I knew were fixed on me. My two dogs crouched at my feet, looking as if they also were culprits and fully comprehended the tenor of his words.

My father was a clergyman, the vicar of a large parish in the south of Ireland, where the events I am now narrating took place. He was a tall man, with silvery locks and well-formed features. I think his hair was prematurely grey. The expression of his countenance was grave, and betokened firmness and decision, though his general character was mild in the extreme. He was a kind parent, in some respects too kind; and he was very indulgent towards the faults and errors of those not immediately connected with him. He was on good terms with the Roman Catholics of the neighbourhood, of which faith were the large majority of the population, and even with the priests; so that our family had few enemies, and were never in any way molested by the peasantry.

That, however, we had some foes, I shall have occasion presently to show. But I must return to the scene I was describing. I may be pardoned for first giving a slight sketch of myself. I hope that I may escape being accused of vanity, as I shall not dwell on my personal appearance. I believe that I inherited some of my parents’ good looks; but the hardships I have endured have eradicated all traces of them. I was well grown for my age (I was barely fifteen), but, dressed in my loose shooting-costume, my countenance ruddy with fresh air and exercise, I looked much older.

“What do you suppose would be the lot of a poor man’s son, if he were to be discovered acting as you are constantly doing in spite of my warnings and commands?” continued my father, his voice growing more serious and his look more grave. “I tell you, boy, that the consequences may and will be lamentable; and do not believe, that because you are the son of a gentleman, you can escape the punishment due to the guilty.

“You are a poacher. You deserve the name; and on some occasion, when engaged in that lawless occupation, you will probably encounter the gamekeepers of the persons on whose estates you are trespassing, and whose property you are robbing. Now hear me out. They, as in duty bound, will attempt to capture you. You and your companions may resist; your weapons may be discharged, and life may be sacrificed. If you escape the fate of a murderer, you may be transported to distant lands, away from friends, home, and country, to work for long years; perhaps in chains among the outcasts of our race, fed on the coarsest food, subject to the tyranny of brutalised overseers, often themselves convicts; your ears forced to listen to the foulest language, your eyes to witness the grossest debauchery, till you yourself become as bad as those with whom you are compelled to herd; so that, when the time of your punishment is expired, you will be unfit for freedom; and if you venture to return home, you will find yourself, wherever you appear, branded with dishonour, and pointed at as the convict.

“Think, Peter, of the grief and anguish it would cause your poor mother and me, to see you suffer so dreadful a disgrace—to feel that you merited it. Think of the shame it would bring on the name of our family. People would point at your sisters, and say, ‘Their brother is a convict!’ they would shake their heads as I appeared in the pulpit, and whisper, ‘The vicar whose son was transported!’ But more than all (for men’s censure matters not if we are guiltless), think how God will judge you, who have had opportunities of knowing better, who have been repeatedly warned that you are doing wrong, who are well aware that you are doing wrong: think how He will judge and condemn you.

“Human laws, of necessity, are framed only to punish all alike, the rich and educated man as well as the poor and ignorant; but God, who sees what is in the heart of man, and his means of knowing right from wrong, will more severely punish those who sin, as you do, with their eyes open. I am unwilling to employ threats; I would rather appeal to your better feelings, my boy; but I must, in the first place, take away your means of following your favourite pursuit; and should you persist in leading your present wild and idle life, I must adopt such measures as will effectually prevent you. Give me your gun.”

I listened to all that was said in dogged silence. I could not refuse to give up my dearly-beloved weapon; but I did so with a very bad grace; and I am sorry to say that my father’s words had at that time little or no effect on my heart. I say at the time, for afterwards, when it was too late, I thought of them over and over again, and deeply repented of my wilful obstinacy and folly.

Alas! from how much suffering and grief I should have been saved had I attended to the precepts and warnings of my kind parent—how much of bitter self-reproach. And I must warn my young friends, that although the adventures I went through may be found very interesting to read about, they would discover the reality to be very full of pain and wretchedness were they subjected to it; and yet I may tell them that the physical suffering I endured was as nothing when compared to the anguish of mind I felt, when, left for hours and days to my own bitter thoughts, I remembered that through my own perverseness I had brought it all upon myself.

Often have I envied the light hearts of my fellow-sufferers, whose consciences did not blame them. Let me urge you, then, in your course through life, on all occasions to act rightly, and to take counsel and advice from those on whose judgment you should rely; and then not only in the next world will you have your reward, but, in this, through the severest trials and bodily suffering you will enjoy a peace of mind and a happiness of which no man can deprive you.

My parents had four sons and five daughters. My eldest brother was studying for the bar in Dublin; and, as the family fortune was limited, we were somewhat cramped to afford him the requisite means for his education. I was consequently kept at home, picking up, when I felt disposed, any crumbs of knowledge which came in my way, but seldom going out of my way to find them; nor had I, unfortunately, any plan fixed on for my future career.

My mother, was constantly employed with my sisters, and my father with his clerical duties or his literary pursuits; so that I was forgotten, and allowed to look after myself. I am unable to account for the neglect to which I was subjected, but such was the case; and consequently I ran wild, and contrived, to become acquainted with some scampish youths in the neighbourhood, in every way my inferiors except in age; and they gave me lessons which I was, I own, too willing to learn, in all that was bad.

Sporting was my greatest amusement; and, for my age, I was perhaps one of the best shots in all the country round. While I confined myself to my father’s glebe, and to the grounds of two or three friends who had given me leave to shoot, he did not object to my indulging my propensity; but, not content with so narrow a sphere of action, I used frequently, in company of some of the youths I speak of, to wander over property where I not only had no right to kill game, but where I had positively been forbidden to trespass, and where I even knew people were on the look-out to detect me.

I had just returned from one of these lawless expeditions, when I was encountered by my father, laden with game, and the scene I have described took place. As I before said (and I repeat it with shame), I felt the loss of my gun more than I cared for the lecture, or the grief my conduct caused my father. I can scarcely now account for the obstinacy and hardness of heart which made me shut my ears to all remonstrances. I have since then grown wiser, and I hope better; and I feel that I ought at once to have asked my father’s forgiveness, and to have cheerfully set to work on some occupation of which he approved. With me, as it will be with every one, idleness was the mother of all mischief.

For two days I sulked, and would speak to no one. On the third I set off to take a walk by myself, across the bogs, and over the hills in the far distance. I had got into a better spirit from the fresh air and exercise; and I truly believe that I was beginning to see my error, and was resolving to do my best to make amends for it, and to give up my bad habits, when who should I encounter but Pat Doolan, one of the wildest of my wild acquaintances!

Before a word of salutation had passed, he asked me why I had not got my gun with me; and after a weak and vain endeavour to avoid answering the question, I confessed all that had occurred. He sneered at my fears and my fathers’ warnings, and laughed away all my half-formed good resolutions,—telling me that I might just as well go and borrow one of my sister’s petticoats at once, for to that I should come at last if I was going to give up all manly pursuits. Unhappy, indeed, it was for me that I listened to the voice of the tempter, instead of keeping my good resolutions safely locked up in my own breast, and instantly hurrying away from him, as I ought to have done. Or perhaps I might have answered him, “No; I must not, and will not, listen to you. I know that what I have resolved to do is right, and that which you want to persuade me to do is wicked—an instigation of the evil one; so go away and leave me.” And if he persisted in remaining near me, I should have set off and run from him as hard as I could go. This is the only way to treat temptation in whatever form it appears. Fly from it as you would from the slippery edge of a precipice.

Instead of acting thus, I sat down on the heather by his side, and, looking foolish and humbled, I began plucking off the crisp flowers and leaves, and throwing them to the winds. He asked me if I knew where the gun was locked up. When I told him that it was not locked up at all, but merely placed on the mantelpiece in my father’s dressing-room, he laughed at me for fool because I had not before re-possessed myself of it. Fool I was, in truth; but it was to yield to the bad advice my false and false-hearted friend tendered. I own that I at first was rather shocked at what he said; but still I sat and listened, and made only weak objections, so that he very speedily overcame all my scruples; and I undertook to get back my gun at all cost, and to join him on the following morning on a shooting expedition on the property of a nobleman, some part of which was seen from the hill where we had posted ourselves.

Doolan could make himself very entertaining by narrating a variety of wild adventures in which he or his companions had been engaged, or, I may say, in some of which he pretended to have been engaged; for I since have had reason to believe that he drew considerably more on his imagination than on truth for the subjects of his tales, for the purpose of raising himself in my estimation, thereby hoping to gain a greater influence over me.

I have often since met such characters, who are very boastful and bold in the company of lads younger than themselves, or of persons whom they think will believe them, but cautious and silent in the presence of those whom they have sufficient discernment to perceive at once take them at their true value. Observe one of those fellows the instant an educated gentleman appears in the circle of which he is the attraction,—how his eye will quail and his voice sink, and he will endeavour to sneak away before his true character is exposed. I need scarcely advise my readers not to be misled by such pretenders.

The property on which we had resolved to poach was owned by Lord Fetherston. We knew that he maintained but few keepers, and that those were not very vigilant. He also, we believed, was away from the country, so that we had no fears of being detected.

I said that my father had few enemies. For some reason or other, however, Lord Fetherston was one. I did not know why; and this fact Doolan, who was well aware of it, took care to bring forward in justification of the attack we purposed to make on his property. I should have known that it was no justification whatever; but when people want reasons for committing a bad act, they are obliged to make very bad ones serve their purpose.

Pat Doolan was my senior by three years. He was the son of a man who was nominally a small farmer, but in reality a smuggler, and the owner of an illicit distillery; indeed I do not know what other lawless avocations he carried on.

Very inferior, therefore, as he was in position in life, though Pat Doolan was well supplied with money, he considered it of consequence to be intimate with me, and to gain an ascendency over my mind, which he might turn to account some time or other. He kept me sitting on the heather, and listening to his good stories, and laughing at them, for upwards of two hours, till he felt sure that my good resolutions would not come back. During this time he produced some bread and meat and whisky, of which latter he made me drink no small quantity, and he then accompanied me towards my home, in sight of which he left me, with a promise to meet him on the same spot at daybreak on the following morning.

Even that very evening, as I sat with a book in my hand pretending to read, in the same room the family occupied, and listened to the cheerful voices of my light-hearted innocent sisters, I began to repent of my engagement to Doolan; but the fear of his laughing at me, and talking again about my sisters’ petticoats, made me resolve to adhere to it.

Chapter Two.

That night was far from a happy one, for I knew all the time that I was doing what was very wrong. I waited till I thought that my father and all the household were asleep; and then, with the sensations I should think a thief experiences when about to commit a robbery, I crept along the dark passage towards his dressing-room. I trembled very much, for I was afraid that something would awake him, and that he would discover what I was about. I was aware that he would learn what I had done, the first thing in the morning; but then I should be far off, enjoying my sport, and I thought not of the consequences. I felt my way along the passage, for it was quite dark. I heard a noise—I trembled more and more—I expected every instant to be discovered, and I should have retreated to my room, but that the thought of Pat Doolan’s laughter and sneers urged me on. I held my breath while I stopped to listen. There was again a dead silence, and I once more advanced. Presently something brushed against me. I was almost driven to cry out through terror, though I believe it was only the cat, whom I had disturbed from her slumbers on a rug at the door of the room occupied by my sisters. I was, I may say, constitutionally brave, almost to fool-hardiness, and yet on this occasion I felt the veriest coward in existence. Again I went on—the door of the dressing-room was ajar—I was afraid to push it lest it should creak on its hinges—I slowly moved it a little, and crept in. The moonlight was streaming through an opening in the upper part of the shutter on the coveted weapon. I grasped it eagerly, and slinging the shot-belt and powder-horn, which was by it, over my shoulder, I silently beat my retreat.

Now that I had won my prize, I felt much bolder, and without accident I reached my room. Sleep I could not; so, carefully closing the door, I spent the remainder of the night in cleaning my gun and getting ready for my excursion. I got out of the house without being perceived, and, closing the door behind me, even before the time agreed on I reached the spot where I was to meet Doolan. A hoar frost lay on the grass, the air was pure and bracing, my gun was in my hand, and plenty of powder and shot in my belt; and this, with the exercise and excitement, enabled me to cast away all regrets for my conduct, and all fear for the result.

I anxiously watched for my companion as I walked up and down the road to keep myself warm, till at last I began to fancy that some accident must have happened to prevent his coming. It never occurred to me that he could play me false. I had not learned to be suspicious of any one. At last I saw him trudging across a field towards me, and whistling as he came.

I could not have whistled if I had tried; but then, bad as he was, he was not, like me, disobeying a kind parent. When I remember the sort of person Doolan was (for his appearance was coarse and vulgar in the extreme), I wonder he could have gained such an influence over me. I believe that it was the boastful way in which he talked made me fancy him so important. I was very innocent and confiding, in spite of the bad company into which I had fallen; and I used to believe all the accounts he gave me of his own adventures, and those of his own particular friends. I have, fortunately, seldom met a man who could tell a falsehood with such a bold, unblushing front. I had a great horror of a falsehood, notwithstanding my numerous faults; I despised it as a mean, cowardly way of getting out of a difficulty, or of gaining some supposed advantage. I did not believe that a person older than myself could possibly be guilty of telling one. I fancied that only very little miserable children, or mean contemptible people, told stories; and I therefore could not fancy that such a person as Doolan would even condescend to say what was not true. I honestly say that I always adhered to the truth myself; and to this circumstance I ascribe my not having irretrievably sunk into the grade of society to which my too frequent companions belonged. I have mentioned Doolan, whose faults I would rather have forgotten; but I naturally wish to excuse myself as much as I can, and to account for the influence he had gained over me—an influence he never would have obtained had I known him to be what I now know he was.

It would indeed be happy for the young if they always could learn the true characters of their companions; and it is in this point that the advice of their older friends is so valuable. They, by their experience of others, are generally able to judge pretty correctly of persons, and often discern very dangerous qualities which young people cannot perceive. Therefore I say to my young friends, Avoid the acquaintance of those against whom your relations, or those who take an interest in your welfare, warn you, although you may think them, in your blindness, very fine fellows, or even perfect heroes. I wish that I, Peter—your friend, if you will so let me call myself—had thus followed the oft-repeated warnings of my kind father, and kept clear of Pat Doolan.

Doolan’s loud cheer, as we met, raised my spirits still more, and away we trudged gaily enough towards the scene of our intended sport. He laughed and talked incessantly without giving me a moment for thought, so that when we reached the ground I was ready for anything. A hare crossed my path. It belonged, I knew, to Lord Fetherston. I fired, knocked it over, and bagged it; and while Doolan was applauding me, a pheasant was put up, and in like manner transferred to my game-bag. Never before had we enjoyed such capital sport, till, weary with our exercise, we sat down to partake of the provisions, not forgetting a whisky bottle which my companion had brought with him. While we were eating, he amused me with an account of an intended run of smuggled goods which was to be made on the coast two nights thence; and without much difficulty I agreed to join the party who were to assist in landing the things, and in carrying them up the country to the places where they were to be concealed.

On these occasions, conflicts between the coastguard officers and the smugglers often take place, and lives are frequently lost. This I well knew, though perhaps I did not think about it. I was pleased with the idea of the danger, and flattered by having so much confidence placed in me. I thought it was a very manly thing to assist the smugglers, while Doolan all the time wished to implicate me, to be able, should we be discovered, to shield himself by means of me. After breakfast we resumed our sport. Our game-bags were full and very heavy, and even we were content. My companion at last proposed to return home. “Home,” I remarked unconsciously. “How can I return home? How can I face my father after having thus disobeyed him?” I thought. This feeling had not before occurred to me. I already repented what I had done. “I can’t go home now,” said I to Doolan aloud.

“Why not?” said he; “you’ve a mighty fine faste to place before your dad; and, faith, if he’s a sinsible man, he’ll ax no questions how you came by it.” Such were my companion’s notions of morality; and in this instance he spoke what he thought was the truth, for he had been taught no better, and he knew that thus his own father would have acted.

“It won’t do; I cannot look my father in the face, and must go to your house now; and I will creep home at night, when there’s no one to see me.”

“Well, Pater, you must do as you like,” he said, laughing; “you’re mighty welcome to come to our house and to stay there as long as you plase; at the same time that I see no reason at all, at all, why your dad shouldn’t be glad to see such an illigant stock of game for his dinner.”

“I know my father better than you do, Pat,” said I, for the first time in my life asserting a little determination with him. “Home I will not go this day.”

So it was settled; and we were bending our steps in the direction of Doolan’s house, through Lord Fetherston’s property, when another pheasant got up before me. My gun was loaded, and I could not resist the temptation to fire. The bird fell, and I was running forward to pick it up, when three persons appeared suddenly from a path through a copse close to me. Doolan, who was a little in advance, ran off as fast as his legs could carry him, throwing away his game-bag in his fright, and leaving me to take care of myself as I best could. Two of the strangers, whom I guessed to be keepers by their dress—indeed one I knew by sight—rushed forward and seized me roughly by the collar.

“What are you doing here, you young scamp?” exclaimed one of them. “Killing our lord’s game, and caught in the act,” he added, picking up the still fluttering bird. “Come along, and we’ll see what he has to say to you.”

The other immediately made chase after my companion; but Doolan ran very fast, and was in good wind, which the keeper was not, so that the former soon distanced him. The keeper gave up the chase, calculating that, having caught one of us, he should be able to lay hands on the other whenever he chose.

On his return, with many a cuff he dragged me along towards the third person I spoke of, and whom I at once recognised as Lord Fetherston himself. He did not remember me; but the keepers did, I suspect, from the first.

“What is your name, youngster?” said his lordship in a severe tone.

I told him, with the shame I felt strongly depicted on my countenance.

“I am sorry to hear it,” he replied. “And that of your companion?”

“Pat Doolan, my lord.” I said this with no vindictive feeling, or with any idea of excusing myself; but I was asked a question, and without considering what might be the result I answered it.

“A pretty companion for the son of the vicar of —. Take away his gun, O’Rourke,” he said to the keeper, “and the game: to that he has no right. And now, young gentleman, I shall see your father on this matter shortly. If he chooses to let his son commit depredations on my property, he must take the consequences.”

“I came out without my father’s knowledge, and he is in no way to blame,” I answered quickly; for I could not bear to have any reflection cast on my father through my fault.

Lord Fetherston looked at me attentively, and I think I heard him muttering something like, “He is a brave lad, and must be rescued from such companionship;” but I am not quite certain.

“Well, sir, you at all events must not escape punishment,” he replied aloud. “For the present, I leave you in the custody of my keepers. You see the condition to which you have reduced yourself.”

He then gave some orders to one of the keepers, which I did not hear; and without further noticing me he walked on, while they led me away towards Fetherston Abbey, his lordship’s residence. I need scarcely say that my feelings were very wretched, and full of shame; and yet perhaps I would rather it should thus have happened, than that I should have been compelled to go back to my father. It was perhaps somewhat of a consolation to feel that I was being justly punished, and yet not by my father’s hand. I don’t know that I thought this at the time, but I know that I did afterwards. And then, when days had passed, and many other events had occurred, I felt very grateful that Providence had thus disposed of me, and had preserved me from a fate which in all human probability would have been mine had I this time escaped with impunity.

Lord Fetherston was a magistrate, and consequently in the Abbey there was a strong room, in which, on occasion, prisoners were locked up before they were carried off to jail. Into this room I was led, and with a heavy heart I heard the key turned in the lock, and found myself alone. If I had wished to escape I could not; and there were no books, or other means of amusement, so that I was left to my own reflections. A servant, who would not answer any questions, brought me in some dinner, which I could scarcely taste; and at night a small bed, ready-made, was brought in, and I was again left to myself. Two days thus passed away: my obstinate spirit was completely broken, and I must say that I truly had repented of all my folly and idleness. On the third day the door opened, and my father appeared. He looked very sad, but not angry. He took a chair and sat down, while I stood before him. For more than a minute he could not speak.

“Peter,” he at length said, “I do not come to reproach you: the grief I and your mother feel, and what you will have to endure henceforth, will be, I trust, sufficient punishment. We must part with you, my son; we have no choice. You must go to foreign lands, and there retrieve your name, and, I trust, improve and strengthen your character. You have placed yourself and me in Lord Fetherston’s power. He insists on it, that you shall forthwith be sent to sea; and on that condition he promises to overlook all that has occurred. He did not even speak harshly of you; and I am fain to believe that what he has decided is for the best. At my earnest solicitation, he consented that you should take only a short voyage first to North America, provided that you sail without delay. Accordingly, I have agreed to set off to-morrow with you for Liverpool, whence many ships sail for that part of the world, and I dare say that I shall find some captain to take charge of you. Do you consent to abide by this arrangement?”

“I think Lord Fetherston is right,” I replied. “The life of a sailor, if what I know of it is correct (little in truth did I know of it), will just suit me; and though I regret to go as I am going, and grieve to wound my mother’s heart, yet I consider that I am very leniently dealt with, and will gladly accept the conditions.” So it was settled, and my father led me out of my prison. Lord Fetherston met us as we left the mansion.

“My son gratefully accepts your conditions, my lord,” said my father, colouring. His pride, I fear, was humbled to the dust (alas! through me) when he said so. “I shall fulfil to the letter your lordship’s commands.”

“I am glad to hear it, Mr Lefroy; depend on it, you act wisely,” said Lord Fetherston. “And I trust that we part without malice, young man,” addressing me. “You have my well-wishes, I can assure you.” He held out his hand, and I shook it, I believe gratefully, though I said nothing; and without another word I jumped into the car which had brought my father, and we drove home.

There was much grief and sorrow when we got there, and many a tear in the eyes of my mother and my sweet, ever kind, sisters as they packed up my little kit; but not a word of reproach. Thus passed the last day for many a long year that I spent at home.

Let me tell those who wish to quit their homes to go roaming round the world in search of what they know not, that though they chance to bring back shiploads of riches, they will find no jewels comparable in price to a another’s fond love, a father’s protecting affection, the sweet forbearing regard of tender sisters, a brother’s hearty interest, or the calm tranquillity of the family roof.

I write for the large and happy majority of my readers: some few are less fortunate, and they in truth deserve the sympathy of the rest. Cherish, I say, while you can, the affections of your home; and depend on it, when far away, the recollection alone will be like a refreshing spot in the weary desert through which your path in life may lead you; for be assured that there is no place like home.

Chapter Three.

I remember very little of my journey to Dublin, except that it was performed on the top of the mail. My father went outside also, which was not his usual custom; but he did not like to expose me to the inclemency of the weather while he was comfortably ensconced within (another proof of his love), and he could not spare money to pay for my fare inside.

We saw my eldest brother for an instant, just for me to wish him good-bye, and the same afternoon we went on board a steamer bound for Liverpool.

She was very different to the superb vessels which now run twice a day from one place to the other, making the two capitals, for all intents and purposes, not so far off as London and Winchester were not a hundred years ago. She was in every respect inferior; but I thought her, as she was indeed, a very wonderful vessel. I was never tired of examining her machinery, and in wandering through every part of her.

I had never before been on board a steamer; and as I was naturally of an inquiring disposition, I had numberless questions to ask to learn how it was the steam made the engines work, and the engine made the large paddle-wheels go round. This occupation prevented me from thinking of what had occurred, and kept me in good spirits.

Arrived at Liverpool, we went to an inn, and my father immediately set out with me to inquire among the ship-brokers what ships were sailing for British North America.

“You shall go to an English colony, Peter,” said my father. “Wherever you wander, my son, remember you are a Briton, and cease not to love your native land.”

Liverpool was then, I thought, a very fine city. I was particularly struck by the fine public buildings; the broad streets, full of richly-stocked shops; and more than all, by the docks, crowded with shipping. Since then, several of the streets have been widened, the docks have been increased, and many fine buildings have been added; and as the wealth of Liverpool continues to increase, many more will be added, till it vies with some of the proudest cities in the world. Such is the result of commerce, when guided by a wise and liberal policy.

Had my father known more of the world, I am inclined to think that he would have waited till he could procure an introduction to some respectable ship-owner, who would have selected a good honest captain with whom to place me. Instead of so doing, he walked into several offices by chance, over which he saw written “Shipping Agent and Broker.” Some had no ships going to the British North American ports, others did not know of any captains who would take charge of a raw youngster like me. One said if I liked to go to the coast of Africa he could accommodate me, but that he could not say that I might not have to spend two or three months up some of the rivers, waiting for a return cargo of ivory and gold dust. Another said he could secure me a trip to China if I would pay a premium; and three others offered me cruises to the West Indies and North America. The fact was, that the navigation of the mighty river Saint Lawrence was scarcely open, and consequently few ships were ready to sail for Quebec. At last a broker into whose office we entered, informed us that he was agent for one of the first emigrant ships which would sail that year; that her captain was a very superior man, a great friend of his; and that he doubted not for a small premium he would take charge of me. Mr John Cruden, our new friend, insurance broker and general shipping agent, was a very polite man, and extremely soft-spoken; but he was of an extremely inquisitive disposition, I thought, for he asked my father numberless questions about himself and me, to all of which he returned the short monosyllable “H’m,” which did not inform us whether he was satisfied or not. I found all the time that he was merely trying to discover what amount of premium my father was likely to be able to pay, that he might ask accordingly.

The office, in which we stood, was very small for the large amount of business Mr Cruden informed us he transacted in it, and very dark; and so dirty, that I thought it could never have been cleaned out since he commenced his avocations there. There were sea-chests, and cases, and small casks of all sorts piled up in all the odd corners. There were also coils of rope, and bottles, and rusty iron implements, the form of which I could not discern, and bundles of old clothes and canvas bags, and compass-boxes in and about the cases, and hanging from the ceiling; while a tarry, fishy, strong shippy odour pervaded the room. I was particularly struck with the model of a ship fully rigged on a shelf over the mantelpiece; but she also was as much covered with dust as the ship in which the ancient mariner went to sea would have been, after he had shot the albatross, could any dust have reached her. I observed all these things while our new friend was talking to my father.

“You will doubtless like to make the acquaintance of Captain Elihu Swales, Mr Lefroy,” said Mr Cruden. “I expect him here every instant, and I shall then have the pleasure of introducing him to you, and we can arrange matters forthwith. You will find him, sir, a very amiable, excellent man—indeed you will, sir—a very proper guardian for a young man.”

Whether this description was correct or not I had then no means of judging. The subject of this eulogium appeared while it was being uttered; indeed I suspect he heard a portion of it, for, suddenly turning my head after growing weary of looking at the dusty ship, I saw a man, whom I instinctively suspected to be the captain, standing outside the little paddock in which we were enclosed, called by Mr Cruden his counting-house, with a very peculiar smile on his countenance. Had I not turned, I think he would have burst forth outright into laughter. I must remark that my father’s back was towards him, and that Mr Cruden, unless he was very near-sighted, could scarcely have helped seeing when he came in.

“Ah, there is at last my excellent friend,” observed the agent when he perceived that I had discovered the captain. “Mr Lefroy, allow me to introduce Captain Swales to you. Captain Swales, this gentleman has a son whom he wishes to send to sea. You will take charge of the lad. You will be a second father to him. I can depend on you. Say the word, and all parties will come to terms.”

“Day, sir,” said Captain Swales, making as if he would take off his hat, which he did not. He was a very respectable man, as far as dress went; that is to say, he was clothed in a suit of black cloth, with a black silk handkerchief—nothing very remarkable, certainly: most masters and mates of merchantmen wear such on shore. His figure was short and square, there was nothing rounded about him; his features were all angular; and though there was a good deal of him, it was all bone and sinew. His countenance was brown, with a deep tinge of red superadded; and as for his features, they were so battered and seamed with winds and weather, that it was difficult to discern their expression. I remember, however, that the first glance I caught of his eye, as it looked inquiringly towards Mr Cruden, I did not like, even though at the time he was smiling.

“You wish to send your son to sea, sir,” he continued to my father. “As Mr Cruden says, I’ll look after him as if he was my own boy, sir. I’ll keep him from mischief, sir. Lads always gets into mischief if they can; but with me, sir, they can’t—I don’t let ’em. I look after them, sir; and when they knows my eye is on them, they behaves themselves. That’s my principle, sir; and now you know me.”

He said this in an off-hand, bluff, hearty way, which made my father fully believe that he had fallen in with a prize—indeed, that he was supremely fortunate in having secured so kind a protector for me. It was finally arranged that he was to pay Captain Elihu Swales the sum of fifteen pounds; in consideration of which, in addition to any service I could be of, I was to mess at his table, and to learn what I could of a seaman’s duty, till the ship returned to Liverpool.

The Black Swan, the name of Captain Elihu Swales’ ship, would not be ready for sea for some days, he informed my father; and till she was so, as he was compelled to return home immediately, Mr Cruden kindly undertook to board and lodge me at the rate of twelve shillings a week. I was to go on board the Black Swan every day, to see if I was wanted; and I was to return to Mr Cruden’s in the afternoon, or when I was not wanted. My father considered this a very admirable arrangement, and was perfectly confident that he had done the best circumstances would allow, and that he had left me in safe and honourable hands.

On our way to our inn, we met one of the brokers to whom we had spoken in the morning. He asked if we had found what we wanted. “Oh yes,” replied my father, “an excellent man, Captain Swales, a friend of Mr Cruden’s—very superior—very superior indeed.” The broker, I thought, looked odd at this, and was at first apparently going to speak; but on second thoughts he seemed to consider that it was no business of his, and he passed on with a cold “Oh, really—good-day, sir.” It was afterwards only, perhaps, that his manner struck me; at the time I supposed that it was usual to him.

We spent most of the afternoon in purchasing a sea-chest and an outfit for me, according to a list furnished by Mr Cruden, to whose office my traps were transferred forthwith. We did not go down to see the Black Swan, because Captain Swales said she was a long way off, and was not fit to receive visitors, but that she would be in a few days. He then remarked that she was one of the finest and fastest craft out of Liverpool. “Nothing could beat the Black Swan when she had a mind to put her best foot foremost.” I was wondering whether ships really had feet. I afterwards found that this was a figurative way of expressing that she sailed fast. These observations were made when we returned with my chest to Mr Cruden’s, where we again met my future captain; and when the sum agreed on for my voyage was paid into the hands of the first-named person, my father’s heart was softened towards me; and after he had exhausted all the good advice he could think of, and had given me several useful books, and many little articles of his own property, he made me a present of six pounds as pocket-money, and to purchase anything I might wish to bring back from America. He took his watch out of his fob, and would have given me that also, but I persuaded him to keep it, assuring him that I did not require it, and that I should certainly break it, or lose it overboard, as would have been the case probably the first time I went aloft. The next morning my poor father returned by the steamer to Dublin. He felt very much, I am sure, at parting from me, more than he would have done under other circumstances, though by a considerable effort he mastered himself so as not publicly to betray his emotions. He was gone; and I was left alone in the big world to look after myself, with little more experience of its ways than a child.

Chapter Four.

When my father was gone, I went back to Mr Cruden’s office and asked him to tell me where I could find his house, at which I understood I was to lodge.

He looked up from the book in which he was writing, with an air of surprise, and replied, “You are mistaken, my lad, if you suppose that I am about to introduce into the bosom of my family one of whom I know nothing. Your father is a very respectable man, I dare say, and you may be a very estimable youth, for what I know; but it is generally a different sort who are sent to sea as you are being sent; and therefore it is just possible you may be a wild young scamp, whose face his friends may never wish to behold again—hark you.”

I blushed as he said this, and looked confused; for my conscience told me that he spoke the truth.

“Ah! I guessed I was right,” he continued. “Now, to answer your question. While you remain on shore, which won’t be for long, you may swing your hammock in the loft over this office; and for cooking, you won’t require much of that. This will break you in by degrees for the life you’ve to lead, and will do you good, my lad. So I hope you will be grateful.”

From the determined manner he had about him, I supposed that all was right; and had it been otherwise, my spirits at that time were too low to allow me to remonstrate. I asked him next if I could not go on board the Black Swan, to make myself useful.

He gave a peculiar smile, the meaning of which I did not comprehend at the time, as he replied, “By all means. You will probably find Captain Swales on board—at all events his first mate; and you may offer your valuable services to them. When they have done with you, you may come back here. By keeping along the quays to the right, you cannot miss the ship if you ask for her.”

I had scarcely fancied that there were so many ships in the world as I saw crowded together in the Liverpool docks, as I passed through them for the first time in my life. It gave me a great notion of the wealth and commerce of the place. “And these will all be gone in a few weeks,” I thought, “scattered far and wide to all parts of the world, and their places will be filled by others now on their homeward voyage, which will have again to make way for a totally fresh set.” I inquired for the Black Swan of the seamen and porters loitering about the quays, but I did not get very satisfactory answers. Some told me that she was drunk last night, and had not got up yet. Others said she had sailed yesterday, for they had seen her dropping down with the tide. The boatmen invariably wanted me to take a boat to look for her, as the only chance I had of finding her; but I saw that they were trying to impose on me, and passed on. At last, when I had got very near to the west end of the docks, I asked a man whom I saw standing in a meditative mood, with his hands in his pockets, if he would tell me where the Black Swan was to be found.

“Why, I calculate, if you look right before your nose, young one, you’ll see her as big as life,” he answered, pointing to a large ship lying along the quay, on board which a number of men were employed about the rigging; while others, with a peculiar song, were hoisting in the cargo. I found that the first were riggers, and that the others were dock porters, and that neither belonged to the ship; the regular crew, with the exception of two mates and the cook, not being engaged till just before the ship was ready for sea.

I must notice here the very bad system which has long prevailed with regard to British merchant seamen. The moment a ship arrives in harbour, the crew are paid their wages and discharged. On this they are immediately set upon by Jews and harpies of every description. I do them no wrong when I say that they are the very worst of the human race: the fiercest savages have some virtues—these wretches have none.

The poor seamen are cajoled by them with every artful device; nor do the miscreants cease till they have plundered them of all their hard-earned gold. Not content with this, these crimps—for such is the name by which these persons are known—encourage the seamen to get into their debt, chiefly for liquor; and they then go to the masters of merchantmen looking out for crews, and make any arrangements they please. Part of the seamen’s wages are paid in advance, and this goes into the pockets of the crimps. I have known men put on board in a state of brutal intoxication, without knowing who were their officers, or where they were going to. Thus the men were kept in a state of absolute slavery, without self-respect or a chance of improvement.

I speak of the system as it was till lately. I trust that a better state of affairs is now being introduced; at the same time, as there is a tendency in most things to let abuses creep in, I must entreat you, my young friends, in your several capacities when you grow up, not to forget the interests of our brave seamen. On those seamen depend greatly the prosperity, the glory, the very existence of England; and, whether as legislators or as private gentlemen, I tell you it is your duty to inquire into their condition, and to endeavour to improve it by every means in your power.

But to return to the Black Swan, and the man who had pointed her out to me. There was something I remarked very peculiar about the said man, so I will speak of him first. He wore a straw hat with a very broad brim, a nankeen jacket, though the weather was still cold, Flushing trousers, which did not near reach to his ankles, and a waistcoat of fur—of beaver, I believe, or of wild cat. He had a very long face, and lantern jaws. His nose was in proportion, and it curled down in a way which gave it a most facetious expression; while a very bright small pair of eyes had also a sort of constant laugh in them, though the rest of his features looked as if they could never smile. His complexion had a very leathery look, and his figure was tall and lanky in the extreme. I could not have said whether he was an old or a young man by his appearance.

“Well, there’s the ship,” he observed, seeing that I was looking at him instead of going on board. “Do you know me now?” with an emphasis on the do. “That’s kind now to acknowledge an old friend. We was raised together, I guess; only you wasn’t weaned till last summer, when the grass was dried up.”

I saw that he was laughing at me; but as I felt that I had been rude in staring at him, I said I begged his pardon, but that he made a mistake in supposing we were acquainted, unless he had visited the south of Ireland, seeing that I had never been out of that part of the country before. This seemed to amuse him mightily, for he gave way to a quiet and very peculiar laugh, which I heard as I passed on towards the ship.

There was a plank placed from the quay to the deck of the ship, and by means of it I stepped on board the Black Swan. No one took any notice of me, so that I had time to look about me. She was a ship of some eight hundred tons burthen, though she was advertised as of twelve hundred. She had a raised poop aft, which I may describe as an additional house above the deck, the doors of which opened on the deck. There was a similar raised place forward, called the topgallant forecastle. Under the latter the seamen and mate lived, while the captain and passengers inhabited the poop. The space between decks was open fore and aft, and fitted up with standing bed-places. This was for the abode of the poorer class of emigrants. The hold, the remaining portion of the ship below the main deck, was filled with cargo and provisions.

All this I discovered afterwards, for at first everything appeared to my sight an inextricable mass of confusion and disorder. After watching for some time, I observed a man whom I concluded was the first mate, by the way he ordered the other people about and the air of authority which he assumed; so at last I mustered courage to go up to him.

“Please, sir,” said I in an unusually humble tone, “are you the first mate of the ship?”

“Well, if I am, and what then?” was his not very courteous answer.

“Why, it’s settled that I’m to go in this ship to learn to be a sailor, so I’ve come on board at once to make myself useful,” I replied.

He eyed me curiously from head to foot as if I was some strange animal, and then burst into a loud laugh. “You learn to be a sailor?—you make yourself useful?—you chaw-bacon. Why, the hay-seed is still sticking in your hair, and the dust ain’t off your shoes yet. What can you do now?” he asked.

I confessed that I knew nothing about a ship, except the machinery of a steamer, which I had examined in my passage across from Dublin; but that I would learn as fast as I could.

“And so you are a young gentleman, are you?” he continued, without attending to my observations. “Sent to sea to learn manners! Well, we’ll soon knock your gentility out of you, let me tell you. Howsomdever, we don’t want no help here, so be off on shore again; and when you meet John Smith, just ask him to take you a walk through the town, and not to bring you back to make yourself useful till the ship’s ready for sea, d’ye hear, or you’ll wish you’d stayed away, that’s all.”

I must say that even at that time I thought such a man was not fit to be placed in command of others, and yet I am sorry to say that I met many others no better fitted to act as officers. I did not answer him; and though I did not understand what he meant about John Smith, I comprehended enough of his observations to judge that it would be more advantageous for me to keep out of his way; so I walked along the plank again to the quay. There was the man I have described, standing as complacently as ever. As smoking is not allowed in the docks, for fear of fire, he was chewing.

“And so, young ’un, you’ve done your business on board; and what are you going to do next?” he asked, as he saw me sauntering along. I felt that there was a kind tone in his voice, so I told him that I had nothing to do, as the mate of the Black Swan did not require my services.

One question led on to another, and he very soon wormed my whole history out of me. “And your name is Peter Lefroy, is it? Then mine’s Silas Flint, at your service. And now, as neither of us has anything to do, we’ll go and help each other; so come along.” Saying this, he led the way out of the dock.

I wondered who Mr Silas Flint could be, and yet I had no mistrust in him. From his manner, and the tone of his voice, I thought he was honest, and meant me no harm; and my heart, I must own, yearned for companionship. He did not leave me long in doubt; for after I had told him everything I had to tell about my previous life, he began to be equally communicative about himself. “You see, Peter, I’ve secured my passage in the Black Swan, so we shall be fellow-voyagers; and as I’ve taken a sort of liking to you, I hope we shall be friends. I come from ’Merica, over there, though I don’t belong to the parts she’s going to; but you see I’ve got some business at Quebec, and so I’m going there first.” I cannot pretend to give his peculiar and quaint phraseology.

I soon learned that he was raised, as he called it, in the Western States of America; that he had spent much of his life as a hunter and trapper, though he was a man of some little substance; that having accidentally seen an advertisement in the paper, stating that if the heirs of the late Josiah Flint, of Barnet, in the county of Hertfordshire, England, would apply to Messrs Grub and Gull, Fleece Court, Chancery Lane, London, they would hear of something to their advantage, he, believing himself to be a descendant of the said Josiah, had come over to hear the welcome news. He remarked, with his peculiar smile, that he had heard a great deal which might be very advantageous to him, and which might or might not be true, but that he had got nothing—that he had established his undoubted claim to be one of the heirs of the said Josiah, but that he had fifty cousins, who had turned up in all directions, and whom he would never otherwise have had the happiness of knowing. The gain in this case did not seem great, as they none of them showed any cousinly affection, but did their best to prove that he was an impostor. Thus all the share of his grandfather’s property went in law expenses; and he was going back to the land of his father’s adoption considerably poorer than he came, and in no loving humour with England and his English cousins.

Such is the brief outline Silas Flint gave me of his history, as we strolled together through the streets of Liverpool. If, however, I continue describing all the characters I met, and all the strange things I saw, I shall never get on with my history. Silas made a confession which much pleased me: it was, that although he had lived many years in the world, he still felt that he had much to learn, and was constantly doing things he wished to undo: the last was paying his money for his passage, before he had made any inquiries about the ship. He hinted that Mr Cruden was not as honest as he might be; that he suspected Captain Swales was no better; and that the way the poor emigrants who had come to Liverpool from all parts to go by the ship were treated, was most shameful.

He told me that, in the first place, they were attracted there by advertisements long before the ship was ready for sea, partly that the ship-brokers might make certain of having the ship filled, and not a little for the benefit of the inns and lodging-house keepers. As soon as they arrived—most of them absurdly ignorant of what was to be done, and of the necessaries required for the voyage—they were pounced upon by a set of harpies, who misled them in every possible way, and fleeced them without mercy. There existed—and, I am sorry to say, exist to the present day—a regular gang of these wretches, by profession lodging-house keepers, ship-chandlers, outfitters, and provision merchants. So notorious have they become, that they now go by the name of the Forty Thieves, for to that number amount the worthy fraternity.

Silas Flint took me round to a number of our intended fellow-voyagers; and we found them loud in their complaints of the treatment they had received, though, when he had discovered them, he had been able to preserve them from much further expense by describing the character of the country to which they were going, and the things they would most require. Among them were a great many of my countrymen. They were generally the most forlorn and heartbroken, though they had indeed little to leave behind; but then the slightest incident would make them forget their grief, and clap their hands with shouts of laughter.

The sorrow of the English was less loud; but it took much more, I observed, to make them smile. They were better dressed, and seemed to have made more provision for the voyage. They had also been proportionably more fleeced by the Forty Thieves. When so many of our poor countrymen are leaving our shores annually to lands where they can procure work and food, we should have a far better supervision and a more organised system of emigration than now exists. And again I say to my young countrymen, when you grow up, make it your business to inquire into the subject; inquire with your own eyes, remember; do not trust to what is told you; and if you do not find such a system established, strive with heart and hand, and weary not till you have established it; at all events, correct the abuses which too probably by that time will have sprung up. You will all have the power of aiding that or any other good work. If you are not in influential positions, if you have not wealth at command, you at least have tongues to speak with, pens to write with; so talk about it in private, speak in public, write on the subject, and, depend on it, you will ultimately gain your object.

It was very late in the day when I returned to the office. Mr Cruden was about to go away. He told me, that as I had chosen to be absent at the dinner hour, I must be content with what I could get; and he pointed to some musty bread and cheese, and a glass of sour, turbid-looking ale which stood on the desk. I was, however, too hungry to refuse it; so I ate it as soon as he was gone. An old porter had charge of the premises, and he now beckoned me to follow him to a sort of loft or lumber-room over the office, where he had slung a hammock, which he told me I might sleep in, or I might, if I liked, sleep on the bare boards outside. “The hammock’s more comfortable than it looks, young ’un, so I’d advise you to try it,” he remarked; and I found his remark true. As I was very tired, I was glad to turn in early and forget my sorrows in sleep. The next day I fared no better than the first, and all the time I boarded with Mr Cruden the only variation in my food from bread and cheese was hard biscuits and very doubtful-looking pork and beef. When I told Silas Flint of the treatment I had received, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Can you mend it?” he asked.

I told him that I could complain.

“To whom?” he said. “You have no one to complain to—no friend in the place. Now let me advise you to do as I do. When you can’t cure a thing, grin and bear it; but if you see your way out of a fix, then go tooth and nail at it, and don’t let anything stop you till you’re clear. That’s my maxim, youngster; but there’s no use kicking against the pricks—it wears out one’s shoes, and hurts the feet into the bargain. Now, soon after I took my passage in this here Black Swan, I guessed I had made a mistake; but what would have been the use of my going to law about it? I knowed better. I should only have sent my last dollar to look after the many which have gone to prove I was first cousin to a set of people, who would all rather have heard my father was drowned years ago than have set eyes on me. I tell you, Peter, you must grin and bear it, as you’ll have to do many things as you get through life.”

I found that my friend practised what he preached; for so completely were his finances exhausted by his law expenses, that he had to husband all his resources to enable him to return home. In board and lodging he was worse off than I was; and, as he said, he was accustomed to camp out at night, to save the expense of a bed. He used to amuse himself in the day by walking about to look out for a snug place to sleep in at night, either in the city or its neighbourhood, and he seldom occupied the same spot two nights running. He assured me, and I believed him, that it was far pleasanter than sleeping in the close atmosphere of a crowded room; and it reminded him faintly of his beloved prairies, on which he had spent the greater part of his life. The chief portion of every day, for a week before the ship was reported ready for sailing, I passed with my new-found friend; and, as may be supposed, I did not again offer my valuable services to the mate of the Black Swan, nor was any inquiry made after me by her worthy captain.

Chapter Five.

At last I was informed by Mr Cruden that I might transfer my chest and myself on board the Black Swan. Accordingly, the old porter wheeled the former down to the docks, while I walked by its side. I gave the old porter a shilling for his trouble: his eye brightened, and he blessed me, and muttered something about wishing that I had fallen into better hands; but he was afraid, apparently, of saying more, and casting another glance at me, I suspect of commiseration, he tottered off to his daily avocations. My chest, which was a very small one, was stowed away by one of the seamen under a bunk in the forecastle. I thought that I was to have a cabin under the poop, and to mess with the captain; but when I made inquiries, no one could give any information, and the captain was nowhere to be seen. Everything on board appeared in the wildest confusion; and I must own that I got most unaccountably in everybody’s way, and accordingly got kicked out of it without the slightest ceremony.

Silas had not arrived, so I could not go to him for information. I therefore climbed up out of the way, to the boat, placed amidships, on the top of the booms. Soon afterwards the emigrants’ bag and baggage began to arrive. I was amused by observing the odd and mixed collection of things the poor people brought with them, some of the more bulky articles of which were not admitted on board. The Jew harpies were on the quays ready to snap them up, giving little or nothing in return. I thought that it was a great pity that there were no means to enable these poor people to obtain better information before they left home, to have saved them the expense of dragging so much useless lumber about with them. I pitied them, not because they were going to another land where they could get food and employment, but for their helpless ignorance, and the want of any one fit to lead or direct them, as also for the treatment they were receiving at the hands of the countrymen they were leaving for ever.

Many of them resented bitterly the impositions practised on them; and I saw some of them, with significant gestures, take off their shoes and shake the dust over the ship’s side as they stepped on board, while they gave vent to their feelings in oaths not lowly muttered. Henceforth, instead of friends and supporters, they were to be foes to England and the English—aliens of the country which should have cherished and protected them, but did not. Such things were—such things are: when will they cease to be? What a strange mixture of people there were, from all parts of the United Kingdom—aged men and women; young brides and their husbands; mothers with tribes of children, some with their infants still unweaned—talking many different dialects, weeping, laughing, shrieking, and shouting! At last they got their berths allotted to them, and they began to stow away their provisions and baggage between decks. Some kept going backwards and forwards from the ship to the shore, and no notice being given, many of them were left behind when the ship hauled out of dock, and had to come on board in boats, at a considerable expense, after being well frightened at the thoughts that we had sailed without them.

We lay out in the stream for another whole day, with the Blue Peter flying, to show that we were ready for sea, and to summon any passengers who might yet remain on shore. Silas Flint was one of the last to come on board, before we left the dock. He appeared following a porter, who wheeled down his chest, containing all his property. He did not even give me a look of recognition as he passed me; but he at once plunged below with his chest, and he studiously avoided coming near me. This I thought odd and unkind, nor could I comprehend the cause of this behaviour.

I was sitting very disconsolate by myself among the emigrants, and wondering when the captain would come on board, and when I should begin to learn to be a seaman, when I felt the no pleasing sensation of a rope’s end laid smartly across my shoulders. I turned quickly round to resent the indignity, when I encountered the stern glance of the first mate, Mr Stovin, fixed on me, while the “colt” in his hand showed that he was the aggressor. “And so you are the youngster who wanted to make himself useful, are you?” he exclaimed in a sneering voice.

“I am,” I replied; “and I’ll thank you in future not to take such liberties with my back.”

He burst into a loud laugh. “O my young cock-a-hoop, you show fight, do you?” he exclaimed. “Well, we’ll see what you are made of before long.”

“I’m ready to do my duty when you show me the way,” I answered in as calm a voice as I could command; and I believe this reply, and the having kept my temper, gave him a more favourable opinion of me than he was before inclined to form, and somewhat softened his savage nature.

“A willing hand will have no want of masters,” he observed. “And mind, what I tell you to do you’ll do as well as you can, and we shan’t fall foul of each other.”

I will now describe the Black Swan. She measured nearly eight hundred tons, was ship-rigged, and had been built many years. She carried eighteen hands forward, with two cooks and a steward, besides the captain, four mates, and a doctor.

There were about four hundred and forty steerage passengers, who, I may explain, are the poorer classes; and I think there were ten cabin passengers, who berthed in the cabin and messed with the captain. The steerage passengers brought their own provisions, but the captain was obliged to provide them with water and biscuit, just to keep life in them; indeed, without it many of them would have died. It was, I felt, like severing the last link which bound us to our native shores, when the pilot left us at the mouth of the Mersey, and with a fair wind we stood down the Irish Channel.

I cannot say that before I quitted home I had any very definite idea of the life of a sailor; but I had some notion that his chief occupation was sitting with his messmates round a can of grog, and singing songs about his sweetheart: the reality I found was very different.

The first time I had any practical experience of this was when, the pilot having left us, and the wind having veered round to the north-east, the captain ordered the ship to be kept away before it. His eye happened to fall upon me for the first time, dressed in my sea toggery, and seated, with my hands in my pockets, on the booms.

“Hillo, Jim—what’s-your-name—we’ll have none of your idling ways here if you belong to this ship, as I’ve a notion you do,” he exclaimed. “Aloft there with you, then, and help furl the mizzen topsail. Be smart about it, or I’ll freshen your way with a rope’s end, and we’ll see if you give me an answer.”

By this last observation, I guessed that the mate had told him of the answer I had given him, and I felt that the wisest thing I could do was to obey him without making any reply. What, however, he meant by “furling the mizzen topsail” I had not the slightest notion; but as I saw that he pointed to the mizzen-mast, and that several lads and men were ascending the mizzen rigging, I followed them. I was a good climber, so I had no fear of going aloft; and while I was in the top, luckily one of my new messmates, who was already lying out on the yard, exclaimed, “Hillo, Peter, lend us a hand here, my lad.” On hearing this, I immediately threw myself on the yard, and following his directions I made a very fair furl of it. I got no praise certainly for this, but I escaped blame; and I saw by the way the other mizzen-top men treated me, that they considered me a smart lad, and no flincher.

From that moment I was never idle. I followed a piece of advice honest Dick Derrick gave me on this occasion: “Never let go with one hand till you’ve got a good gripe with the other; and if you cannot hold on with your hands, make use of your teeth and legs; and mind, clutch fast till you’ve picked out a soft spot to fall on.” Dick Derrick taught me to hand, furl, and steer, to knot and splice, to make sinnet and spun-yarn, and the various other parts of a seaman’s business. I was ambitious to learn; and I found the work, when taught by him, both easy and pleasant.

I was placed in the second mate’s watch, and had to keep my watch regularly. In this I was fortunate. William Bell was his name. He was a quiet, gentlemanly young man, who always kept his temper, however roughly spoken to by the captain. It was through no want of spirit that he did not reply to the abuse thrown at him, as I afterwards discovered, but because it was the wisest and most dignified course to pursue. As I said before, I expected to mess in the cabin, and to be a sort of midshipman; but when I went up to the captain and told him so, he laughed at me, and asked me if I would show him any written agreement on the subject, for that he knew nothing at all about it. All he could say was, that I was entered as a ship’s boy; that as such I must be berthed and messed, and do duty. If I did not like it, he would see what Mr Stovin had to say to me. I saw that there was no help for me; so, following Silas Flint’s advice, I determined to grin and bear it.

We sighted Cape Clear, the south-westernmost point of Ireland. I longed to be able to swim on shore and return home. I did not the less wish to see the world, but I did not much like the company with whom I was likely to see it; Mr Stovin and his rope’s-ending were not agreeable companions. From Cape Clear we took a fresh departure. A ship is said to take her departure from a point, the distance and the bearing of the point being ascertained when her course is marked off from the spot where she then is. At four p.m. Cape Clear bore five miles north-east of us, or rather we were five miles south-west of the Cape. This spot was marked on the chart; and the distance run, and the course by compass, were each day afterwards pricked off in like manner on the charts. The distance run is measured by the log, which is hove every two hours.

The log is a small triangular piece of wood, secured to the end of a long line, on which divisions are marked, bearing the same proportion to a mile which a half-minute bears to an hour. One man holds a half-minute glass in his hand—another a reel on which the line is rolled—a third, the mate, takes the log and heaves it overboard, drawing off the line with his left hand. Thus, as the log remains stationary in the water, according to the number of divisions or knots run off while the sand in the glass is running, will be shown the number of miles the ship is going in the hour. Instead of miles, the word knots is used, evidently from the knots marked on the line.

The mode I have thus briefly described of finding the ship’s course is called “dead reckoning.” This, of course, is liable to errors, as careless steering, the compasses being out of order, or a current, may carry her far from her supposed position; at the same time, when the sky is obscured, it is the only mode of finding the way across the ocean. It can be correctly ascertained by observation of the sun, moon, and stars, taken with a sextant and a chronometer; but I shall be led to give an epitome of the science of navigation if I attempt to explain the mode of using them.

In shallow waters, where the bottom has been accurately surveyed, a clever pilot will find his way with the lead. At the end of the lead a cavity is made, which is filled with grease; and according to the sort of mud, sand, or shells which adhere to it, he tells his position. This, and many other parts of navigation, Mr Bell, during our night watches, took great pains to explain to me; but it was not till I had been some time at sea that I comprehended them clearly.

Mr Bell never spoke to me in the day-time; for if the captain saw him, he was certain to send me to perform some kind of drudgery or other. I was set to do all the dirty work in the ship, to black down the rigging, to grease the masts, etcetera, etcetera; indeed, my hands were always in the tar-bucket; but it served the useful purpose of teaching me a seaman’s duty, and of accustoming me to work. The captain and first mate’s abusive language, however, I could not stand; and my feelings resented it even more than the blows they were continually dealing me.

I have said little about the emigrants. If my lot was bad, theirs was much worse. They were looked upon by the officers as so many sheep or pigs, and treated with no more consideration. Crowded together below, allowed to accumulate filth and dirt of every description, their diet bad and scanty, and never encouraged to take the air on deck, disease soon broke out and spread among them. Old and young, married and single of both sexes, were mingled indiscriminately together; and the scenes I witnessed when I was obliged to go below turned me sick with disgust, as they made my heart bleed with sorrow.

The surgeon had little more knowledge of his profession than I had, and had not the slightest notion of what ought to be done to stop the ravages of disease. He physicked indiscriminately, or bled or starved his patients, without paying the slightest regard to their ailments. When they died they were thrown overboard, with scant ceremony; but the men had the greatest difficulty in tearing the bodies of the Irish from their friends, or of children from their wretched parents; and it was heart-rending to listen to the shrieks and howls of grief as this was attempted to be done.

However, I do not wish to dwell on these scenes, or to discourage emigration. I fully believe that by thoroughly cleansing the ship, and by serving out good provisions, disease might then have been arrested. The object is to prevent the occurrence of such disorders for the future, by the introduction of a well-organised system. In spite of all obstacles, emigration will go forward; but it depends on every one of us, whether it will prove a curse or a blessing to those who go forth, whether the emigrants are to be in future friends or deadly foes to the country they quit.

Chapter Six.

For ten days we had fine weather and light winds; but a southerly gale sprang up, and drove us to the northward, and I then found out what it was to be at sea. Of course I had to do duty, as before, aloft; and following Derrick’s advice was of service, or one night, while furling top-sails, and when the ship was pitching tremendously, I should certainly have been killed. On a sudden I found myself jerked right off the yard; but I fortunately had hold of the gasket, which I was passing through the mizzen top-sail, and by it hauled myself up again and finished the work. After the gale had lasted a week, the wind came round from the northward, and bitter cold it was. We then stood on rather farther to the north than the usual track, I believe.

It was night, and blowing fresh. The sky was overcast, and there was no moon, so that darkness was on the face of the deep—not total darkness, it must be understood, for that is seldom known at sea. I was in the middle watch, from midnight to four o’clock, and had been on deck about half-an-hour when the look-out forward sang out, “Ship ahead—starboard—hard a star-board!”

These words made the second mate, who had the watch, jump into the weather rigging. “A ship!” he exclaimed. “An iceberg it is rather, and—All hands wear ship,” he shouted in a tone which showed there was not a moment to lose.

The watch sprang to the braces and bowlines, while the rest of the crew tumbled up from below, and the captain and other officers rushed out of their cabins: the helm was kept up, and the yards swung round, and the ships head turned towards the direction whence we had come. The captain glanced his eye round, and then ordered the courses to be brailed up, and the main top-sail to be backed, so as to lay the ship to. I soon discovered the cause of these manoeuvres; for before the ship had quite wore round, I perceived close to us a towering mass with a refulgent appearance, which the look-out man had taken for the white sails of a ship, but which proved in reality to be a vast iceberg; and attached to it and extending a considerable distance to leeward, was a field or very extensive floe of ice, against which the ship would have run had it not been discovered in time, and would in all probability instantly have gone down with every one on board.

In consequence of the extreme darkness it was dangerous to sail either way, for it was impossible to say what other floes or smaller cakes of ice might be in the neighbourhood, and we might probably be on them before they could be seen. We therefore remained hove to. As it was, I could not see the floe till it was pointed out to me by Derrick.

I was on deck, with my eyes trying to pierce the darkness to leeward, and fancying that I saw another iceberg rising close to the ship, and that I heard strange shrieks and cries, when I felt a hand placed on my shoulder: “Well, lad, what do you think of it?” said a voice which I recognised as that of Silas Flint.

“I would rather be in a latitude where icebergs do not exist,” I replied. “But how is it, old friend, you seemed to have forgotten me altogether since we sailed?” I added.

“It is because I am your friend, lad, that I do not pretend to be one,” he answered in a low tone. “I guessed from the first the sort of chap you’ve got for a skipper, and that you’d very likely want my aid; so I kept aloof; the better to be able to afford it without being suspected, d’ye see? You lead but a dog’s life on board here, Peter, I am afraid.”

“It is bad enough, I own,” I answered; “but I don’t forget your advice to ‘grin and bear what can’t be cured’; and Mr Bell and some of my messmates seem inclined to be good-natured.”

“Maybe; but you, the son of a gentleman, and, for what I see, a gentleman yourself, should be better treated,” he observed. “If I was you, I wouldn’t stand it a day longer than I could help.”

“I would not if I could help it; but I cannot quit the ship,” I answered.

“But you may when you get to Quebec,” he remarked. “I wouldn’t go back in her on any account, for many a reason. There’s ill luck attends her, trust to that.” What the ill luck was, my friend did not say, nor how he had discovered it.

Flint spent the night on deck, and during it he talked a good deal about America, and the independent wild life he led in the backwoods and prairies. The conversation made a considerable impression on my mind, and I afterwards was constantly asking myself why I should go back in the Black Swan.

When daylight broke the next morning, the dangerous position in which the ship was placed was seen. On every side of us appeared large floes of ice, with several icebergs floating like mountains on a plain among them; while the only opening through which we could escape was a narrow passage to the north-east, through which we must have come. What made our position the more perilous was, that the vast masses of ice were approaching nearer and nearer to each other, so that we had not a moment to lose if we would effect our escape.

As the light increased, we saw, at the distance of three miles to the westward, another ship in a far worse predicament than we were, inasmuch as she was completely surrounded by ice, though she still floated in a sort of basin. The wind held to the northward, so that we could stand clear out of the passage should it remain open long enough. She by this time had discovered her own perilous condition, as we perceived that she had hoisted a signal of distress, and we heard the guns she was firing to call our attention to her; but regard to our own safety compelled us to disregard them till we had ourselves got clear of the ice.

It was very dreadful to watch the stranger, and to feel that we could render her no assistance. All hands were at the braces, ready to trim the sails should the wind head us; for in that case we should have to beat out of the channel, which was every instant growing narrower and narrower. The captain stood at the weather gangway, conning the ship. When he saw the ice closing in on us, he ordered every stitch of canvas the ship could carry to be set on her, in hopes of carrying her out before this could occur. It was a chance whether or not we should be nipped. However, I was not so much occupied with our own danger as not to keep an eye on the stranger, and to feel a deep interest in her fate.

I was in the mizzen-top, and as I possessed a spy-glass, I could see clearly all that occurred. The water on which she floated was nearly smooth, though covered with foam, caused by the masses of ice as they approached each other. I looked; she had but a few fathoms of water on either side of her. As yet she floated unharmed. The peril was great; but the direction of the ice might change, and she might yet be free. Still on it came with terrific force; and I fancied that I could hear the edges grinding and crushing together.

The ice closed on the ill-fated ship. She was probably as totally unprepared to resist its pressure as we were. At first I thought that it lifted her bodily up; but it was not so, I suspect. She was too deep in the water for that. Her sides were crushed in—her stout timbers were rent into a thousand fragments—her tall masts tottered and fell, though still attached to the hull. For an instant I concluded that the ice must have separated, or perhaps the edges broke with the force of the concussion; for, as I gazed, the wrecked mass of hull and spars and canvas seemed drawn suddenly downwards with irresistible force, and a few fragments, which had been hurled by the force of the concussion to a distance, were all that remained of the hapless vessel. Not a soul of her crew could have had time to escape to the ice.

I looked anxiously: not a speck could be seen stirring near the spot. Such, thought I, may be the fate of the four hundred and forty human beings on board this ship ere many minutes are over.

I believe that I was the only person on board who witnessed the catastrophe. Most of the emigrants were below, and the few who were on deck were with the crew watching our own progress.

Still narrower grew the passage. Some of the parts we had passed through were already closed. The wind, fortunately, held fair; and though it contributed to drive the ice faster in on us, it yet favoured our escape. The ship flew through the water at a great rate, heeling over to her ports; but though at times it seemed as if the masts would go over the sides, still the captain held on. A minute’s delay might prove our destruction.

Every one held his breath as the width of the passage decreased, though we had but a short distance more to make good before we should be free.

I must confess that all the time I did not myself feel any sense of fear. I thought it was a danger more to be apprehended for others than for myself. At length a shout from the deck reached my ears, and looking round, I saw that we were on the outside of the floe. We were just in time, for, the instant after, the ice met, and the passage through which we had come was completely closed up. The order was now given to keep the helm up and to square away the yards; and with a flowing sheet we ran down the edge of the ice for upwards of three miles before we were clear of it.

Only then did people begin to inquire what had become of the ship we had lately seen. I gave my account, but few expressed any great commiseration for the fate of those who were lost. Our captain had had enough of ice, so he steered a course to get as fast as possible into more southern latitudes. This I may consider the first adventure I met with in my nautical career.

Chapter Seven.

I was every day improving my knowledge of seamanship, though my schooling was, it may be supposed, of the roughest kind.

The feelings Captain Elihu Swales exhibited towards me did not grow more tender; but hitherto I had kept my temper, and had flown to obey his orders without answering his abuse. At last, however, one day when the ship was caught in a heavy squall, we were somewhat slow in reefing the mizzen topsail; and as we descended on deck he laid a rope’s end across the shoulders of several of us. I could not stand this; for I and another of the topmen, generally the smartest, had hurt our hands, and ought not properly to have gone aloft at all. “How dare you strike me, Captain Swales?” I exclaimed. “I paid you a sum for my passage, as also to learn seamanship, and not to be treated as a slave.”

It was the first time I had replied to him. Perhaps speaking increased the anger I felt, perhaps it was that I saw his eye quail before mine; but, be that as it may, a handspike lay near, and almost unconsciously I grasped it, and made as if I would strike him in return.

“A mutiny!” he exclaimed, with an oath.

“A mutiny!—knock down the rascally mutineer.”

“A mutiny!” repeated Mr Stovin, the first mate; and suiting the action to the word, he dealt me a blow on the head with his fist, which sent me sprawling on the deck.

Several of the crew, as well as the emigrants, who had seen what had occurred, cried out “Shame, shame!” but they were afraid of interfering, so that my enemies had it all their own way.

I was forthwith dragged forward by Stovin and two or three of the men, who made up to him, and lashed down to the foot of the bowsprit, where I was most exposed to the spray which flew over the ship, and could be watched from every part. “You’ll cool your temper and your heels there, my lad, till I let you go,” whispered my old enemy in a tone of voice which showed the vindictive triumph he felt.

For the whole of that day I was kept there, watched by one of the mate’s creatures, so that no one with friendly feelings could come near me. Some mouldy biscuits and a piece of hard junk were brought to me long after the dinner hour, and when I was almost too sick with hunger to eat. When night drew on, I asked my guard if I was to be released. “Maybe not till the end of the voyage,” was the satisfactory answer. “They hangs mutineers.”

Though I did not for a moment suppose such would be my fate, I yet bitterly repented having, by giving way to my temper, allowed my enemies to get an advantage over me. The wind fell, and there was less sea; but still the night was a very dreary one to me, and, besides other physical discomforts, I was half-starved. There has been seldom, however, a time when some ray of comfort has not shone from above, or some human sympathy has not been shown for my sufferings. It had just gone two bells in the first watch, when I saw a figure creeping cautiously upon the forecastle to where I was sitting. “Hush!” he whispered; and I knew by the voice it was Silas Flint. “You’ve friends who’ll help you when the time comes. I’ve been watching an opportunity to bring you something more fit to eat than the horseflesh and beans I hear you’ve had. Eat it while you can.” Saying this, he put into my hand some potted meat and fine biscuits, which I found very refreshing. I must observe that my hands were only so far at liberty that I could get them to my mouth, but I could not move them to cast off my lashings.

The brutality to which I was subject is only a specimen of what seamen are exposed to from ignorant and rude shipmasters. In my time I have seen much of such conduct; and though I have known many very excellent and superior men commanding merchantmen, I have met as many totally unfit for the post. This state of things will continue till higher qualifications are required from them—till they are better educated—till their social position is raised—till they have more power placed in their hands; also till the condition of the seamen under them is improved, and till both parties may feel that their interests are cared for and protected. I do not mean to say that I thought thus at the time. I felt only very angry, and a strong desire to be in my berth.

After I had eaten the food I became very drowsy, and should have gone to sleep had I not continually been roused up by the showers of spray which came flying over me, as the ship, close hauled, ploughed her way through the waves. The nights were long in reality, and I thought daylight would never come. It was just at the end of the middle watch, and, in spite of the wet and my uncomfortable position, I had dropped off asleep, when I was aroused by loud shrieks and cries, and a rush of people on deck. The awful words, “Fire! fire! fire!” resounded through the ship. Several, in the first paroxysm of alarm, leaped overboard; and, no one regarding them or attempting to rescue them, they were drowned. I was a witness of their fate, but could make no one attend to me. The watch below and the officers were instantly on deck; but for some time nothing was done, and the ship continued her course in darkness over the deep.

“Silence, fore and aft!” shouted the captain, who believed that it was a false alarm. “Those who spread this report deserve to be hove overboard. I’ll take care to make inquiries about it—in the morning. What frightens you all so?”

“Fire! fire! fire!” was the answer of others rushing up from below.

For some minutes the shrieks and cries and confusion prevented me from hearing anything more; nor could the exertions of the officers serve to maintain order. At last the captain, who had been incredulous, or pretended to be so, became convinced that there was some cause for the alarm, and on going round the lower deck a strong smell of fire was perceived, and smoke was found to be issuing from the fore-hatchway over the hold. No flames were seen, so it was evident that the fire was among the cargo in the lower hold. The hatchway was accordingly opened, and immediately dense volumes of smoke arose, and almost stifled me where I remained lashed.

When it was discovered that the fire was forward, the ship was hove to, thus, under the idea that as fire works to windward, to prevent its being driven so rapidly aft as it would otherwise have been. Buckets were now cried for; and the crew, and all the emigrants whose fears had not mastered their senses, were engaged in filling them with water and in heaving it down below. A pump was also rigged and manned, which, with a hose attached to it, played down the hatchway.

After some time this appeared to have effect; and Mr Bell, who, quiet as he generally seemed, was now the soul of everything, volunteered to go down in order to discover the exact position of the fire. Securing a rope round his body, while some of the crew on whom he could depend held on, he boldly threw himself into the midst of the smoke. Not a quarter of a minute had passed before he sang out to be hauled up again. When he reappeared he was insensible, and it was some time before he recovered. They brought him up to the forecastle close to me, and the first words I heard which he uttered were: “She’s all on fire below, and I doubt if water will put it out.”

This was very dreadful; and I began to consider whether I was fated to be roasted and then drowned, when I saw my friend Silas Flint creeping cautiously up to me. “Hillo, Peter, my lad, you seem to take it coolly enough; but you shan’t, if I can help it, be roasted like a lark on a spit, so I’ve come to give you a chance for your life. I did not come before, not because I had forgotten you, but because I knew that wicked captain of ours was watching me, and would have prevented me from setting you at liberty if he could: however, he’s enough else, I guess, to think of just now.”

“Thank you, Flint—thank you for your kindness,” I answered as he was cutting the lanyards which confined me. “Do you think there is any danger, though?”

“The ship may burn till she’s too hot to hold us,” he replied laconically; “and then it is not easy to say where five hundred people are to find standing-room. There is danger, Peter; but a stout heart may face and overcome it.”

“What do you propose to do?” I asked.

“Get into a boat if I can, or else build a raft and float on that. I’ll not go down as long as I can find something to keep me up.”

Flint’s calmness gave me courage; and after that, notwithstanding the dreadful scenes I witnessed, I did not feel any fear. As soon as I was at liberty, I set to work with Flint to make myself useful; and though I was close to Captain Swales while we were working the pump, he did not observe me. An event of the sort I am describing shows people in their true colours. While some of the passengers threw off their jackets and set to with a will, several had cast themselves on the deck, weeping and groaning among the women; and Flint and one of the mates had actually to go and kick them up before they would attempt to perform their duty.

It is difficult to describe the horrors of that night, or rather morning, before the day broke—the ship rolling and pitching on before a heavy sea (whither she went no one considered, provided she was kept before the wind)—the suffocating smoke which rose from the depths of the hold—the cries of despair heard on every side—the scenes of cowardly fear and intense selfishness which were exhibited. Still we floated; but I expected every instant to see the ship plunge head-foremost down into the depths of the ocean; for I thought the fire must soon burn a hole through her planks. I was not aware how long fire takes to burn downwards. One of the greatest cowards of the crew, and a big bully he was, happened to be at the helm when the fire was first reported; and as soon as the captain and mates went forward to attend to rigging the pumps, his fears overcame him, and he dastardly deserted his post.

Fortunately, one of the crew was aft, and went to the helm and kept it up, or the ship would have broached to, and, before she could have been put on her course, the sea would have swept over our decks, and the destruction of all would have been expedited. At the same time a number of the passengers made a rush at the larboard-quarter boat, and, while some got into her, others lowered her down, intending to follow. Going fast, as the ship was, through the water, of course she was immediately swamped, and every soul in her perished. Three or four of those who were about to follow, so great was their eagerness, before they understood what had occurred, leaped where they expected to find her, and met the fate of the rest.

This was reported to the captain, who at once set a guard over the other boats. Indeed, as yet, there was no necessity for any one to quit the ship. The boatswain, however, who had charge of the boats, followed by the fellow who had quitted the wheel, the cook, and one or two others, soon afterwards collecting some provisions, sails, compasses, tools, and other things they thought necessary, deliberately lowered her, and getting into her, veered her astern, where they remained, careless of what became of the rest of us. Such was the state of things when the sun shone forth on the ocean world.

The decks, covered with women and children, and even many men lying prostrate, looked as if just swept by the shots of an enemy. Such countenances, too, of terror, agony, and despair as were exhibited, it is difficult to describe. Many had fainted, and some had actually died through fear, and lay quiet enough. Others rushed about the decks like madmen, impeding the exertions of the officers and crew, and crying out that the ship should be steered to the nearest land, and insisting on being set on shore immediately. Had the captain been a man of firmness and moral courage, to whom his officers and crew had been accustomed to look up, much of the disorder would have been prevented, and perhaps the lives of all might have been saved; but they knew him to be a bully and a coward, and the first impulse of each was to think of his own individual safety, as they knew he would do of his. Thus not one quarter of the necessary exertions were made to save the ship; indeed Mr Bell and his watch were the only part of the crew who really did any good.

Most of the cabin passengers, and some of the second and steerage passengers of the English, at once came forward and offered their services to work the pumps and to hand down the water-buckets. The poorer Irish, on the other hand, would do nothing to help themselves, but sat shrieking and bewailing their cruel fate till they could shriek and cry no longer.

Chapter Eight.

It is my belief that, if proper measures had been taken the moment the fire was discovered, it might have been extinguished, and if not, its progress might have been retarded. The ship had a large quantity of coals among her cargo, and there is no doubt it originated in it by spontaneous combustion. Some said it had been smouldering away ever since we left Liverpool. What would have been our sensations had we known that we had a volcano on board? When some of the passengers saw that the object of our exertions was to fill the hold with water, they began to cry out that the quickest way would be to start the water-tanks on deck. The captain, on hearing this, immediately exclaimed that if they did so they would repent it, for without water they could not live, and that this was the only fresh water at which they would shortly be able to get. On learning their mad design, he should instantly have placed some of the crew on whom he could depend, with arms in their hands, to guard the tanks, and with orders to cut down any one who should attempt to touch the bungs. Instead, he contented himself with pointing out the folly of the proceeding.

His words were not heeded; and without any attempt to prevent them, several of the madmen started the water from the tanks. “Hurrah!” they shouted as they performed this feat. “The fire will now be put out, and we shall be saved.” The hidden fire laughed at their puny efforts, and the wreaths of smoke came forth as dense as ever.

A consultation among the officers was now held; and it was their opinion that we were in as good a position as could be for being fallen in with by ships crossing the Atlantic, and that therefore we should continue as we were—hove to. We all watched with deep anxiety the progressive increase of the smouldering furnace below us. Fortunately the flames did not begin to burst forth.

Dreadful as the day was, it passed more rapidly than I could have expected. There was nothing to mark the time; there were no regular meals, no bells struck, no watches set. The captain, on seeing the want of effect produced by the water thrown on the cargo, abandoned all hopes of saving the ship, and thought only how he might best secure his own safety. The stern-boat was, as I have said, towing astern. I now saw him go aft, and with the aid of some of the people, to whom he had spoken privately, he lowered down the starboard-quarter boat, having first put into her compasses, provisions, and water. The first mate meantime baled out the other quarter boat, and in like manner provisioned and stored her. Three hands being placed in each, they were veered astern. The captain and mate knew that these men would not desert them, because without their assistance they would be unable to find their way to any port.

I took my spell at the pumps, and on several occasions the captain passed me and gave me a scowl, by which I knew that he recognised me, and probably contemplated leaving me behind in the burning ship; at least so I thought at the time, and resolved to frustrate his kind intentions. The captain next gave orders to the crew to hoist out the long-boat, as the sea had gone down sufficiently to enable this to be done without risk. The long-boat is stowed on the booms amidships, and it requires tackles to the yard-arms, and considerable exertion, to launch her. It was the first time I had ever observed Captain Swales and Mr Stovin really energetic in their exertions when they were getting this done; and I very soon found that they had a reason for it, as they intended to take possession of her for themselves, and those they most favoured. She at length was launched and dropped astern; and, being hauled up under the cabin windows, the ladies and other cabin passengers were lowered into her. She was likewise provisioned; and compasses, charts, sails, and oars were placed in her.

I thought that the captain, as a precautionary measure, wished to place the passengers in comparative safety; but what was my surprise, to see him lower himself into the boat, and drop her astern, virtually abandoning all command of the ship! This vile example was followed by Mr Stovin, who took possession of one of the quarter boats. The greater part of the crew, and all the steerage and second-class passengers, still remained in the burning ship, of which Mr Bell now took the command. When the people saw the captain deserting them, they rushed aft, some with piteous cries, exclaiming, “O captain dear, save us! save us!” Others cursed him as a traitor for leaving them to their fate; and I believe, had they known what he was about to do, they would have torn him in pieces before they would have let him go. (See Note 1.) He shouted to them in return, that he was not going to desert them, but that his presence was required in the boat. I have always held that the captain should be the last man to quit the deck of his ship; and every true seaman thinks the same, and would scorn to do otherwise.

“A pretty job, this is,” observed Dick Derrick, who was working away at the pumps close to me. “We were nearly squeezed to death by the ice a few days ago, and now it seems we are to be roasted with fire. Are you prepared for death, Peter?”

I replied that I would rather live.

“Then the sooner we begin to knock some sort of rafts together, to float a few of these poor people, the better,” he observed. “I’ll just hint the same to Mr Bell.”

I saw him go up to Mr Bell, and, touching his hat, speak earnestly to him.

“You are right, Derrick,” remarked the second mate as he passed me. “We must keep the passengers working at the pumps though, to the last, while the crew build the rafts.”

As soon as the plan was conceived, all hands set to work to collect spars, and to knock away the fittings of the lower deck, the bulkheads, and the bulwarks. We thus very soon formed three small rafts, each capable of supporting thirty or forty people in calm weather—a very small portion of the poor wretches on board.

Mr Bell urged the crew to continue their exertions, and not to launch the rafts till the last moment. “We do not know where the rafts may drive to; and as we are now in the usual track of ships bound to America, our signal of distress may be seen, and we may be saved without more risk,” he observed, addressing several who seemed about to launch one of the rafts. His words, however, had not much effect; for a few minutes afterwards their fears overpowered their better judgment, and one of the rafts was launched overboard. It was with some difficulty that it could be kept alongside. They fitted it with a mast and sail, and a few casks of provisions, but no water was to be found, except in a small keg.

While some of the people who intended to embark on it were looking for more, a fresh puff of smoke forced its way up near the mainmast; and this so frightened the emigrants, that a general rush was made to get on the raft. About thirty were already on it, and so alarmed were they lest the number crowding on it might capsize it, that, ill-provisioned as they were, they cut it adrift. What became of them I know not; for the night coming on, they were soon lost sight of, and we never saw them again. That night was far more dreadful than the first; for, though the terror of the people was not so loud, their despair was more pitiable. The remainder of the crew still worked, spell and spell, at the pumps, but the fire gained upon us. At length some of the steerage passengers broke into the cabins, which they rifled of everything on which they could lay their hands, and unfortunately discovered several cases of brandy and wine.

Now began the most horrible orgies imaginable. Men, women, and even children, became speedily intoxicated, and entirely forgetful of their fears and awful position. They were, in fact, like the fiercest savages, and, like them, danced and shouted and sang, till some of them fell down in fits on the deck. In the cabins they found several muskets, and, taking it into their heads that the crew had been the cause of the disaster, they set upon Mr Bell and those of us who remained, and, had we not struggled desperately, would have thrown us overboard. They could, fortunately, find no powder and shot, or they would certainly have killed some of the people in the boats. We retreated before them forward and then, aided by Flint, and some of the more reputable English who had kept sober, we made a rush at them and wrenched their arms from their grasp. So infuriated had they become, that while some of us worked at the pumps and rafts, the rest had to stand guard and keep them at bay. Fortunately the wind fell, and the sea went down with the sun, or it would have been still worse for us.

In one respect the calm was bad, as no ship was likely to come to our rescue. One might have passed within a very short distance of us, and would not have discovered us, as we had no guns on board, nor any blue-lights or rockets, to make signals. We had four old rusty muskets, it is true, but there was scarcely powder enough found to fire them a dozen times. For the best part of the night we were employed in defending our lives from the attacks of the drunken emigrants. After being defeated they would return to the cabin to search for more liquor; and, not finding any, they would again make a rush upon us, declaring that we knew where it was hid, and that they would have it. I must do the crew justice to say, that, with few exceptions, they all kept sober,—and those under Mr Bell behaved very well. The second mate’s conduct was above all praise; for, though repeatedly invited by those in the larboard-quarter boat to come off and to take command of her, he refused to quit the ship.

At length, when the maddening effects of the spirits had worn off, the emigrants sank down exhausted on the deck, and, had the fire then reached where they lay, they would have been burnt, unconscious of their fate. We were now left to consider what was next to be done. Gradually the fire continued creeping aft, as we could tell by the increasing heat of the lower deck; and I can scarcely describe the feelings I experienced as, putting my hand down on the planks, I found them growing hotter and hotter. The hatches over the hold were, however, wisely kept closed, to prevent the flames from bursting forth. The ship was already so full of water, that it would have exposed us to the danger of drowning if we had pumped more into her. A second day dawned on the same scene.

We anxiously scanned the horizon in the hopes that a ship might appear to rescue us, but not a sail was in sight to relieve our anxiety. As the people woke up from their slumbers, the general cry was for water; but no water was to be procured. They had uselessly squandered what might have preserved them. “Water! water!” was repeated by parched mouths, which were fated never to taste that fluid again. Some stood aft, and shouted to the captain, who sat comfortably in the boat astern, and made gestures at him for water. Some, in their madness, broke open the surgeon’s dispensary, and rifled it of its contents, swallowing the drugs indiscriminately. The effects on them were various, according to the nature of the drugs. Some, overcome with opium, fell down speedily in a state of stupor; others were paralysed, and others died in dreadful agonies.

Burning thirst drove some mad, and several leaped overboard in their delirium. Many died where they lay, on the deck; women and several poor children quickly sunk for want of water. No sooner had the breath departed from the body, than we were obliged to throw them overboard, as the corpses lay in our way as we hurried about the decks. I forgot to mention that there was a Romish priest on board, Father Slattery by name. He was a coarse, uneducated man, but the influence he exercised over the poor people was very great; and I must do him the justice to say, that in this instance he exercised it for a good purpose, in endeavouring to calm the fears of his followers, and in affording them the offices of their religion. From the moment the danger became apparent, he went among them confessing them and absolving them from their sins, and giving them such other consolation as he had to offer; but this did not seem to have any great effect, for the moment he left them, they began to howl and shriek as loud as ever. As to attempting to help themselves, that seemed far from their thoughts. Few of them could be induced to work at the pumps, or to assist in building the rafts. Yet, miserable as was their condition, the love of life appeared stronger in them than in the English.

When the captain dropped astern in the long-boat, there was a general rush to follow him; and I remember seeing two girls lower themselves down by ropes over the taffrail, where they hung, their feet in the water, entreating to be taken in. “Oh, captain, dear, sure you won’t let us be drowned now!” they exclaimed in piteous accents. For some time those in the long-boat were deaf to their entreaties, and I thought the girls would have lost their hold and have been drowned, for they had no strength left to haul themselves on board again. Feeling that their destruction was inevitable if they were not rescued, I slipped a running bowline knot over the rope to which one of them was hanging, and then gliding down, I passed it over her shoulders. I was up on deck again in a moment, and hauled her up, though I must own she did not like my interference. The other girl let go her hold, and would have been drowned, had she not been caught as she floated past the boat, when she was taken in.

But I could scarcely have believed that human nature could become so depraved, as an instance I witnessed with my own eyes convinced me it might be. I saw two Irishmen, who had their wives and families on board, slip over the ship’s side, and drop down towards the boat, with ropes in their hands. Little as they deserved it, they were not prevented from climbing on board; and there they remained, in spite of the bitter cries of those they had so basely deserted.

Note 1. I regret to say that the whole account of the burning ship is perfectly true. Incredible as it may seem, the fire continued smouldering for nearly a week before the flames burst forth.

Chapter Nine.

The unhappy people were more quiet the second day than during the first; for they were worn out with fatigue, terror, and hunger. Our ensign, reversed, was flying, as a signal of distress, but to little purpose; for there was no one who could see it to help us. Two more rafts were constructed; and the carpenters set to work to raise the gunwales of the boats, and they also nailed canvas round their sides, so as to be able to cover them completely in.

Those in the boats appeared very uncomfortable; and certainly they were much worse off than we were, if it had not been for the uncertainty when the fire might break forth from beneath our feet. Every instant I expected that to take place; and I certainly felt it difficult to say by what means I should make my escape.

A few jars of fresh water were found in the cabin; and, among other provisions, a cask of flour, with which the cook instantly set to work to make bread, and the whole of the day he was engaged in making and in baking it in the caboose. This very seasonable supply of wholesome food kept many on board from dying.

Mr Bell took off, in the dingy, a fair proportion to the boats. The people in them begged him to remain, telling him that the ship might suddenly go down, and that he would be lost; but he replied that he would not desert her and the people, and he instantly returned.

The day passed away without a sail appearing in sight; and darkness, with its attendant horrors, again drew on. Dreadful, indeed, was that night; but it was very different to the last. There was then excitement and activity. Now there was a calmness—at times almost a total silence; but it would speedily be broken by the groans of the dying, and the wails of those who mourned for them.

All attempts to stop the progress of the fire were abandoned as useless. The officers and crew who remained faithful to their trust, took such rest watch and watch, as the state of the case would allow; but we were wet through, and our bed was the hard deck.

Somewhere towards the morning, as I was still asleep, I felt my shoulder touched, and the voice of Flint whispered in my ear, “Peter, my lad, rouse up, and come with us. The ship won’t much longer give us any footing; and it’s as well to leave her when we can.”

“What do you mean, Flint?” I asked, in the same low tone. “You would not have me quit my shipmates?”

“What I mean is, that some thirty of us—some of the crew and some emigrants—have resolved to trust ourselves to a raft, rather than to these burning planks; and that, if we wait till daylight, so many will be attempting to get on it, that we shall be all lost together. I don’t ask you to desert your shipmates, Peter; but self-preservation, you know, is the first law of nature.”

I considered a moment before I spoke. “I am grateful to you, Flint, for your kindness; but I cannot desert Mr Bell,” I replied. “I don’t blame you, remember, for going; but I am differently situated. I am in the second mate’s watch—under his command, as it were; and while he sticks to the ship, so must I.”

While I was speaking, I saw a party of people cautiously engaged in launching the raft. After no slight exertions, they succeeded in getting into the water, though the noise they made disturbed a number of the emigrants.

“I understand your motive, my lad, and I suppose you are right,” replied Flint. “I wish you could come with us; and I am half inclined to stay by you—that I am.”

“I should be very unhappy if you were the sufferer in consequence of so doing,” I answered; “so pray go, if you think the raft affords the greatest safety.”

“No, lad, I care little for my own safety; but I promised these people to go with them, and to act as their captain. I did so, thinking you would be certain to go too.”

I again assured him that nothing would induce me to desert Mr Bell. So, expressing his sorrow, he shook me warmly by the hand, and slid down the side of the ship on to the raft. I assisted in casting it off, before the rest of the emigrants, who were awake, discovered what they were about, or else they would senselessly, as before, have attempted to get on it, to the almost certain destruction of them all. Flint and his companions hurriedly shoved off, and then hoisted their sail. I watched the raft as long as it could be seen, standing directly before the wind to the northward; and I remember at the time my heart misgave me, and I feared that I should never again see my kind but eccentric friend. If a sea should get up, I thought they in all probability would be drowned. I felt very grateful, also, that I had decided to remain. However, I was too weary to think much about any subject, and I was very shortly again fast asleep on the deck.

As suffering and misery will, after a time, come to an end, and it would be well if we could always remember this when we ourselves are in that condition, so did this night of dark horror, and another morning dawned on the burning wreck. Clouds, streaked with bright red edges, were gathering on the eastern horizon, as I went aloft to look out for a sail, though with little expectation of seeing one. I had just reached the main-topgallant-mast head, and was sweeping my eyes round the horizon, when I saw, just under the brightest part of the glow caused by the rising sun, a dark spot, which I thought must be the topsail of some square-rigged craft. I looked again; I felt that I could not be mistaken. I shouted out the joyful intelligence—

“Sail ho!—ho!—over the larboard quarter.”

Instantly the second mate, followed by several others, who had strength remaining, ran aloft to ascertain the fact. They also all clearly saw the ship. The people in the boats understood what we were pointing at, and a feeble shout, indicative of their joy, rose from all hands. The question now was, which way she was steering. If to the westward, we had a good chance of being seen by her; but if not, she might pass us by unheeded. This uncertainty was, perhaps, still more painful to endure than our previous hopelessness.

While we were watching the stranger, the clouds gathered thicker in the sky, and the sea began perceptibly to get up, though as yet there was no increase of wind. “I don’t altogether like the look of things,” observed Derrick to me. “The sea getting up before the wind comes is a pretty sure sign of a heavy gale; and if it does come on to blow, Lord help us, my boy!”

“Amen,” said a deep voice near us, which startled me. It seemed not like that of a mortal; it was, however, that of Father Slattery, who was at that instant passing us. “And so, my son, you think there is more danger than before?” he asked.

“If it comes on to blow, and keeps blowing with a heavy sea, I say it will be no easy matter to carry women and children from one ship to another, even if that sail yonder should come any way nigh us; that’s what I say, your honour,” answered Derrick.

“I understand you, my son,” said the priest; “we’ll be in a worse position with regard to affairs temporal than we are at present.”

“Yes, your honour; it looks brewing up for a regular tempest, as you say, and no mistake,” observed Derrick.

Even while they were talking, we heard the wind whistle in the rigging, and the ship began to surge heavily through the rising waves.

The people in the boats at this were evidently alarmed, and one of the gigs hauled alongside, several persons in her preferring to trust themselves to the burning ship rather than to her. I must remark that a feeling almost of security had come over many of us, and that for my part I could not help fancying that it was nothing unusual to live on board a ship full of fire. Of course I knew that some time or other the flames must burst forth; but I looked upon this event as likely to happen only in some remote period, with which I had little to do. Our sufferings were greatest from want of water, and on that account we were most anxious for the coming of the stranger. Mr Bell, Derrick, and I were again aloft looking out for the ship. The captain hauled up under the stern, and hailed to know which way we made her out to be still standing. “Right down for us, sir,” answered the mate. “She’s a barque, and seems to be coming up with a strong breeze.”

It is difficult to describe how anxiously we watched for her. On she came for perhaps half-an-hour, though to us it seemed much longer, when suddenly we saw her, to our dismay, haul her wind and stand away to the north-east. I felt almost as if I should fall from aloft, as our hopes of being rescued were thus cruelly blasted. Few of the emigrants understood the change, but the seamen did, and gave way to their feelings in abuse of the stranger, who could not probably have seen our signal of distress. With heavy hearts we descended to the smoking deck.

The wretched emigrants, on discovering the state of the case, gave fresh vent to their despair; some, who had hitherto held up more manfully than the rest, lay down without hope, and others actually yielded up their spirits to the hands of death. Meantime the sea increased, clouds covered the sky, and it came on to blow harder and harder. I had returned aloft, when, to my delight, I saw the stranger again bear away and stand for us. I shouted out the joyful information, and once more the drooping spirits of my companions in misfortune were aroused. The sound of a gun was heard booming along the waters. It was a sign from her that she saw our signal of distress. Now she crowded all the sail she could venture to carry in the increasing breeze. Her captain was evidently a humane man anxious to relieve his fellow-creatures, though he could scarcely have guessed at our frightful condition. There was no mistake now, and on she came, and proved to be a large barque, as Mr Bell had supposed.

“We have a good chance of escaping a roasting this time,” I observed to Derrick, as we watched the stranger.

“But not quite of drowning, lad,” he answered. “Before one quarter of the people about us can placed on her deck, the gale will be upon us, and then as I said before, how are we the better for her being near us? Howsomdever, we’ll do our best, lad; and if the old ship goes down, mind you look out for a plank to stick to, and don’t let any one gripe hold of your legs.”

I promised to do my best; but I confess I did not like the prospect he held out.

The barque approached and hove to. A shout of joy escaped from the lips of most of those on board, who had still strength to utter it. On this, immediately Captain Swales cast off his boat, his example being followed by the others; and without attempting to take any of the people out of the ship, he pulled on board the stranger. There was little time to lose; for scarcely had they got alongside than down came the gale upon us.

In the condition our ship was, the only course was to run before the wind; so we once again kept away. The stranger soon followed; and as she carried more sail than we could, we saw she would soon pass us. Hope once more deserted us; for it was possible that the master, finding that there were so many of us on board, might think himself justified, for the safety of his own people, to leave us to our fate. I confess that on this I regretted that I had not gone off with Silas Flint on the raft; but then I remembered that I had done my duty in sticking to my ship to the last. It seemed dreadful, indeed, to be thus left to perish. However, just as the stranger was about to pass us, a man in the rigging held up a board on which was written the cheering words, “We will keep near you, and take you off when the weather moderates.”

Suppose, I thought, the weather does not moderate till the flames burst forth, at any moment they may break through the deck!

I am afraid of wearying my readers with an account of our sufferings.

Our greatest want was water. We fancied that, if we could have had a few drops to cool our lips, we could have borne anything else. Some drank salt water, against the warning of the mate, and in consequence increased their sufferings.

Worn out with fatigue, the crew every hour grew weaker, so that there was scarcely a man left with strength to steer, much more to go aloft. Night came on to increase our difficulties. The stranger proved to be the Mary, bound from Bristol also to Quebec. She at first kept a short distance ahead, showing a light over her stern by which we might steer.

I ought to have said that the captain had taken the sextant, chronometer, and charts with him, and that in their mad outbreak the emigrants had destroyed the binnacle and the compasses in it, so that we had the Mary’s light alone to depend on. Mr Bell had divided those who remained of the crew, and some of the emigrants willing to exert themselves, into two watches.

I was to keep the middle watch. I lay down on the deck aft to sleep on one of the only few dry or clean spots I could find. I was roused up at midnight, and just as I had got on my feet, I heard a voice sing out, “Where’s the Mary’s light?” I ran forward. It was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Ten.

Fortunately a star had appeared in a break of the clouds, and by that we continued steering the same course as before. Once more we were alone on the world of waters, and in a worse condition than ever; for we had now no boats, and the sea was too high to permit us to hope for safety on a raft. Weary and sad were the hours till dawn returned. Often did I wish that I had followed my father’s counsels, and could have remained at home. With aching eyes, as the pale light of the dull grey morning appeared, we looked out ahead for the Mary. Not a sail was to be seen from the deck. The lead-coloured ocean, heaving with foam-topped waves, was around us bounded by the horizon. On flew our burning ship before the gale, and we would have set more sail to try and overtake the Mary, but we had not strength for it. We steered as near as we could the same course as before.

The ship plunged heavily; and as she tore her way through the waves, she rolled her yardarms almost into the water, so that it was difficult to keep the deck without holding on. Nearly at every roll the sea came washing over the deck, and sweeping everything away into the scuppers. One might have supposed that the water would have put out the fire, but it had no effect on it; and it was evident that the coals in the hold were ignited, and that they would go on burning till the ship was under the waves. I had sunk into a sort of stupor, when I heard Mr Bell from aloft hail the deck. I looked up and tried to comprehend what he was saying. It was the joyful intelligence that the Mary was ahead, lying to for us; but I was too much worn out to care much about the matter. We again came up with her; but though the wind had somewhat fallen, the sea was too high to allow a boat to carry us off the wreck.

We acquitted the kind master of the Mary of any intention of deserting us. The officer of the watch had fancied that he saw us following, and had not, consequently, shortened sail. Oh that day of horrors, and the still more dreadful night which followed! The fire was gaining on us: every part of the deck was hot, and thick choking smoke issued from numberless crevices. With dismay, too, we saw the boats on which our safety so much depended dragged to pieces, as they towed astern of the Mary, as they could not be hoisted on board, and their wrecks were cut adrift. Even the crew, who, more inured to hardships, kept up their spirits the best, could but arouse themselves to take a short trick at the helm. What would we have given, I repeat, for a drop of water! A thousand guineas would willingly have been exchanged for it. The value of riches, and all else for which men toil and toil on while health and strength remain, were becoming as nothing in our sight. One thing alone called any of us to exertion. It was when some wretch, happier, perhaps, than we were, breathed his last, and the shrieks and wails of his relations or friends summoned us to commit his body to the ocean-grave, yawning to receive us all, the living as well as the dead. I must pass over that night. It was far more full of horrors than the last, except that the Mary, our only ark of safety, was still in sight.

Another dawn came. The gale began to lull. I was near Derrick. I asked him if he thought we had a chance of escape. He lifted his weary head above the bulwarks. “I scarce know, lad,” he replied. “The wind may be falling, or it may be gathering strength for a harder blow. It matters little, I guess, to most of us.” And he again sunk down wearily on the deck. How anxiously we listened to the wind in the rigging! Again it breezed up. A loud clap was heard. I thought one of the masts had gone by the board; but it was the fore-topsail blown to ribbons. What next might follow we could not tell. The very masts began to shake; and it was evident that the fire had begun to burn their heels. Their working loosened the deck, and allowed more vent for the escape of smoke. There was again a lull. The foam no longer flew from the white-crested waves; gradually they subsided in height. The motion of the ship was less violent, though she still rolled heavily, as if unable to steady herself.

We at length began to hope that the final effort of the gale was made. The day wore on—more persons died—the smoke grew thicker, and was seen streaming forth from the cabin windows. Towards evening there was a decided change for the better in the weather, and we saw the people in the Mary making preparations to lower a boat, and to heave the ship to. Another difficulty arose: to enable the boat to come on board, we must likewise stop the way of our ship, but we had not strength to heave her to.

We were too far gone to feel even satisfaction as we saw a boat pulling from the Mary towards us. We put down the helm as she came near us, and the ship rounded to. The fresh crew scrambled on board, and, backing our main-topsail, our ship remained steady, a short distance to leeward of the Mary. A few of the emigrants were lowered into the boat; some of the crew remained to take care of us, and the remainder returned on board in safety. This experiment having been successful, another boat was lowered, and more of our people taken off. They brought us also a keg of water; and so eager were we for it, that we could scarcely refrain from snatching it from each other, and spilling the contents. It occupied a long time to transfer the emigrants from one ship to the other. They were so utterly unable to help themselves, that they had to be lowered like bales of goods into the boats, and even the seamen were scarcely more active.

It was thus dark before all the emigrants were rescued; and, what was worse, the wind again got up, as did the sea, and prevented any communication between the ships. In one respect during that night the condition of those who remained was improved; for we had water to quench our burning thirst, and food to quell our hunger; besides which, a boat’s crew of seamen belonging to the Mary gallantly remained by us and navigated the ship, so that we were able to take a sounder rest than we had enjoyed for many days past. Still the flames did not burst forth, and another night and day we continued in that floating furnace. Towards the evening the wind suddenly dropped; and, while the remaining emigrants were being taken off the wreck, it fell a dead calm.

The last man to leave the deck of the Black Swan was Mr Bell. He made me and Derrick go down the ship’s side just before him. I trust that we felt grateful to Heaven for our deliverance. Scarcely had we left the deck of the Black Swan than the flames burst forth from her hold. They first appeared streaming out of the cabin windows, curling upwards round the taffrail. By this time it was quite dark; and the bright light from the burning wreck cast a ruddy glow on the sails and hull of the Mary, and topped the far surrounding waves with a bright tinge of the same hue. Soon the whole poop was on fire, and the triumphant flames began to climb up the mizzen-mast. As the ship lay head to wind, their progress was slow forward, nor did they ascend very rapidly; consequently the mizzen-mast fell before the main-mast was on fire. That shortly, however, followed with a loud crash before they even reached the main-topgallant-yard. Next down came the fore-mast, and the whole hull was a mass of flame. I felt sick at heart as I saw the noble ship thus for ever lost to the use of man. The fire was still raging when, overcome with fatigue and sickness, I sunk on the deck. As the Mary sailed away from her, she was seen like a beacon blazing fiercely in mid-ocean. Long those on deck gazed till the speck of bright light was on a sudden lost to view, and the glow in the sky overhead disappeared. It was when her charred fragments sunk beneath the wave.

Chapter Eleven.

We were kindly welcomed and cared for on board the Mary, though we subjected her passengers and crew to much inconvenience, and to no little risk of starving, should her voyage be prolonged.

There were ladies who attended with gentle care to the women and children, and aided also in nursing the men. Many of the passengers and crew gave up their berths to the sick; but the greater number of our people were compelled to remain on deck, sheltered, however, by every means the kindness of our hosts could devise. There was one fair, blue-eyed girl—can I ever forget her? What a pure, light-hearted young creature she was! I felt at once that I could place the same confidence in her that I could in my own sisters, and that she was a being superior both to me and to any of those by whom I had been lately surrounded. Her name was Mary Dean. She was the daughter of the master of the Mary, and the ship was named after her. Mr Bell told the master of my behaviour, which he was pleased to praise, and of my refusing to quit the ship till he did; and Mary heard the tale. The mate also told him that I was the son of a gentleman, and how I had been treated by Captain Swales.

Captain Dean was a very different character to Captain Swales, with whose conduct he was so thoroughly disgusted, that he refused to hold any further communication with him than business actually required. I had held out till I was in safety, and a severe attack of illness then came on. Captain Dean had me removed to a berth in his own cabin, and Mary became my nurse. Where there is sickness and misery, there will the ministering hand of gentle woman be found. Mary Dean watched over me as the ship which bore us steered her course for the mouth of the Saint Lawrence. To her gentle care, under Providence, I owed my life. Several of the emigrants died after they came on board the Mary, and such would probably have been my fate under less watchful treatment.

I was in a low fever and unconscious. How long I remained so, I scarcely know. I awoke one afternoon, and found Mary Dean sitting by my side working with her needle. I fancied that I was dead, and that she was an angel watching over me. Although I discovered that the first part of the notion was a hallucination, I was every day more convinced of the truth of the second. When I got rather better, she used to read to me interesting and instructive works; and every morning she read some portion of the Bible, and explained it to me in a manner which made me comprehend it better than I had ever done before.

Ten days thus passed rapidly away before I was able to go on deck. Captain Dean was very kind to me, and often came and spoke to me, and gave me much useful instruction in seamanship, and also in navigation. I then thought Mary Dean very beautiful, and I now know that she was so. She was a child, it must be remembered, or little more than one; but though very small, she was very graceful. She was beautifully fair, with blue, truthful eyes, in which it was impossible guile could ever find a dwelling-place. I have no doubt that my readers will picture her to themselves as she sat in the cabin with a book on her lap, gravely conning its contents, or skipped along the deck, a being of light and life, the fair spirit of the summer sea. Such was Mary Dean as I first saw her. Every one loved her. Her father’s heart was wrapped up in her. His crew would, to a man, have died rather than that harm should have happened to her. On sailed the ship. There was much sickness, for all hands were put on the smallest allowance of water and provisions it was possible to subsist on; and we, unfortunately, fell in with no other ship able to furnish us with a supply.

At length the welcome sound was heard of “Land ahead!” It was Cape Breton, at the entrance of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Rounding the cape, we stood towards the mouth of the river Saint Lawrence, that vast stream, fed by those inland seas the lakes of Upper Canada, and innumerable rivers and streams. On the north side of the gulf is the large island of Newfoundland, celebrated for its cod fisheries. A glance at the map will show our course far better than any description of mine. I could scarcely believe that we were actually in the river when we had already proceeded a hundred miles up it, so distant were the opposite shores, and, till told of it, I fancied that we were still in the open sea. I was much struck with the grand spectacle which Quebec and its environs presented, as, the ship emerging from the narrow channel of the river formed by the island of Orleans, the city first met my view. It is at this point that the Saint Lawrence, taking a sudden turn, expands, so as to assume the appearance of a broad lake.

The sun had just risen, and all nature looked fresh and green, rejoicing in the genial warmth of a Canadian spring. On the left was the town, the bright tin steeples and housetops of which, crowning the summit of Cape Diamond, glittered in the rays of the glorious luminary. Ships of all rigs and sizes lay close under the cliffs, and from their diminutive appearance I calculated the great height of the promontory. About eight miles off, on the right, I could see the falls of Montmorency, descending in a sheet of milk-white foam over a lofty precipitous bank into the stream, which, winding through a plain interspersed with villages and studded with vegetation, finds its way into the Saint Lawrence. Quebec is divided into two distinct parts.

The lower town, occupies a narrow strip of land between the precipitous heights of Cape Diamond and the river. It is connected with the upper town by means of a steep street, built in a ravine, which is commanded by the guns of a strongly fortified gateway.

The lower town is principally inhabited by merchants; and so much straitened are they for room, that many of their houses are built upon wharfs, and other artificial ground. The streets of Quebec are very narrow, and there is a general appearance of antiquity, not often to be met with in an American town. The suburbs are situated on the shores of the Saint Charles, without the fortifications. But I afterwards found that the most magnificent prospect was from the summit of the Citadel on Cape Diamond, whence one may look over the celebrated Plains of Abraham, on which the gallant Wolfe gained the victory which gave Canada to England, and where, fighting nobly, he fell in the hour of triumph. But my object is rather to describe a few of the events of my early days than the scenes I visited. It was a happy moment when we at length dropped our anchor, and water was brought off to quench the thirst from which all had more or less suffered. As soon as the necessary forms were gone through, the emigrants went on shore, and, with few exceptions, I saw them no more.

I was the only person on board who regretted that the voyage was over. I wished to see the country, and the Indians, and the vast lakes and boundless prairies; but far rather would I have remained with Mary and her father—at least I thought so, as the time for quitting them, probably for ever, arrived. I regretted much leaving Captain Dean, for he had been very kind to me; indeed, he had treated me almost like a son, and I felt grateful to him. It was evening. The ship was to haul in the next morning alongside the quay to discharge her cargo. The captain was on shore and all the emigrants. Except the anchor-watch on deck, the crew were below. Mary and I were the only persons on the quarter-deck.

“Mary,” I said, as I took her hand—the words almost choked me while I spoke—“to-morrow I must leave you to look out for a berth on board some homeward-bound ship. You have been very, very kind to me, Mary; and I am grateful, I am indeed, to you and to your father.”

“But I do not see why you should leave us, Peter,” answered Mary, looking gravely up with a somewhat surprised air. “Has not my father told you that he thinks of asking you to remain with him? And then, some day, when you know more of seamanship, you will become his mate. Think of that, Peter, how pleasant it will be! So you must not think of leaving us.”

“I have no wish to go, I can assure you, except that I am expected at home,” I replied. “But if I stay, what office are you to hold on board, Mary?” I could not help asking.

“Oh, I suppose that I shall be another of the mates,” she replied, laughing. “Do you know, Peter, that if I have you to study with, I think that I shall make a very good sailor in a short time. I can put the ship about now in a very good style, let me tell you.”

“That’s more than I can do, I am afraid,” I observed. “But then I can go aloft, and hand and reef; so there I beat you.”

“I should not be a bit afraid of going aloft, if I was dressed like you, and papa would let me,” she answered naïvely. “I often envy the men as I see them lying out on the yards or at the mast-head when the ship is rolling and pitching; and I fancy that next to the sensations of a bird on the wing, theirs must be the most enjoyable.”

“You are a true sailor’s daughter, Mary,” I answered, with more enthusiasm than I had ever before felt. “But I don’t think your father would quite like to see you aloft; and, let me tell you, when there’s much sea on, and it’s blowing hard, it’s much more difficult to keep there than it looks.”

Thus we talked on, and touched on other topics; but they chiefly had references to ourselves. Nearly the last words Mary uttered were, “Then you will sail with father, if he asks you, Peter?”

I promised, and afterwards added, “For the sake of sailing with him, Mary, my dear young sister, if you are on board, I would give up kindred, home, and country. I would sail with you round and round the world, and never wish again to see the shore, except you were there.” She was satisfied at having gained her point. We were very young, and little knew the dangerous sea on which we were proposing to sail. I called her sister, for I felt as if she were indeed my sister.

Chapter Twelve.

The next morning the Mary commenced discharging her cargo. Captain Dean then told me that he hoped I would sail with him, but that, as the ship required a thorough repair, it would be some weeks before she could be at sea again, and that in the meantime he would advise me to employ myself usefully; and he recommended me to take a trip in a trader to Halifax or Saint John’s, for the sake of gaining information regarding the navigation of those seas.

“A person who wishes to be a thorough sailor (and if a man is not a thorough sailor he has no business to be an officer),” he observed, “will seek every opportunity of making himself well acquainted with the navigation of every sea he visits, the appearance of the coasts, the set of the currents, the rise and fall of the tides, the prevailing winds, and the weather to be expected at different seasons. He will go afloat in every sort of craft, and be constantly considering how he would act under all possible circumstances. He should never weary of making inquiries of other seamen how they have acted, and the result of what they have done. As navigation was not brought to the perfection it has now attained under many centuries, so no man will become a perfect seaman unless he diligently gathers together the information possessed by all whom he meets, at the same time weighing well their opinions, and adopting them after duly comparing them with others.”

I have always remembered Captain Dean’s advice, and I advise all young sailors to follow it; indeed, it strikes me that it is applicable to most relations in life.

I looked about for a vessel, but could not find one. Meantime, by the captain’s kindness, I remained on board, though he and Mary went to live in lodgings on shore, as, of course, in the state the ship was in, she could have no comfort even in her own cabin. About three or four days after our arrival, I saw a ship ascend the river and come to an anchor not far from where we were lying. Prompted by curiosity, I was looking at her through a telescope, when I observed a group of people on the deck who were gazing apparently with the curiosity of strangers at the shore. A little apart from them stood a form I thought I recognised. I pointed my glass steadily at him. I felt certain that I could not be mistaken. It was Silas Flint. Then all on the raft, instead of perishing, as it was supposed they would, might have been saved, as he had escaped. I was truly glad, and, borrowing the dinghy from the mate, I pulled on board the newly-arrived ship.

Silas—for I was right in my conjectures—was looking over the side as I climbed up it. He almost wrung my hand off as he took it in his grasp. “I am glad to see ye, I am, Peter!” he exclaimed. “Why, lad, I thought you had gone to the bottom with all who remained on board.”

I told him that we had in like manner fancied that all on the raft had perished; and I was glad to find that, with the exception of two, all had been picked up by the ship on board of which they then were. He then asked me what my plans were, and I told him what Captain Dean advised. He next inquired if I had seen Captain Swales. I replied that I had met him twice in the streets of Quebec, and that he had eyed me with no very friendly glance.

“Then depend on it, Peter, he means you some mischief,” he observed. “If he gets another ship here, which is likely enough he will, he will want hands; and if he can lay hold of you, he will claim you as put under his charge by your father; and I don’t know how you are to get off.”

“By keeping out of his way, I should think,” I replied.

“That’s just what I was going to advise you to do, Peter,” observed Silas. “And I’ll tell you what, lad, instead of your kicking your heels doing nothing in this place, you and I will start off up the country with our guns as soon as I have done my business here, which won’t take long, and we’ll see if we can’t pick up a few skins which will be worth something.”

This proposition, as may be supposed, was much to my taste; but I did not much like the thoughts of leaving Captain Dean and Mary, though I did not tell him so. He, however, very soon discovered what was running in my mind, and set himself to work to overcome the wish I had to remain with them. I had found so few friends of late, that I had learned to value them properly. But Silas Flint wanted a companion, and, liking me, was resolved that I should accompany him. We went on shore together; and before the day was over, he had so worked up my imagination by his descriptions of the sport and scenery of the backwoods, that I became most eager to set off.

I next day told Captain Dean; and as I assured him that it was my father’s wish that I should see something of the country, he did not oppose the plan, provided I should return in time to sail with him. This I promised to do; and I then went below to tell Mary, who was in the cabin packing up some things to take on shore. To my surprise, she burst into tears when I gave her the information; and this very nearly made me abandon my project. When, however, I told her of my promise to return, she was comforted; and I added, that I would bring her back plenty of skins to make her tippets and muffs for the winter, to last her for years.

Three days after his arrival at Quebec, Flint was ready to set out. I had preserved intact the money my kind father had given me, and with it I purchased, at Flint’s suggestion, a rifle, and powder, and a shot-belt, a tinder-box, a pipe, some tobacco, a tin cup, and a few other small articles. “Now you’ve laid in your stock in trade, my lad,” he observed, as he announced my outfit to be complete. “With a quick eye and a steady hand you’ve the means, by my help, of making your fortune; so the sooner we camp out and begin the better.”

I told him I was ready, and asked him where we were to go.

“Oh, never you mind that, lad,” he replied. “It’s a long way from here; but a man, with his eyes open, can always find his way there and back. All you’ve to do is to follow the setting sun going, and to look out for him rising when coming back.”

“Then I suppose you mean to go to the westward?” I observed.

“Ay, lad, to the far west,” he answered; but I confess that at the time I had no idea how far off that “far west” was.

We set off the next morning by a steamer to Montreal, and on from thence, past Kingston, to Toronto on Lake Ontario, in Upper Canada. Flint lent me money to pay my way. He said that I should soon be able to reimburse him. I need not say how delighted I was with the fine scenery and the superb inland seas on which I floated. I could scarcely persuade myself that I was not on the ocean, till I tasted the water alongside. Flint told me with a chuckle, that once upon a time the English Government sent some ships of war in frame out to the lakes, and also a supply of water-tanks, forgetting that they would have a very ample one outside. A little forethought would have saved the ridicule they gained for this mistake, and the expense to which they put the country. As my intention is to describe my adventures afloat rather than those on shore, I shall be very brief with my account of the life we led in the backwoods.

From Toronto we crossed the country to Goodrich, a town on the shores of Lake Huron. Here we took a passage in a sailing vessel, trading to the factories on the northern shore of the lake, and at the nearest we landed and prepared for our expedition. Flint observed, that as we were short of funds, we must proceed on an economical principle. He therefore purchased only a small though strong pony, to carry our provisions and the skins of the animals we might kill, while we were to proceed humbly on foot.

We were now in a land teeming with every description of game; and I was able to prove to Flint that I was not a worse shot than I had sometimes boasted to him of being. The weather was generally fine, so that a bark hut afforded us ample shelter at night, and our rifles gave us as much food as we could require. Our greatest enemies were mosquitoes and other flies, and it was only by smearing our faces over with fat that we could free ourselves from their attacks.

We constantly encountered the Indian inhabitants of that territory; but they were invariably friendly, and willing to trade with us. Silas understood their language a little, so that with the aid of signs we could carry on sufficient conversation for our purpose. Six weeks thus passed rapidly away, and I calculated that it would be time for me to return to Quebec; so I told Silas I must wish him good-bye. He seemed very much vexed at this; for I believe that he both liked my society, and found me very useful to him. He had, indeed, formed the intention of keeping me by him, and converting me into a regular trapper and hunter; but, fond as I was of sport, for this I had no fancy, and I therefore persisted in my purpose of returning. Seeing that he could not prevail on me to remain, he accompanied me back to the fort, where he made over to me my fair share of the skins.

After the delay of a week, I found a vessel returning to the lower lakes, and in her I set sail for Quebec. My readers must excuse me for being thus brief in my description of my doings on shore; but it must be remembered that I am writing an account of my sea adventures, and I must defer the former to another opportunity.

Chapter Thirteen.

At length I reached Quebec, and hurried to the quay, where I had left the Mary. She was not there. I hastened to the dockyard where she was to be repaired; I made inquiries for her of everybody I met. “What, the Mary, Captain Dean?” replied a shipwright to whom I spoke; “why, she sailed three weeks ago and better, for the West Indies, or some of them ports to the southward—she’s pretty well there by this time.”

I felt that he was speaking the truth, and my heart sunk within me; but to make sure, I ran on to the house at which Captain Dean and Mary had lodged. The woman, who was a French Canadian, received me very kindly, and seemed to enter into my feelings when she corroborated the account I had heard. She did not know exactly where the ship had gone; but she said that my friends were very sorry when I did not come back at the time appointed. At last Monsieur the captain grew angry, and said he was afraid I was an idle fellow, and preferred the vagabond life of a hunter to the hardier though nobler work of a seaman; but “ma pauvre petite,” as she called Mary, took my part, and said she was certain some accident had happened to me, or I should have been back when I promised. “Sweet Mary, I knew that she would defend me,” I muttered; “and yet how little do I deserve her confidence!”

“Ah, she is indeed a sweet child,” observed Madame Durand, divining my thoughts; “she cried very much indeed when the ship had to sail away without you, and nothing would comfort the poor dear.”

This information, though very flattering to me, added to my regret. I was now obliged to consider what I should next do. After the free wild life I had been leading, the idea of returning to Ireland was odious to me. I can scarcely now account for my conduct in this respect, but I had but once written home on my arrival at Quebec; and during my long excursions to the backwoods, I never had time. I was now ashamed to write—I seldom ever thought of those at home. I had sunk, I felt, from their grade, whenever I recollected them. My whole attention had been for so long occupied with the present, that the past was, as it were, a blank, or as a story which I had read in some book, and had almost forgotten. I therefore hardly for a moment thought of going back, if I did so at all; but I was anxious to fall in again with Captain Dean. I fancied the pleasures of a sea life more than those of a hunter, but I was not yet altogether tired of the backwoods. I had still a hankering to trap a few more beavers, and to shoot some more raccoons and deer.

On making further inquiries of the ship-broker, I discovered that there was a possibility of Captain Dean’s going to New Orleans, and I at once formed the idea of finding my way, by land and river, to that city. I knew a little more of the geography of the country than I did on my arrival, but the immense distance no way daunted me. I wanted to visit the States, and I was certain that my gun would always afford me the means of proceeding by any public conveyance, when I required it. I had a good sum remaining from the sale of the peltries I had saved; and with this in my pockets I once more started for the lakes of Upper Canada, purposing from thence to work my way through the western States down the Mississippi to New Orleans.

An American vessel, which I found at Goodrich, conveyed me, through Lake Huron, to a fort at the southern extremity of Lake Michigan, called, if I recollect rightly, Fort Dearborn. The voyage was long and tiresome. The feeling that one is in a fresh-water lake, and at the same time being out of sight of land for days together, is very curious. It gives one a more perfect notion than anything else can of the vastness of the country in which such inland seas exist. I must be excused from giving any minute account of my adventures at this period, as I made no notes, and I do not recur to them with much satisfaction. In fact, I was weary of the solitary life of a hunter and trapper, and longed once more to be among people with whom I could have some thoughts and feelings in common.

Till I got into the settled districts, I shot and trapped as before. My rifle always supplied me with abundance of food; and, whenever I reached a trading-post, I was able to exchange my peltries for a fresh store of powder and shot. When passing through the more inhabited districts, I was invariably hospitably received by the settlers, whatever was the nation to which they before belonged. Travelling through a large portion of the State of Indiana, I entered that of Illinois, and at length I embarked with a party of hunters in a canoe on the river of the same name, which runs through its centre. With these people I proceeded to Saint Louis, a city situated on the spot where the mighty streams of the Mississippi and Missouri join their waters.

Saint Louis was founded by the French, and is still very French in its general aspect. I here easily disposed of my remaining skins for a good sum of money, which I secured in a band round my waist. I remained here only two days, for I was anxious to proceed to the south; and, finding a steamer starting down the Mississippi, I went on board, and for about eight dollars engaged a passage on deck to New Orleans. The passage occupied ten days. By my usual way of proceeding, on foot, I should have been as many months, with a constant probability of dying of fever on the way.

I must make a remark for the benefit of Englishmen who may contemplate settling in the United States. They expect to find land cheap, no taxes, and few laws to hamper their will. In this they will not be disappointed; but there will be a considerable expense incurred in reaching those settlements where land is cheap. They will probably be a very great distance from a market for their produce; and, though they have no taxes and few laws, neither will they have the advantages which taxes and laws afford. They will be far removed from the ordinances of their Church, and the opportunities of education; there will neither be the where to buy nor to sell. In fact, they must be deprived of many of the advantages of civilisation; added to which, many parts of the western States are unhealthy in the greatest degree, of which the wretched, sallow, ague-stricken beings inhabiting them afforded melancholy proof; and these people, I found, were once stout, healthy peasants in England, and would have continued healthy, and gained what they hoped for besides, had they emigrated to Canada or to any other British colony, or even had they possessed more knowledge of the territory of the United States. I do not say that many British emigrants who give up their country, and become aliens in the States, do not succeed, and thus the accounts they send home encourage others to go out; but I do say that thousands of others die miserably of sickness and disappointment, without a friendly hand to help or cheer them, or any one to afford them the consolations of religion, and of their fate we never hear a word.

People talk a great deal of the advantages of liberty and equality, and the freedom of a wild life; but let me assure them that the liberty of having one’s eye gouged out, the equality which every ruffian claims, and the freedom which allows a man to die without any one to assist him, are practically far from desirable; and yet such are the false phantoms by which many are allured to a land of strangers, away from the home of their countrymen and friends. However, I am not writing a lecture on colonisation. I will finish the subject, by urging my readers to study it, and to become the advocates of British colonisation.

New Orleans is justly called the wet grave of the white man, for yearly pestilence sweeps off thousands of its inhabitants; and as water is found but two feet below the surface, it fills each last receptacle of the dead as soon as dug. Yet pestilential as is the clime, the scenery is very beautiful. The stream, which is here a mile broad, rolls its immense volume of water with calm dignity, in a bed above two hundred feet deep, past this great commercial mart of the south. The banks on either side are covered with sugar plantations, from the midst of which rise numberless airy mansions of the wealthy owners, surrounded with orange, banana, lime, and fig trees, with numberless other productions of the tropics; while behind them can be seen the sugar-houses and the cabins of the negroes, to remind one of the curse which hangs over the land.

The city itself stands in the form of a half-moon on the banks of this mighty stream, and before it are moored craft of every description—backwood boats, keel boats, steamers and ships, brigs and schooners, from every part of the world. I may remark that directly behind the city is an impenetrable swamp, into which all the filth from the houses is led, for the ground is lower than the surface of the Mississippi; and then we cannot be surprised that plague and fever prevail to a terrific extent.

As soon as I landed I set to work to try and discover the Mary, if she was there, or to gain tidings of her should she have sailed, as, from the length of time I had occupied in my journey, I was afraid might be the case. I walked along the quays, examining every ship in the river, and, after a long search, I was convinced that the Mary was not there. I next had recourse to the ship-brokers and ship-chandlers, but from none of them could I gain any information. I then began to make inquiries of the people I found lounging about the quays smoking, and otherwise killing the time. At last I saw a man who stood lounging against a post, with a cigar in his mouth and his arms folded, and who, by the glance he cast at me, seemed to court inquiry.

He was, I remember well, a sallow-faced, gaunt fellow, with large expressive eyes and black hair, which hung down from under his Panama hat in ringlets, while a pair of gold rings adorned his ears. He had on a nankeen jacket and large white trousers, with a rich silk sash round his waist, in which was ostentatiously stuck a dagger, or rather a Spanish knife, with a handsome silver hilt. I took him for a Spaniard by his appearance; but when I accosted him in English, he replied in the same language, with scarcely a foreign accent, “And so you are looking for the Mary, Captain Dean, are you? Very curious,” he observed: “I left her three weeks ago at the Havanah waiting for a cargo; and she won’t be off again for another three weeks or more.”

“Then I may reach her in time!” I ejaculated.

“Do you belong to her?” he continued. “You have not much the look of a seaman.”

He was right; for I was still dressed in my mocassins and hunting costume, with my rifle in my hand, and my other worldly property slung about me, so I must have cut rather a curious figure.

I replied that I was to have belonged to her, and explained how it had happened that she had sailed without me. By degrees I told him more of my history; and finally, without my intending it, he drew the whole of it from me.

“You are a likely lad,” he observed, with an approving nod. “The fact is, I sail to-morrow for the Havanah, in the schooner you see out yonder; and if you like to ship on board, you may, that’s all.” He pointed, as he spoke, to a large square-topsail schooner which lay out in the stream, at a single anchor.

She will not take long to get under weigh, I thought, as I looked at her. Eager as I was to reach the Havannah, I jumped at his offer. “I have not been accustomed to a craft like yours,” I replied, “but I will do my duty on board her, to the best of my power.”

“That’s all we require; and perhaps, if you find your friend gone, you will like us well enough to remain with us,” he observed, with a laugh. “We are constantly on the wing, so you will have no time to get weary of any place where we touch, as is the case in those big ships, which lie in harbour for months together. If you want to become a seaman, go to sea in a small craft, say I.”

I told him that I did wish to become a seaman; but I did not say that it was for the sake of sailing with Captain Dean, nor did I mention his daughter. Indeed, I had kept her name altogether out of my narrative.

The arrangement being concluded, he advised me to go and get a sea-rig, remarking that my present costume was not exactly suited for going aloft in. There were several outfitting shops, such as are to be found in all seaports, and towards one of them of the most inviting appearance I bent my steps. Before going, however, I inquired of my new friend his name, and that of the schooner.

“The English and Americans call me John Hawk, and my craft the Foam,” he answered. “Captain John Hawk, remember. The name is not amiss; so you may use it, for want of a better.”

“Are you neither an Englishman nor an American?” I asked.

“No, youngster, I belong to no nation,” he replied; and I observed a deep frown on his brow as he spoke. “Neither Spain, France, Portugal, England, nor even this free and enlightened country, owns me. Are you afraid of sailing with me, in consequence of my telling you this? If you are, you may be off your bargain.”

“No,” I answered, “no; I merely asked for curiosity, and I hope you won’t consider me impertinent.”

“Not if you don’t insist on an answer,” he replied. “And now go and get your outfit.”

As I walked along, I meditated on his odd expressions; but I had no misgivings on the subject. I did not like the first shop I reached, so I went on to another, with the master of which I was more pleased. I there, at a fair price, very soon got the things I wanted, and, going into a back room, rigged myself out in them; while my hunting costume I did up in a bundle, to carry with me, for I was unwilling to part from so old and tried a friend.

As I was paying for the things, the whole of which cost somewhere about fifteen dollars, a stout, good-looking, elderly man came into the shop. I at once recognised him as the master of an American brig on board of which I had been in the Liverpool docks. I felt as if he was an old friend, and could not help speaking to him. He was very good-natured, though he did not remember me, which was not surprising. I asked him if he had met the Mary.

“I left her at the Havanah, for which place I sail to-morrow,” he answered.

“So does Captain Hawk, of the Foam,” I observed. “I have just shipped on board her.”

“Youngster,” he said, looking grave, “you do not know the character of that vessel, I am sure, or you would not willingly set foot on her deck. She is a noted slaver, if not something worse; and as you put confidence in me, I will return the compliment, and would strongly advise you to have nothing to do with her.”

“But I have engaged to sail with Captain Hawk, and he seems a fair-spoken man,” I urged.

“If you choose to trust to his fair speeches more than to my blunt warnings, I cannot help it,” he answered. “I have done my best to open your eyes for you to his true character. If you persist in following your own counsel, you will soon have to open them yourself very wide, when it is too late.”

I liked the tone of the master’s voice, as well as the expression of his countenance; and I therefore felt inclined to believe him. At the same time I did not like to be moved, as it were, from my purpose by every breath of wind.

“I promised to sail with Captain Hawk, or whatever may be his name; and though I cannot doubt but that you have good reason for what you say, sir, yet I don’t like to desert him, without some proof that he is the character you describe him,” I replied.

“Did he tell you what trade he was in?” asked the captain.

“No, sir,” I replied; “he said nothing about it.”

“Then be guided by me, youngster, and don’t ship with him,” he said, speaking most earnestly. “You may make every inquiry about my brig—the Susannah, Captain Samuel Searle. You will find all is clear and above-board with me. I want hands, I own, and I should be glad to have you, but that does not influence me in what I say.”

The shopkeeper corroborated all Captain Searle had told me, and added so many other stories of the character of Captain Hawk and his schooner, that I felt truly glad there was yet time to escape from him. Bad as he might be, there was something in his manner which made me wish not to desert him altogether, without offering him some excuse for my conduct. I accordingly, leaving my bundle in the shop, went back to the quay, where I found him lounging as before. He at first did not know me in my change of dress when I accosted him.

“You are a likely lad for a sailor,” he remarked, as he ran his eye over me approvingly.

“I am glad you think so,” I answered; and I then told him I had met the master of a vessel whom I had known in Liverpool, and that I wished to sail with him.

“And he has been telling you that I am a slaver, I suppose, or something worse, eh?” he exclaimed in a sneering tone, and with an angry flash of the eye I did not like. I looked conscious, I suppose; for he continued, “And you believed him, and were afraid to sail with so desperate a character, eh? Well, lad, go your own ways, I don’t want to lead you. But I know of whom you speak, for I saw him go into the shop where you have been, and tell him to look out for himself that’s all.” Saying this, he turned on his heel, and I went back to the shop.

I told Captain Searle what Captain Hawk had said.

“That does not matter,” he answered. “He cannot do me more harm than he already seeks to do; so I do not fear him.”

I was now pretty well convinced of the honesty of Captain Searle; but to assure myself still further, I called on two or three ship-brokers, who all assured me that his ship was a regular trader, and gave a favourable report of him. When I inquired about Captain Hawk, they screwed up their mouths, or made some other sign expressive of disapprobation, but were evidently unwilling to say anything about him. In the evening I went on board the Susannah; and I must say that I was very glad to find myself once more afloat.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Susannah was a fine brig, of about three hundred tons burden. She had a raised poop, but no topgallant forecastle; so the crew were berthed in the fore-peak, in the very nose, as it were, of the vessel. I had engaged to serve as a boy before the mast. Indeed, perfectly unknown as I was, with slight pretensions to a knowledge of seamanship, I could not hope to obtain any other berth.

The crew were composed of about equal numbers of Americans—that is, subjects of the United States—and of Englishmen, with two blacks and a mulatto, a Spaniard, and a Portuguese. The first officer, Mr Dobree, was a great dandy, and evidently considered himself much too good for his post; while the second mate, Mr Jones, was a rough-and-ready seaman, thoroughly up to his work.

I was welcomed by my new shipmates in the fore-peak with many rough but no unkind jokes; and as I had many stories to tell of my adventures in the backwoods, before we turned in for the night I had made myself quite at home with them.

At daybreak on the next morning all hands were roused out to weigh anchor. The second mate’s rough voice had scarcely done sounding in my ear before I was on deck, and with the rest was running round between the capstan-bars. “Loose the topsails,” next sung out the captain. I sprung aloft to aid in executing the order. Though a young seaman may not have knowledge, he may at all events exhibit activity in obeying orders, and thus gain his superior’s approbation. The anchor was quickly run up to the bows, the topsails were sheeted home, and, with a light breeze from the northward, we stood towards the mouth of the Mississippi.

As we passed close to the spot where, on the previous day, the Foam lay at anchor, I looked for her. She was nowhere to be seen. She must have got under weigh and put to sea at night. “She’s gone, Peter, you observe,” remarked Captain Searle, as some piece of duty called me near him. “I’m glad you are not on board her; and I hope neither you nor I may ever fall in with her again.”

From New Orleans to Belize, at the mouth of the Mississippi, is about one hundred miles; and this distance, with the aid of the current and a favourable breeze, we accomplished by dusk, when we prepared once more to breast old ocean’s waves. These last hundred miles of the father of rivers were very uninteresting, the banks being low, swampy, and dismal in the extreme, pregnant with ague and fevers. Although I rejoiced to be on the free ocean, I yet could scarcely help feeling regret at leaving, probably for ever, the noble stream on whose bosom I had so long floated; on whose swelling and forest-shaded banks I had travelled so far; whom I had seen in its infancy—if an infant it may ever be considered—in its proud manhood, and now at the termination of its mighty course.

These thoughts quickly vanished, however, as I felt the lively vessel lift to the swelling wave, and smelt the salt pure breeze from off the sea. Though the sea-breeze was very reviving after the hot pestilential air of New Orleans, yet as it came directly in our teeth, our captain wished it from some other quarter. We were enabled, however, to work off the shore; and as during the night the land-breeze came pretty strong, by day-break the next morning we were fairly at sea.

Before the sun had got up, the wind had gone down, and it soon became what seamen call a flat calm. The sea, as the hot rays of the sun shone on it, was, as it were, like molten lead; the sails flapped lazily against the mast; the brig’s sides, as she every now and then gave an unwilling roll, threw off with a loud splash the bright drops of water which they lapped up from the imperceptibly heaving bosom of the deep. The hot sun struck down on our heads with terrific force, while the pitch bubbled up out of the seams of the deck; and Bill Tasker, the wit of the crew, declared he could hear it squeak into the bargain. An awning was spread over the deck in some way to shelter us, or we should have been roasted alive. Bill, to prove the excess of the heat, fried a slice of salt junk on a piece of tin, and, peppering it well, declared it was delicious. The only person who seemed not only not to suffer from the heat, but to enjoy it, was the black cook; and he, while not employed in his culinary operations, spent the best part of the day basking on the bowsprit-end.

The crew were engaged in their usual occupations of knotting yarns, making sinnet, etcetera, while the aforesaid Bill Tasker was instructing me—for whom he had taken an especial fancy—in the mysteries of knotting and splicing; but we all of us, in spite of ourselves, went about our work in a listless, careless way, nor had the officers even sufficient energy to make us more lively. Certainly it was hot. There had been no sail in sight that I know of all the day, when, as I by chance happened to cast my eyes over the bulwarks, they fell on the topsails of a schooner, just rising above the line of the horizon.

“A sail on the starboard bow!” I sung out to the man who was nominally keeping a look-out forward. He reported the same to the first mate.

“Where away is she?” I heard the captain inquire, as he came directly afterwards on deck.

“To the southward, sir; she seems to be creeping up towards us with a breeze of some sort or other,” answered Mr Dobree. “Here, lad,” he continued, beckoning to me, “go aloft, and see what you can make of her. Your eyes are as sharp as any on board, if I mistake not, and a little running will do you no harm.”

I was soon at the mast-head, and in two minutes returned, and reported her to be a large topsail schooner, heading north-north-east with the wind about south-east.

“I can’t help thinking, sir, from her look, that this is the same craft that was lying off New Orleans two days ago,” I added, touching my hat to the captain. I don’t remember exactly what made me suppose this, but such I know was my idea at the time.

“What, your friend Captain Hawk’s craft, the Foam, you mean, I suppose?” he observed. “But how can that be? She was bound to the Havanah, and this vessel is standing away from it.”

“I can’t say positively, sir; but if you would take the glass and have a look at her, I don’t think you would say she is very unlike her, at all events,” I replied.

“It’s very extraordinary if such is the case,” said the captain, looking rather more as if he thought I might be right than before.

“Give me the glass, and I’ll judge for myself, though it’s impossible to say for a certainty what she may be at this distance.” Saying this he took the telescope, and in spite of the heat went aloft.

When he came down again, I observed that he looked graver than usual. He instantly gave orders to furl the awning, and to be ready to make sail as soon as the breeze should reach us. “The youngster is right, Mr Dobree,” he said, turning to the mate, and probably not aware that I overheard him.

“It’s that piccarooning craft the Foam; and Mr Hawk, as he calls himself, is after some of his old tricks. I had my suspicions of him when I saw him off New Orleans; but I did not think he would venture to attack us.”

“He’s bold enough to attack any one, sir,” said the mate; “but we flatter ourselves that we shall be able to give a very good account of him, if he begins to play off any of his tricks on us.”

“We’ll do our best, Mr Dobree,” said the captain; “for if we do not, we shall have but a Flemish account to render of our cargo, let alone our lives.”

I do not know if I before stated that the Susannah carried four guns—two long and two carronades; and as we had a supply of small arms and cutlasses, we were tolerably able to defend ourselves.

The captain walked the deck for some time in silence, during which period the stranger had perceptibly approached to us. He then again went aloft, and scrutinised her attentively. On coming down he stopped at the break of the poop, and, waving his hand, let us know that he wished to address us. “My lads,” he began, “I don’t altogether like the look of that fellow out yonder, who has been taking so much pains to get up to us. He may be honest, but I tell you I don’t think so; and if he attempts to molest us, I’m sure you’ll one and all do your duty in defending the brig and the property on board her entrusted to you. I need not tell you that pirates generally trust to the saying, that dead men tell no tales; and that, if that fellow is one, and gets the better of us, our lives won’t be worth much to any of us.”

“Don’t fear for us, sir; we’re ready for him whatever he may be,” sung out the whole crew with one voice.

The stranger brought along the breeze with him, but as yet our sails had not felt a particle of its influence. At length, when he was little more than a mile off, a few cat’s-paws were seen playing on the water; they came, and vanished again as rapidly, and the sea was as smooth as before. In time they came oftener and with more power; and at length our topsails and topgallant-sails were seen slowly to bulge out as the steadier breeze filled them.

The wind came, as I have said, from the south-east, which was directly in our teeth in our proper course to the Havanah. The stranger had thus the weather-gauge of us; and a glance at the map will show that we were completely embayed, as, had we stood to the eastward, we should have run on the Florida coast, while on the other tack we must have run right down to meet him. We might possibly reach some port; but the probabilities were that he would overtake us before we could do so, and the appearance of fear would encourage him to follow us. We had therefore only the choice of running back to Belize, or fighting our way onward. Captain Searle decided on the latter alternative; and, bracing the yards sharply up on the starboard tack, we stood to the eastward, intending, whatever course the stranger pursued, to go about again at the proper time.

The schooner, on seeing this, also closely hugged the wind and stood after us. There could now be no longer any doubt about his intentions. We, however, showed the stars and stripes of the United States, but he hoisted no ensign in return. It was soon very evident that he sailed faster than we did, and he was then rapidly coming within range of our guns. Our captain ordered us, however, on no account to fire unless we were struck, as he was unwilling to sacrifice the lives of any one unnecessarily, even of our enemies.

Every stitch of canvas the brig could carry was cracked on her: all would not do. The stranger walked up to us hand over hand. Seeing that there was not the slightest chance of escaping by flight, Captain Searle ordered the foresail and topgallant-sails to be clewed up, and, under our topsails and fore-and-aft sails, resolved to wait the coming up of the enemy, if such the stranger might prove.

On came the schooner, without firing or showing any unfriendly disposition. As she drew near, I felt more and more convinced that she must be the Foam. She had a peculiarly long cutwater and a very straight sheer, which, as she came up to the windward of us, and presented nearly her broadside, was discernible. As she heeled over to the now freshening breeze, I fancied that I could even discern, through the glass, Captain Hawk walking the quarter-deck. When she got about a quarter of a mile to windward of us, she hove to and lowered a boat, into which several people jumped and pulled towards us. At the same time up went the Spanish ensign at her peak.

Captain Searle looked puzzled. “I cannot make it out, Dobree,” he observed. “I still doubt if that fellow is honest, and am half inclined to make sail again, and while he bears down to pick up his boat, we may get to windward of him.”

“If he isn’t honest he’ll not trouble himself about his boat, but will try to run alongside us, and let her come up when she can,” answered the mate. “There is no trusting to what such craft as that fellow may do.”

“Oh, we’ll take care he does not play off any tricks upon us,” said the captain; and we waited the approach of the boat.

As she drew near, she was seen to contain eight men. Four were pulling, one sat in the bows, and the other three in the stern-sheets. If they were armed, it could not be discovered. When they got within hail, the captain asked them what they wanted.

They pointed to their mouths, and one answered in Spanish, “Aqua, aqua, por amor de Dios.”

“They want water, sir, they say,” observed the first mate, who prided himself on his knowledge of Spanish.

“That’s the reason, then, that they were in such a hurry to speak to us,” said the captain. “But still, does it not strike you as odd that a vessel should be in want of water in these seas?”

“Her water-butts might have leaked out; and some of these Spanish gentry, sir, are very careless about taking enough water to sea,” replied the mate, who was biassed by the pleasure he anticipated of being able to sport his Spanish.

“Get a water-cask up on deck, and we’ll have it ready to give these fellows, whatever they may be,” said our humane captain. “Have some pannikins ready to serve it out to them. Thirst is a dreadful thing, and one would not keep a fellow-creature in that state a moment longer than one could help.”

I do not know what the second mate thought of the strangers, but I remember several of the crew saying that they did not like their looks; and I saw him place a cutlass close to the gun nearest the starboard gangway, while he kept eyeing them in no very affectionate manner. Notwithstanding the heat of the weather, the men in the stern-sheets wore cloaks. On observing this, Bill Tasker said he supposed it was to hide the shabby jackets they wore under them. The other men were dressed in blue shirts, and their sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, with the red sash usually worn by Spaniards round their waist, in which was stuck the deadly cuchillo, or cut-and-thrust knife, in a sheath, carried by most Lusitanian and Iberian seamen and their descendants of the New World.

They pulled up at once alongside, and before any one attempted to stop them they had hooked on, the man in the bows climbing up on deck, followed by his companions in cloaks, and two of the seamen. The other two remained in the boat, pointing at their mouths, as a sign that they wanted water.

Seamen, from the sufferings and dangers to which they are exposed, are proverbially kind to those in distress. Our men, therefore, seemed to vie with each other who should first hold the pannikins of water to the mouths of the strangers, while a tub, with the fluid, was also lowered into the boat alongside. They eagerly rushed at the water, and drank up all that was offered them; but I could not help remarking that they did not look like men suffering from thirst. However, a most extraordinary effect was produced on two of them, for they fell down on the deck, and rolled about as if in intense agony. This drew the attention of all hands on them; and as we had no surgeon on board, the captain began to ransack his medical knowledge to find remedies for them.

While he was turning over the pages of his medical guide to find some similar case of illness and its remedy described, the schooner was edging down towards us. As she approached, I observed only a few men on board; and they, as the people in the boat had done, were pointing at their mouths, as if they were suffering from want of water. The boat was on the lee side.

I think I said that there were some sails, and two or three cloaks, apparently thrown by chance at the bottom of the boat. While all hands were engaged in attending to the strangers, and for some minutes no one had looked towards the schooner, on a sudden I heard a loud grating sound—there was the wild triumphant cry of a hundred fierce voices. The seemingly exhausted men leaped to their feet; the helmsman and our captain lay prostrate by blows dealt by our treacherous foes; the second mate and several of the men were knocked down; and before any of us had time to attempt even any defence of the brig, a set of desperadoes, of all colours and nations, were swarming down on her decks from the rigging of the schooner, while others, who had been concealed in the boat, sprang on board on the lee side. Never was a surprise more complete, or treachery more vile. In an instant we were helplessly in the power of as lawless a band of pirates as ever infested those seas. The captain and mates were first pinioned; the men were sharing the same treatment. I was at the time forward, when, on looking aft, who should I see but Captain Hawk himself walking the deck of the brig as if he were her rightful commander! He took off his hat with mock courtesy to poor Captain Searle, as he passed him. “Ah, my dear sir, the fortune of war makes you my prisoner to-day,” he said, in a sneering tone. “Another day, if my people do not insist on your walking the plank, you may hope, perhaps, to have the satisfaction of beholding me dangling at a yardarm. By the bye, I owe you this turn, for you shipped on board your craft a lad who had engaged to sail with me; and I must have him forthwith back again, with a few other articles of your cargo which I happen to require.” As he said this, his eye fell on me, and he beckoned me towards him. I saw that there was no use hanging back, so I boldly advanced. “You are a pretty fellow, to desert your colours,” he continued, laughing. “You deserve to be treated as a deserter. However, I will have compassion on your youth, if you will swear to be faithful to me in future.”

“I never joined your vessel, so I am not a deserter. I cannot swear to serve a man of whose character I know nothing, except that he has taken forcible possession of a peaceable trader.” I said this without hesitation or the least sign of fear. The truth is, I felt too desperate to allow myself to consider what I said or did.

“You are a brave young bantam,” he answered laughingly. “And though all the rest may hang or walk the plank, we will save you to afford us sport; so set your mind at rest on that point.”

“Thank you for my life, for I have no wish to lose it, I can assure you,” I replied; “but don’t suppose I am going to spend it in your service. I shall do my best to get away from you as soon as possible.”

“Then we must tie you by a lanyard to the leg,” he answered, without at all appearing angry. “Here, Mark Anthony,”—he beckoned to a tall, ill-looking black who had been busy in securing the rest of the crew,—“take charge of this youngster, and render an account of him to me by and by, without a hair of his head injured, mind you.”

“Yes, sare,” said the Roman general, who I afterwards found was a runaway slave from Kentucky. “I’ll not singe his whiskers even. Come here, massa;” and seizing me by the shoulder, he dragged me forward away from the rest of the people. “What’s your name?” asked my black keeper, as he made me sit down on the bits of the bowsprit.

“Peter, at your service, Mr Mark Anthony,” said I in as fearless a voice as I could command; for having once taken a line of conduct which seemed to answer well, I determined to persevere in it.

“Den, Massa Peter, you sit dere quiet,” he said with a grin. “I no break your skull, because Captain Hawk break mine if I do. I no let anybody else hurt you for same reason.”

From his look and voice I certainly did not flatter myself that he refrained from throwing me overboard from any love he bore me; but, on the contrary, that he would have been much more gratefully employed in making me walk the plank, or in tricing me up to the foreyard.

Meantime the pirates were busily employed in ransacking the vessel, and in transferring everything of value to them which they could find from her to their own schooner. The captain and mates were threatened with instant death if they did not deliver up all the money they had on board; and even the crew were compelled to hand over to our captors the small sums they possessed. To make them do this, they were knocked about and beaten unmercifully. And even those who possessed watches and rings were deprived of them, as well as of any clothes which appeared worth taking.

I had often read the history of pirates and of their bold exploits, till I almost fancied that I should like to become one, or, at all events, that I should like to encounter them. But I can assure my friends that the reality was very different to the fiction; and as the hideous black was standing over me, ready every moment to knock out my brains, and my companions were suffering all sorts of ill-treatment, I most heartily wished that such gentry as pirates had not been allowed to exist.

Though I tried to look as indifferent as possible, the black would have observed me trembling, had he not been watching to see what his friends were about, no doubt eager to obtain his share of the plunder. The work the pirates were engaged in went on for some time, till even they had tolerably satiated their eagerness for booty; and then I fully expected to see them either heave my shipmates overboard as food for the sharks alongside, or hang them at the yardarms, and then set the ship on fire, as Mark Anthony insinuated, for my satisfaction, that they would do. Instead of this, to my surprise Captain Hawk went up to Captain Searle, and said, “I sent a message by that youngster there to you to look out for yourself, and I never threaten in vain. He goes with me. I want a good navigator; and as your second mate seems a likely sort of person, I shall take him also. The rest of you may go free; but remember, that if any of you attempt to betray me, or to appear as witnesses against me, you will dearly pay for it.”

Our poor captain, who was almost ruined and heart-broken by the pillage of his ship, said nothing, but bowed his head on his breast, looking as if he would as soon have been killed outright. The unfortunate mate, Abraham Jones, seemed horrified at hearing what his fate was to be; but he knew enough about the pirates to be aware that it would have been worse than useless to attempt to escape accompanying them. He, however, took the precaution of calling on the crew of the Susannah to bear witness that he was compelled through bodily fear and by force to join the pirates; and he made the best show of resistance that under the circumstances he could venture to do.

From what I saw of him, I do not think that he had so great an objection to joining them as some men might have had. Indeed, I confess that I was very wrong in doing so; and I feel that a person ought rather to sacrifice his life than consent to commit a crime, even though driven to it with a dagger at his throat. However, both Jones and I fancied that the only chance of saving our own lives, and those of our shipmates, was by our going on board the schooner.

“Remember, Captain Searle, if we get into any misfortune through you, these two will be the first to suffer, and then again I say, look out for yourself,” exclaimed the chief pirate, as he quitted the deck of the Susannah.

His people then hove her guns overboard, and removed the small arms on board their own craft, to which the mate and I were also transferred. They also cut the standing and running rigging, which would effectually prevent her from making sail for a long time to come.

The first mate was next released, and was ordered to stand on the poop, on pain of being shot down if he attempted to move while the schooner was near. Her boat was then hoisted in, she was cast off from the brig, and with a cheer of triumph from her crew, she stood away from the Susannah.

The first mate wisely did as he was ordered; and it was not till we had got to such a distance that there was little fear of his being hit, that I saw him jump down to release his companions. It was with a sense of misery and degradation I have never before experienced, that I watched till we lost sight of the unfortunate Susannah.

Chapter Fifteen.

A week passed away on board the Foam. Whereabouts we were I had no means of telling; for the captain kept me in his cabin, and would not allow me to go on deck without first asking his leave, nor would he permit me to communicate with Mr Jones. He treated me very kindly, and even gave me books with which to amuse myself; but I was very far from happy. I felt that the schooner might some day be captured by a ship of war, and that I might probably be hung as a pirate before I had an opportunity of establishing my innocence. I also did not like to be a prisoner, even though I was kindly treated; and I thought that most probably, when Hawk found I would not join in any piratical acts, and I had resolved that nothing should compel me to do so, his behaviour would change, and that if I escaped with my life, I should no longer be treated as before.

Abraham Jones had, I am sorry to say, as far as I was able to judge from appearances, taken readily enough to the office imposed on him, and on two occasions when I went on deck, I saw him doing duty as the officer of the watch. My opinion of him was, that he would not have sought to become a pirate, but that, having no nice sense of right and wrong—finding himself thrust, as it were, into the life—he did not think it worth making any exertion to escape from it.

Whether we went to the Havanah or not I did not know. We certainly were once at anchor, and three times we either chased vessels or were chased by a superior force, from the eager tone in which the captain ordered sail to be made. Once we fired several shots, and were fired at in return; and I suspect it must have been at some vessel on our beam chasing us, and that some of her rigging or her masts must have been cut away, from the loud cheers the pirates gave, perhaps they sunk the enemy.

An hour afterwards, Hawk came down into the cabin, looking as cool and unconcerned as if nothing had happened. I tried to gain some information from him, but he would answer none of my questions. He only gave a ghastly smile when I asked if the vessel at which he had fired had sunk; and he then took up a book, in which he soon seemed to be deeply absorbed. After some time the book dropped from his hand, and he sat for half-an-hour in a state of abstraction, unconscious of where he was, or who was present.

He was roused by the black, Mark Anthony, putting his head in at the door and saying, “A sail on the lee bow.”

He sprang on deck in a moment, all life and activity. Instantly all sail the schooner could carry was packed on her, and we were bowling along with a fine breeze in chase of the stranger. This I could only surmise, however, by the way the vessel heeled over to the breeze, for I was still kept in the cabin.

Presently Hawk came down again. “Peter,” he observed, “you have disappointed me. I thought you would not be content to lead the idle life you do; I fancied you would like the excitement of the chase and the fight better than sitting alone in the cabin all day, like a young girl.”

“I am not content, Captain Hawk,” I replied; “but a prisoner has no choice.”

“No one is allowed freedom on board here, unless he has taken the oaths of allegiance to the captain and our laws,” he answered, looking steadfastly at me.

“Nothing could induce me to take one or the other,” I exclaimed; “so I suppose I shall remain a prisoner till you release me, or I die.”

He seemed to take my answer very calmly; and this encouraged me to proceed and to make an effort to obtain my freedom.

“Captain Hawk,” I said, “you have been very kind to me; and though I should have been willing to sail with you before I knew the character of your vessel, I am now most anxious to be put on shore; and if you will liberate me, I will swear most solemnly not to betray you, or any of those who sail with you.”

“We do not trust to the oaths of those who do not join us,” he answered. “For your own sake, I must make you take part in the next capture we attempt, or else my people will begin to suspect that you are a mere coward, and even I shall be unable to protect you.”

“I am no coward, Captain Hawk, and that I will prove any time that I have an opportunity; but I do not choose to commit murder or robbery,” I answered, in the same bold tone in which I usually spoke.

“You use harsh terms, youngster, to one who could any moment order you to be hove to the sharks,” exclaimed the pirate. “However, I do not quarrel with you for speaking your mind. I once thought as you do, but custom has altered my ideas.”

“Then why do you wish me to do what you know I must consider wrong?” I asked.

“Because I have a liking for you, and want a lad of spirit and education to be my companion,” he replied. “The old hands I cannot trust—they are as likely to turn against me as to serve me—while you, I know, will be faithful for awhile, till you get hardened like the rest, and then—”

“And then,” interrupting him, I said, “what would you do with me? Give me as food for the sharks, I suppose?”

“No, lad; I should let you live to fight your own way in the world, with a charge to keep out of my path,” he replied. “But that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. You must come on deck and join in capturing the vessel we are in chase of, for we think she is likely to prove a prize of value.”

I am sorry to say that so heartily tired was I of remaining shut up in the cabin, that I was glad of being allowed, on any terms, to see what was going forward on deck.

On this, I suspect, the pirate had calculated. He well knew the force of the French proverb, “It is but the first step to crime which is difficult.” He wished me to take that first step, being assured that I should then be his.

I thought when I went on deck that nothing would tempt me to take any part in the acts of the pirates, even as far as in assisting to navigate the vessel; but there is something so exciting in the chase of a vessel, that it is difficult not to wish to come up with her. At first I stood merely looking on; but the breeze freshened and rather headed us, and Hawk issued an order to flatten in the fore-and-aft sails, and to brace up the yards. I flew instinctively to the sheets, and found myself pulling and hauling with the rest.

The captain made no remark, nor did he appear even to notice what I had done. The wind was about south, and the chase was to the eastward of us, standing on a bowline she was a brig of some size, and at the first glance I thought she was a man-of-war; but Hawk pronounced her to be a Spaniard, and homeward bound from Cuba. On hearing this, of course I knew that we must be somewhere to the eastward of that place, and this was the first intimation I had had of our whereabouts.

The chase had not observed us, or if he had, seemed not to be at all suspicious of our character; for he was standing on under easy sail, as if in no way in a hurry to escape from us.

Hawk, who was usually so calm and almost apathetic, walked the deck full of energy and excitement. Every order he gave was uttered in a sharp, quick tone, which demanded instant obedience. Every one partook of the same spirit; and there appeared to be as much discipline and regularity as on board a man-of-war. Even the most lawless vagabonds find this necessary for the attainment of their ends and their own preservation.

We rapidly came up with the chase, and were within about three miles of her, when she began, it seemed, to suspect that all was not right, for sail after sail was set on her till she could carry no more, while she edged away a little from her course, so as to allow every one of them to draw properly. This threw us soon completely to windward, for we held on the same course as before, and she appeared at first to be recovering her lost ground. In a short time we also kept away with the wind almost abeam, a point on which the Foam sailed her best.

“Huzza, my lads!” exclaimed Hawk; “in a short time the chase will be ours, and, if I mistake not, plenty of gold doubloons into the bargain, if you can but make our craft walk along faster.”

“Huzza!” shouted the English and American part of the crew, in which the people of other nations joined in their peculiar cries.

The brig once more hauled her wind, and this brought us soon nearer again to her.

Hawk thought it was because the captain saw indications of a shift of wind, and hoped to be placed well to windward. He was scrutinising her narrowly through a telescope. “She does not show any guns,” he remarked; “but it is no reason that she has not got them. Get all ready for action, in case she should prove a Tartar.”

I scarcely knew what I was about; but I confess that I not only assisted to hand up the powder and shot, but to load and run out the guns.

Neither of us made any further variation in our course; but the chase was, it appeared, a very slow sailer, for we so rapidly came up with her, that five hours after she was seen she was within range of our guns. She did not fire, nor did we; for supposing her to be unarmed, Hawk was anxious to capture her without in any way injuring her hull or cargo. We sailed on, therefore, as if we were engaged in a friendly race; and no one, by looking at us, could have supposed that we were deadly enemies.

We were getting very near to the chase, and with our telescopes could almost distinguish the faces of those on board, when I observed Abraham Jones, the new second mate of the Foam, hurry aft to the captain with a face pale as a ghost. Hawk laughed and shook his head incredulously. Jones seemed from his manner to be insisting that he was right, for I did not hear what he said. Still we stood on till the chase was within the distance of half the range of our guns. I was again aft. “Hoist our bunting to make him show his colours,” I heard Hawk say; “and give him a shot from our bow-chaser to hurry him.”

Directly afterwards a broad red flag, without any device, was run up at our peak, and with a spout of smoke a shot went flying over the water, and with a crash which made the splinters fly it struck the dark sides of the brig. The effect was instantaneous, and such as was little expected by the pirates.

A flag was run up to the gaff of the brig; but instead of the Spanish ensign, the stars and stripes of the United States were displayed; and the ports being opened as if by magic, eight guns were run out, and luffing up, she let fly her broadside right into our bows. The shot tore up our decks, and knocked away part of our starboard bulwarks, killing two of the people, and wounding three more, but without injuring our rigging. Then I saw what sort of men I was mingling with. I cannot describe the fierce rage which took possession of them, the oaths and execrations to which they gave vent. The bodies of the two men who were killed, while yet warm, were thrown overboard directly they were found to be dead, and the wounded were dragged below, and left without a surgeon or anyone to attend on them. Instead of the timid Spanish merchantman we expected to get alongside, we found that this vessel was no other than a United States man-of-war sent to look out for the Foam—in fact, that we had caught a Tartar. Hawk, to do him justice, stood undaunted, his energies rising with the occasion, keeping away a little, so as to get our broadside to bear, we fired in return, and the guns being planted high, some of the running rigging was cut away, and her fore-topmast was struck, and must have been badly wounded, for some hands instantly were seen going aloft to fish it.

“About ship, my lads—down with the helm; and while she’s in stays, give Uncle Sam our larboard broadside.”

The sails of the schooner were well full; she quickly came round, and before the brig could follow our example, we sent the shot from our whole broadside flying among her rigging. A loud shout of exultation from our pirate crew showed their satisfaction at the damage they had done; for several spars and sails, with blocks and ropes, were seen coming down by the run on deck.

“Now, my lads, let’s up stick and away,” cried Hawk. “They thought, doubtless, that they were sure of us; but we’ll show them that the Foam is not to be caught so easily.”

All hands who could be spared from the guns, and I among the rest, flew to their stations to trim sails; the yards were braced sharp up, and with her head to the south-west, the Foam stood away on a bowline from her powerful antagonist. We were not to escape, however, with impunity; for as soon as the brig’s crew had somewhat recovered from the confusion into which the damage done by our shot had thrown them, such guns as could be brought to bear were fired at us with no bad aim. One struck our taffrail, and another killed a man on the forecastle; but our rigging escaped. Twice the brig missed stays in attempting to come about, from so much of her head-sail having been cut away; and this, as she all the time was sailing one way and we the other, contributed much to increase our distance. The breeze also favoured us further by freshening, making it more difficult to the enemy to repair damages, while, as we were unhurt, it sent us along all the more rapidly. The Americans are not the people to take the treatment we had given them with calmness, especially as we were so much the smaller, and had less force. At last, at a third trial, the brig came about, while she continued without cessation firing at us. Not much damage was done, though our sails had daylight made through them several times by her shot, and another man was killed; but this casualty the pirates seemed to make light of—it was the fortune of war, and might happen every instant to any of us. The bodies, with scant examination, except to discover whether there was money in their pockets, or rings in their ears or on their fingers, were thrown overboard without a prayer or a sigh. As the shot came whistling over us, they laughed when they saw me bobbing down my head in the hope of avoiding them. I had no fancy, I own, to be shot by people with whom I had not the slightest enmity, nor whom I in any way wished to injure.

We soon found that the brig-of-war, instead of being a slow sailer, was remarkably fast, and that, while we were in chase of her, she must, by towing a sail overboard, or by some other manoeuvre, have deadened her way, on purpose to allow us to come up with her. We had now, therefore, to put the schooner’s best leg foremost to get away from her, even before she had got all her gear aloft again. To try and do her further damage, a gun was got over the taffrail, and a constant fire was kept up from it as fast as it could be loaded.

I was standing in the waist with the black, Mark Anthony, near me. “Well, Massa Peter, if de brig catch we, we all be hung; how you like dat?” he asked, with a broad grin, which made him look far from pleasing.

“I should be sorry to see any of those who have treated me with kindness hung, or otherwise injured,” I replied.

“See! Ha, ha! but how you like feel being hung, Massa Peter?” he said, again grinning more horribly than before.

“Why, I have no fear of that sort, Mr Mark, I can assure you,” I replied; though I confess the disagreeable idea did come across me, that I might possibly not be able to prove that I was not a pirate should we be captured. “I have had nothing to do with any of the acts committed by the crew of this vessel.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” he exclaimed, “den you no pull and haul, and help work de guns which fire at de sip of war? me swear me saw you myself. Ho, ho, ho!”

The black’s laughter sounded almost demoniacal in my ears. He spoke the truth, too: I had indeed helped to work the guns; and on the strength of it, like a tempter to evil, he was endeavouring to persuade me, in his rough way, to join the pirates. I did not think it prudent to show him that I clearly saw his aim; but I resolved still to remain firm.

The evening was now drawing on, and fortunately the breeze did not drop. I confess that I was just as anxious to escape from our pursuer as any pirate on board; scarcely more so, perhaps, than the new mate, who had guessed the character of the brig, and had no fancy for having his career cut short so soon.

The brig did not fire at us, as to do so she would have had to yaw and thus lose ground, while we continued to ply her with our long gun. Her fore-topsail could not be set while the mast was being fished. An attempt was now made to hoist it; but the breeze at that instant strengthening, away went the mast, rigging and sail together. A loud cheer arose from our decks: a parting shot was given her from our gun, and in two hours darkness hid her from our sight.

Chapter Sixteen.

I dreamed all night that I was in the hands of the Americans, with a rope round my neck and about to be run up at the yardarm. I felt the practical inconvenience of associating with bad company. As soon as I awoke I went on deck, for Hawk no longer placed any restriction on my movements. I fully expected to see the brig-of-war in chase of us. I own I felt somewhat relieved when, on looking round, not a sail of any description was to be seen, and the schooner was still bowling along with a brisk breeze on a westerly course.

Towards evening we sighted land, towards which our course was altered. We ran on, and by marks, which I could not distinguish, steered between coral banks, till on a sudden I found that we were entering a lagoon, with trees towering on either side high above our top mast heads. The wind dropped completely as we got within the passage, and the boats were sent ahead to tow. Hawk ordered me into one of them, and I saw no reason to disobey; indeed, I felt that it would be very foolish not to do my best to please him in matters unconnected with piracy.

The sky was clear overhead, and the stars shone down and were reflected, as in a mirror, on the otherwise ink-black water of the lagoon. As we pulled ahead, we appeared to be passing through a narrow canal, with lofty impenetrable walls on either side, while in the centre rose before our eyes the phantom-like outline of the schooner, her topmast heads and rigging alone being seen against the sky above the dark shadows of the trees. The splash of our oars was the only sound which broke the dead silence which reigned in this sequestered spot; while the only light, except from the glittering stars above us, was from the phosphorescent flashes as the blades entered the water, and the golden drops again fell into their parent element. On looking on that gloomy surface, it seemed as improbable that anything so bright should come from it as that sparks of real fire should be emitted from the hard flint-stone. Mat Hagan, an Irishman, who pulled the bow oar in my boat, declared that our oars were throwing up to the sky again the reflection of the stars, which had no business to be there at all.

We pulled on for about half-an-hour, and then a sort of bay or bight appearing on one side, we brought the vessel into it, and moored her stem and stern fast to the trees. There she lay so completely concealed, that any one passing up the canal could not by any possibility have seen her, even in broad daylight.

Here we lay for several days, repairing damages and refitting the ship. Where we were I could not learn from any one on board; but I suspected that we were in one of the numberless keys among the Bahama or Lucaya Islands; and I had afterward reason to know that I was right.

Some of the booty taken by the pirates was landed, as, on account of the marks on the bales and other signs, it was likely to lead to their detection should they attempt to dispose of it in its present form. Some of the things were hid away; the others, after undergoing various operations, were re-shipped with such perfectly different marks, that it would have been impossible to detect them. Cunning and trickery seemed to be now the means taken by the pirates to carry on their operations, instead of the bold, daring way in which, as I had read, their predecessors formerly plundered the honest trader.

Hawk ordered me to lend a hand in refitting the schooner, so I made myself as useful as my knowledge would allow. I had begun, to entertain a hope of escaping when the pirates were off their guard and fancied that I had become reconciled to my lot. It was against my nature to be in any way treacherous, and I most certainly would not have injured Hawk, on account of the kindness with which he had treated me; but, at the same time, I did not feel that I was acting wrongly in concealing from him my wish to regain the liberty of which he had deprived me.

One morning, while the yards were still on deck and the sails unbent, notice was given from our look-out at the mouth of the lagoon that a sail was in sight, about two miles in the offing.

“What is she?” asked Hawk of the messenger.

“A barque, deeply laden, captain,” replied the man, who was an old pirate. “To my mind she looks as if she would not make a bad prize, if we could get hold of her; and, as the wind is dropping, and it will be some time before the sea-breeze sets in, I think there will not be much difficulty in doing that.”

The captain was pleased at his follower’s suggestion; indeed, he would have risked the loss of his authority had he refused to attend to it. The men were ordered to knock off work, and to get the boats ready, while, those who were away in the interior of the little island were recalled to lend their assistance. Every one was instantly all life and animation: with the prospect of making a prize, even the most sluggish were aroused.

There were three boats, which were soon launched, and oars, arms, and provisions were placed in them. To my surprise, Hawk gave the command of them to Abraham Jones, he himself remaining to take charge of the schooner. From what I heard, I found that the pirates expected no difficulty or danger in making the capture.

I, of course, hoped that I should have nothing to do in the matter. What was my horror, then, when Hawk ordered me into the boats, and my old enemy—for I cannot call him my friend—Mark Anthony, was told to keep me company! I do not know whether this was Hawk’s wish, or the desire of the men, who did not like to trust me till I had been guilty of some piratical act. At first I hesitated about obeying; but I soon saw, by the angry looks which were cast at me, that I was doing so at the peril of my life; and at the same instant it struck me, that if I went, I might by some means or other obtain my liberty.

The boats were one long-boat, which pulled eight oars, and carried in all sixteen men, and two large swift-rowing gigs. Jones took command of the long-boat, and I was in one of the gigs. In silence we left the vessel on our nefarious errand—in silence we pulled down the canal with steady and slow strokes, for while the wind held there was no hurry. When we got close to the mouth of the harbour, the boat I was in was sent out to reconnoitre.

The stranger was apparently beating up along shore, towards which her head was now pointed, those who directed her movements little aware of the danger which threatened them. After waiting a short time, during which she had drawn nearer to us, her sails began to flap against the masts, and the ripple which had been playing on the water disappeared altogether. With the last breath of wind she was put about, and attempted to stand off shore; but she was very soon left in what is called the “doldrums,” namely, without steerage-way.

I had been watching her attentively. I thought from the first I knew her; and I now felt certain that she was no other than the ship of which I was in search, the Mary. With bitter grief I came to this conclusion; for I could not but fear that my friends were on board her, and that Captain Dean and his sweet child would be thrown into the hands of the pirates. What, too, would they think of me? Would they believe me innocent when they saw me in such company? A thought came cross my mind at that instant; I would pretend not to recognise them. At all risks, I would make the pirates suppose that I joined willingly in this expedition, and perhaps I might be the means of preserving their lives, at all events, if not their property. Perhaps, I thought, my steps might have been led providentially through the various adventures in which I had engaged for this very purpose. The very idea made my heart beat quick with a sensation almost of joy. I did not see how it was to be accomplished; but I felt assured that the Power which had hitherto guided me would point out the way.

When the officer of the boat I was in saw the barque becalmed, he gave the signal to our consort, and without further delay we three pulled out together towards her.

For some time no one on board appeared to have observed us. At last some one saw us, and two or three glasses were directed towards us; but we did not seem to have created any alarm or even suspicion among them. Thus we were enabled to approach without any preparation having been made to prevent our getting on board. When it was too late, probably from the eagerness with which they saw us dash alongside, they suspected that all was not right, and a few of the hands ran to the arm-chest, while others attempted to slue round one of the two guns the barque carried, and to point it down at the boats. Before they could do so, we were scrambling up her sides.

“Oh, oh, Massa Peter, you hurry enough now to turn pirate, when you tink someting to be got!” shouted Mark Anthony, as he saw my eagerness to be one of the first on deck.

The cutter boarded on one side, the two gigs on the other—one at the fore-rigging, the other at the mizzen-chains; so that the crew had to separate into three divisions to oppose us. The crew thus weakened, the people from the long-boat gained easily a footing on deck. They drove the crew aft, who were now attacked in the rear by the party from one of the gigs. I was in the foremost gig, and we had no one to oppose us. The only defence made was by the master, his mates, and two of the crew, who had secured cutlasses. They stood together on the larboard side of the poop, and boldly refused to yield up the ship, till they knew the authority of those attacking her.

I saw at a glance that my fears were well founded. There stood my kind friend, Captain Dean, and, in the centre of the group, his sweet little daughter, Mary. Oh, how I wished to have the strength of a hundred men, to drive all the pirates into their boats, and to release my friends!

No sooner had I appeared above the bulwarks than Mary saw me. She uttered a cry of surprise, for she recognised me at once. It attracted her father’s attention. His cutlass was struck from his grasp by Jones, the two mates were knocked down, and all further resistance was at an end.

This easy victory prevented the pirates from being as bloodthirsty as they might otherwise have proved; but, as a precautionary measure, Jones ordered both the officers and crew to be bound to the masts and rigging while the ship was being searched.

I had rushed aft, in the hopes of being of some assistance to Captain Dean should he have required it—how, I scarcely knew. I thought I would have interposed my body, should a sword have been raised to strike him: When I saw him no longer making any defence and uninjured, I stopped, and was endeavouring to turn away to consider what I should do; but Mary’s eye had followed me, and, as she saw me approaching, she uttered my name in his ear. On losing his sword, he had thrown himself on one of the hen-coops placed against the bulwarks, where he lay, clasping his child in his arms; and even the pirates seemed to respect him, for no one molested him.

Most of the pirates were engaged in dragging the prisoners to the masts to bind them. Jones had gone into the cabin. I saw that no one was observing me. I hurried past my old friends. “Hush,” I whispered, in a voice they could just hear; “I am honest still. Do not recognise me—I will save you if I can!”

“I knew he was true and good,” said Mary, kissing her father, and trying to turn her eyes from me.

What courage did her words give me! That sweet child’s trusting friendship was a reward for all I had suffered. I resolved to abstain still from the evil courses to which my companions were endeavouring to lead me. I gave a glance over the stern, as if I had been looking to see what had become of the gig which had boarded at that end of the ship, and I again passed my friends without noticing them. I guessed that Mark Anthony would have been watching me, and I was right.

“What, you like pirating, Massa Peter! You run about like little dog, quite frisky—not know what to do,” he remarked, with a grin. He was fond of giving things their proper names. Jones would have been horrified at being called a pirate; and even Hawk did not like the term, though in his bitter moments he used it.

“I have no help for it,” I answered, with, I hope, excusable duplicity. “The fact is, Mark, I had formed a wrong opinion of you gentlemen; and in future I hope to make as bold a robber as the best of you.”

“Berry good, berry good, my boy!” said the black, grasping my fist with his huge rough hand. “Me tell Captain Hawk, Massa Peter now take oath.” I had not thought of that dreadful ceremony when I boasted of being ready to turn pirate; and, as I had a true idea of the sacredness of an oath, I knew that I must be betrayed if I was asked to take it, by refusing, as I must, to do so.

Jones now came out of the cabin, and went up to the captain. “Captain Dean,” he said, “for such, I find, is your name, you must order your people into the boats, to tow this vessel close in shore, where you must anchor, to discharge some of your cargo.”

“I have no longer command of this vessel,” replied the captain; “if the people choose to obey you, I have no power to prevent them.”

“We have the means of making them do what we please, though,” exclaimed Abraham Jones. “Here, you, get your boats into the water, and tow us ahead.” He pointed to several of the Mary’s crew, who were released, and compelled by the pirates to do as he ordered. The pirates’ long-boat also went ahead, to assist in towing; while four men were stationed at the bows with muskets in their hands, to fire on the boats should they attempt to escape. The rest who remained, I zealously assisting them, cleaved and brailed up the sails. When ordered by Jones, I, without hesitation, seized a musket and pointed it at the boats.

Captain Dean, still holding Mary in his arms, sat aft, without moving. He seemed completely stunned with the blow which had fallen on him, for the cruel robbery would prove his ruin.

It was an arduous operation, towing the vessel in; for a current set along shore, it seemed, and drifted her to the southward of the entrance to the lagoon. I have before described the heat of a tropical sun; and very hot work indeed was this towing. But more particularly disagreeable was it for the crew of the barque, who could not tell but, at the end of it, their lives might be sacrificed by their captors; while the pirates, on the contrary, had the satisfaction of having a rich booty in store. At last, after five hours’ incessant labour, we got, as near as the depth of water would allow, to the mouth of the harbour, and the anchor was dropped to the bottom.

Overcome by the heat, the pirates now came out of the boats, and, rushing below, brought a spirit cask on deck, which they forthwith broached. I trembled for the consequences. Jones did all he could to prevent their becoming intoxicated; but they only laughed and jeered at him, and asked who made him an officer over them.

I ought to have said that, as soon as the barque had anchored, those of her crew who were in their boats were turned adrift without oars or masts or sails, or anything to guide them, and allowed to float wherever the current might carry them. As it happened, there was but little current there, and consequently they remained but a short distance off, afraid to attempt either to regain the ship or to reach the shore.

Louder and louder grew the mirth of the pirates, and wilder their looks and gestures, as the powerful liquor they were swallowing took effect on their brains. I saw Mary cling closer to her father in fear and trembling, all the time watching me with furtive glances, lest she should be observed by her captors. I kept my musket in my hand, pretending to be watching the boats; and as they were now astern, I came aft for that purpose. What might have been the result of the prolonged orgies of the pirates it is impossible to say; but just as two or three had begun to stagger on their feet, and, with their knives in their hands, to cast their bloodshot eyes round as if looking for some victim for their insane fury, a small boat shot out of the harbour and rapidly approached the ship.

In a few minutes Captain Hawk stood on the deck of the prize, just in time to prevent one of his men from killing the first mate of the vessel, who remained all the time bound to the mast. He then turned fiercely on Jones, and reprimanded him for not having restrained the people more effectually. With a blow of his fist he knocked down the three most drunken of his followers, and the rest appeared instantly sobered. Without a murmur they threw the remainder of the spirits over-board, and under his directions commenced hoisting out such part of the cargo as he considered most valuable.

Captain Dean was not molested; nor was any notice taken of the boats which were drifting in shore, and would, I hoped, reach it, and thus enable the crews to find means by which to return to the ship, and perhaps to escape. On a sudden it seemed to strike some of the pirates that there was no use working while there were people they could compel to work for them; and to my sorrow two armed boats were instantly sent off to tow back the two which were drifting away. Resistance was vain, so the poor fellows were compelled to work in hoisting the cargo out of their own ship, and afterwards in pulling up the lagoon to the schooner. When I saw that the pirates allowed the strangers to see their place of concealment, I trembled for the fate of the latter, and feared greatly that the result would be their destruction, to prevent their discovering it to others.

The boats were all away, and six of the pirates, with Captain Hawk and myself, were the only persons besides the prisoners who remained on board. Hawk had observed my apparent zeal, I suspect, for he said to me, “I am glad to see that you are overcoming your foolish scruples, Peter; and to show the confidence I place in you, I will give you charge of the old master and his daughter. Take care they do not communicate with any of the other prisoners or assist, to release them.”

My heart leaped within me at the chance thus offered of assisting my friends; at the same time I considered whether I ought to betray the confidence placed in me.

“I’ll keep an eye on them, sir,” I answered evasively, and at the same time I took my post opposite to them, with my musket in my hand. I observed that Mary turned her head away from me, lest Hawk should observe the satisfaction she felt at this arrangement. Hawk afterwards, with all his followers, went below to make a more minute examination of the nature of the cargo.

As soon as they had disappeared, I ran up to Mary and her father. I knelt down; I kissed their hands, and with tears in my eyes assured them that I had been long looking for them, and was guiltless of willingly joining the pirates. “I will risk my life to liberate you,” I added. “Be constantly on the watch for whatever may occur. Perhaps to-night something may favour our projects; perhaps it may be weeks before I find the means of aiding you.”

“I knew you would, I knew you would,” exclaimed Mary. “Father, Peter will help us to escape.” Captain Dean, by a strong effort, roused himself from the state of stupor into which he was near falling. He took my hand and grasped it tightly.

“Peter,” he said, “I will trust you, though appearances are solely against you. For the sake of humanity—for this sweet child’s sake—I pray that you will not deceive us.”

I again assured him that I was true, and that, when I had time, I would explain how it all had happened; and then, fearful of being seen, I retired to my post to act sentinel as before.

On Hawk’s returning on deck, he ordered Captain Dean and Mary into the cabin below, and told them that they must remain there till he had determined what should be done with the ship. My poor friend obeyed without a murmur, and, taking Mary by the hand, conducted her to his state-room, into which he entered and closed the door. I heard him say, while I was still close to it, “Kneel, my child, kneel, and pray to God to protect us.”

The boats had made only two trips to the shore before it was dark, and still very much of the property the pirates wished to appropriate remained on board. When they returned for the last time, there were various discussions as to what should be done with the vessel. Some were for landing everything of value, and then burning her; others proposed scuttling her, with her people on board; a few suggested that they might be allowed to escape in their boats, as there was little probability of their ever reaching land; while the most humane voted for allowing the ship to depart when they had taken all they required out of her.

Most of the pirates returned to the schooner for the night, leaving the prisoners, with the third mate and a small guard, including me, in charge of them. Just before he left the vessel, Hawk called me aside.

“I leave you on board of the prize, Peter,” he said, “because, though you are young and untried, yet you have more of humanity about you than the rest of my followers, and I can place more confidence in you. I must, however, have you take the oath of our band, to the effect that you will not desert the ship, betray a comrade, or separate from the rest till our compact is dissolved by mutual agreement.”

I thought, as seriously and as rapidly as I could, whether such an oath would not only preclude my own escape, but prevent me from assisting my friends. “It must effectually bind me to the pirates, and probably cause my death; but if I refuse to take it, I shall lose all chance of aiding Captain Dean and Mary, so for their sakes I will do as I am asked.” I told Hawk I would no longer refuse to take the oath he proposed.

“Then swear,” he said, repeating it, while a number of the pirates gathered round.

“I swear,” I said, in a voice which must, I thought, betray my emotion. The pirates cheered and welcomed me as a brother among them. At that instant a peal of thunder echoed along the rocks of the shore, and vivid lightning darted from the sky.

I presumptuously thought at the time that the anger of Heaven was thus shown for the crime I had committed. I trembled violently; and had it not been dark, my confusion would have been discovered. The pirates were, however, in a hurry to depart, and, stepping into their boats, which were again deeply laden, they pulled up the harbour, leaving me and my companions in charge of the ship and twice as many prisoners as we ourselves numbered.

Chapter Seventeen.

I did not go to sleep, it may be supposed, but walked the deck, considering what I should do. I had never spoken much with the third mate, who was now commanding officer; and I felt less inclination than ever to enter into conversation with him, so I only went near him when I was obliged to do so, to report that all was right.

He was a surly ruffian, in no way superior to the rest of the people, except that, from having been at sea all his life, he was a tolerable seaman. It was with some difficulty that I gained permission from him to carry some food and water to the prisoners, or I believe he would have allowed them to starve. I dared not tell them that I was a friend, lest some might incautiously betray me. Wherever I went, also, Mark Anthony followed, and narrowly watched my proceedings. I observed him, though I pretended not to do so, and was trying to devise some means of lulling the suspicions he evidently still entertained of me.

The mate’s name was John Pinto, a Portuguese by birth, though he said he was an American, and he spoke English well. I knew that he was addicted to liquor, when he could indulge in it without fear of the consequences. I had found several bottles of fine old Jamaica rum in the cabin, so I brought one up on deck, with a monkey full of cool water, and saying that I was very thirsty after the day’s work, and must have a glass, asked him if he would have one also. He consented, and I poured him out a stiff tumblerful, the strength of which was concealed by the coolness of the water.

“Very good indeed,” he growled out. “Peter, you understand these things; give me another.” I did so, and made it even stronger than the first. He liked it accordingly even better, and took several others in quick succession. I was not afraid of his growing furious, for, from the nature of the man, I knew that he would only become stupid, and finally would fall asleep. With much satisfaction I saw this effect take place.

“Now I am commanding officer,” I thought, “and I will see what is next to be done.” Just as I had thought this, and had stood up to look around me, I felt the hot breeze coming off the land. An idea struck me, if I could but liberate the prisoners, they might run the vessel far away to sea before the morning, and out of the reach of the pirates.

How to accomplish this was the next thought. Go with them I could not, on account of my oath, and I was also bound to the rest. There was a sentry placed before Captain Dean’s cabin. I determined to make him tipsy also, I had recourse to the old rum, and with the same effect it had on the mate. Two men walked the deck near the main hatchway, the other four were forward. The prisoners were in the hold, and my great difficulty was to get to them.

I went on deck to watch the two men. They were sitting down, and I had hopes were asleep. Mark Anthony, whom I most feared, was forward. The night had become very dark, so I went close to them without being perceived, and I could distinguish by the tones of their voices that all four were talking together. On this I crept back to the cabin. The sentry was snoring in complete insensibility, so I dragged him on one side, and tapped softly at the door of the state-cabin.

“It is Peter,” I whispered. “Open the door, I have something to say.” Mary knew my voice, and opened it before I had done speaking, for I had unlocked it from the outside.

“Captain Dean,” I said, in a hurried tone, “the wind is off the shore; two of your guards are unconscious from drink; and if I can but make the rest so, or you can manage to overpower them, you may regain possession of your vessel. I can neither assist you further, nor can I accompany you, for at all risks I must return to the schooner.”

“Oh no, no,” exclaimed Mary, “you must go with us; we cannot leave you behind with those dreadful men.”

“I have taken an oath, Mary, and I must remain,” I replied. “But have no fears for me. I shall, I trust, finally escape from the toils which surround me, and we may meet again.” For some time I continued in the same strain, and finally succeeded in winning her over to my view of the case. I had less difficulty in persuading her father that there was no other chance of escape; and I urged on him the duty he owed to his owners as well as to his child, if not to himself.

With several bottles of old rum I returned on deck, and with one in my hand I sat myself down near the two men guarding the hatchway.

“The mate finds this stuff very good,” said I; “will you take a glass?” They did not say no, but pronounced it excellent.

“The rest should not be kept out of their share,” I remarked; “I’ll take them some.” To this they would not agree; and wishing to keep it all to themselves, drank it down much faster than they would otherwise have done. I took the empty bottle away, and put a full one in its place, much to their surprise, for they did not suspect my trick. Favouring my design, the others heard them praising the rum, and asked them what they were about. I instantly ran forward with two bottles.

“They have got some spirits which they think very good, and I have brought you some bottles. There are several more stowed away somewhere on deck, and if I can find them I will bring them to you.”

“Bear a hand and bring them to us, but do not let Pinto see you, or he will be laying an embargo on them,” said one of the men in a low voice, thinking the mate might hear him.

In a short time all the pirates, including even Mark Anthony, were lying about the decks in a state of helpless intoxication.

With my knees trembling with agitation, I hurried aft, and told Captain Dean what had occurred. Leaving Mary in the cabin, he accompanied me on deck, and we instantly set to work to get the hatches off. We succeeded, and, going below, found the mates and crew, most of them overcome with fatigue, fast asleep. It was the work of a minute to rouse them up, to explain what had happened, and to cut loose the lanyards with which they were secured.

I told them that they must make a simultaneous rush on deck; that they must bind me with the rest of the pirates; that they must put us into a boat with a couple of small sculls, just to enable us to reach the shore; and that they must then cut their cable, and get to sea as fast as possible.

“I do not see what should prevent us from carrying all hands off prisoners,” said the first mate. The idea that they might do so had not occurred to me. I wished most cordially that they would, but my oath made it incumbent on me to return if I had the power.

“We must do as this young man requires,” said Captain Dean. “We will abide by his decision.”

“Then I must beg that you will without delay put me and my companions into a boat, and be off yourselves,” I answered, with a sinking heart.

I crept first on deck, and lay down among the men forward. Presently the crew rushed on deck, and in a few minutes the previous order of things was completely reversed, and the pirates were bound and floating helplessly in a boat by themselves. The black, who was near me, was the only one who was aroused, and he saw me being bound like himself. He would have cried out, but a gag thrust into his mouth effectually prevented him.

With mingled feelings of pain and joy I saw, through the gloom, the sails of the Mary drop from their yards, and her cable being cut, she glided away into the obscurity of the distance. I uttered a prayer for the safety of those on board. I had no fears for myself; but I confess I wished that, notwithstanding my protestations, Captain Dean had forcibly detained me, though I, of course, was compelled to insist on being treated like the rest of the pirates, and he, not knowing my real wish, thought he was bound to do as I desired. Mary was all the time below, or her keen perception would have saved me, as she would have insisted on keeping me, in spite of myself. I repeated the oath I had taken over and over again, and I did not find that it in any way prevented me from liberating the prize. That any one would dream of doing such a thing had, I suppose, never occurred to its framers.

It was broad daylight before any of the people came to their senses. The black had been all the time, in a degree, awake, though his intellects were not very bright; he, however, had been too tightly bound hand and foot to move, while his mouth was too securely gagged to allow him to cry out. I arose with pretended difficulty; I saw his keen eye glaring on me. I looked over the gunwale: the Mary was nowhere to be seen. She had then escaped, and I returned thanks to Heaven for her safety.

The boat had been driven by the wind some way out to sea, and it occurred to me that there was a great probability of our being starved before we could regain the shore, should we not be seen by the schooner’s crew. This idea gave way to the picture which presented itself of the rage and disappointment of the pirates when they found that their prize had escaped.

“They will wreak their vengeance on us all, perhaps—on my head especially, if it is suspected that I had a hand in liberating the prisoners. How can I avoid being suspected? The mate will recollect that I brought the rum to him; so will the others. They will compare notes, and I shall be accused of having plotted with the crew of the Mary. It will be asserted that I intended to accompany them, and to claim a reward—perhaps to bring a ship of war to the spot—and that they had played me false in placing me in the boat. It will not be supposed that I might have escaped, but would not break my oath. My condition is indeed perilous.”

I was right in that respect. Never, perhaps, had I been in such imminent danger; but I forgot at the time that there is a higher Power ever watchful over men, and that it will assuredly protect those who act rightly.

Oh, let me urge my young friends, in their course through life, always to do what they know is right, fearless of consequences: let no consideration whatever induce them to act otherwise. They may not—probably do not—see the way by which they are to be preserved, but God, in His good time, will show it to them; or if they are exposed in consequence to suffering, will not fail, beyond all measure, to reward them.

I must explain that I do not feel quite certain that I was right in taking the oath. Even now that years have passed since that time, I am undecided as to that point; and therefore I trust that I may be pardoned if I was wrong in doing so, when I had no time for reflection.

When the black saw me move, he made various strange noises, to call my attention to his condition. I showed him that my hands were bound, but I contrived to crawl towards him; and though his hands were behind his back, he contrived so far to loosen the cords which bound mine (they were, in truth, but slightly secured, and I could have released them without aid), that I got them perfectly free. The first thing I did was to take the gag from his mouth; and oh, what a torrent of abuse flowed instantly out of it! He did not, however, suspect me, as I thought he would. We next released the rest, but they were still too overcome with the liquor to comprehend what had happened.

The wind was still off the shore, and the boat continued drifting out to sea, her speed increased by a current which set to the southward. The black recognised the mouth of the lagoon, which he knew well, but I could not make it out. The two sculls were found, and, bestowing many maledictions on his companions for not being able to drink with impunity, he made me take one of them, and attempt to pull towards the shore.

With the prospects I had in view, I had no particular wish to exert myself, and I saw that, even if I did so to the utmost, we could make no way against the breeze and the current setting in an opposite direction.

The sun rose, and struck down with burning fury on our heads; and I knew, when the wind fell, it would be hotter still. At length I began to feel the pangs of hunger, and, to my satisfaction, I found that some considerate friend had put a few biscuits and a keg of water into the boat. With this I refreshed myself, and so did the black; and I began to hope that he was grateful to me for releasing him from the gag, and that he would bear witness to having seen me bound like the rest.

When we found that we could make no way with the paddles, we gave it up, and set to work to try and revive our companions. We unlashed their arms and legs, and by degrees they came to themselves. They were very much surprised at what had happened, and could not account for it.

“Well, no use talking here,” observed Mark Anthony, whose wits being brighter than theirs, was for active measures. “If we no get on shore, we all die togeder.”

I suggested that we might manufacture some more paddles out of the bottom-boards; and that by bending our handkerchiefs and jackets together we might form a sail, which, when the sea-breeze set in, might enable us to reach some part of the coast. No one having any better advice to offer, mine was adopted: two more pairs of paddles were formed; but though they enabled us to make some little headway, it was very slowly.

My companions now grew weary; and the looked-for breeze not arriving, they began to lose their tempers, as people are apt to do, even without so much reason, after a debauch.

“It was all your fault, youngster,” suddenly exclaimed the mate, turning to me; “you brought me the stuff which capsized me.”

“And he brought it to us,” said one of the men who had been guarding the main-hatchway.

“And to us also,” cried those who had been forward.

“Den,” exclaimed the black, giving a most diabolical grin from ear to ear, which made my blood run cold, “he done it on purpose: dere was someting in it, no doubt.”

Oh, now my heart sunk within me; for their suspicions once being set on the right scent, I feared they would discover the truth. However, I put a bold face on the matter, and answered, “I found the spirit—I tasted it, and thought it very good, so I brought it to you. I am in as bad a condition as any of you; so I gained nothing by treachery, if I was guilty of it.”

“Ah, but you hoped to do so!” exclaimed the mate. “It wasn’t your wish to remain with us, but you could not help yourself.” Thus the discussion went on, till they arrived very nearly at the truth. I said nothing, but listened, expecting every moment to be my last. Some proposed throwing me overboard at once; but the black suggested that the captain would be angry at such a proceeding, and that it would be far better to carry me in alive, and to torment me before they put me to death.

I told them that they had no proof of my guilt, and that I denied the accusation of having put anything into the liquor, and that I was certain that Captain Hawk would acquit me.

They were still threatening me, when the black, who was standing up, on looking towards the mouth of the harbour, espied two boats pulling out towards us. Our comrades must have seen us with their glasses from the shore, and were coming to our assistance. They could not possibly be more than four miles off. Scarcely had the rest time to discover the specks they seemed on the water, when I observed a sail just rounding the west side of the island, and standing, with a fresh breeze, directly for us. It was not long before she was discovered by the rest.

She was a large brig, and, from the squareness of her yards, she looked like a man-of-war. Down she came rapidly on us, as yet unperceived by the people in the boats, as a point of high land, covered with trees, hid her completely from them. The black jumped up, and watched her, with lips apart and staring eyeballs, for some time.

“De brig we fought de oder day!” he exclaimed. “If he see we, den we all hang.” And he sunk down at the bottom of the boat, intimating to the rest to follow his example.

I scarcely knew whether to wish that the American brig-of-war—for such I felt convinced she was—should discover us, or whether we might get into the harbour unperceived.

In the latter case, the probabilities were that the pirates would put me to death. In the former, I ran a great risk of being hung because I was a pirate; or the boat might drift out to sea, and a lingering death would be our portion. Neither alternative afforded a pleasant subject of contemplation.

The boats from the shore were all this time approaching us. At last they saw the topgallant-mast’s heads of the brig over the point; but I suppose they fancied they were those of the Mary, for they continued their course. In a short time, however, they perceived their mistake; but the brig had got clear of the land, and they were full in view of any sharp eyes stationed on her tops. They directly pulled back, and we lost sight of them almost immediately.

The brig came on, and at first, after rounding the point, stood on a course which would have carried her inside of us, but, on discovering the boat, she again stood towards us. The fright of all hands in the boat was excessive, and the bold blustering pirates proved themselves cowards indeed. The African was the bravest, for the death he expected had few terrors for him. He even had presence of mind sufficient to suggest that we should invent a plausible tale of having been cast adrift by the rest of the crew of a ship who had run off with her: All eagerly grasped at the idea; but before the tale was thoroughly concocted, the brig was alongside of us, and we were very unceremoniously hauled on board.

We were immediately taken before the captain and his officers in full uniform, who stood round him on the quarter-deck.

“What brought you out here?” he demanded of the mate, who from his dress seemed to be the officer. Pinto told the tale which had just been invented.

“And what are those boats doing inshore of us?” was the next question.

“I know nothing of the boats,” was Pinto’s answer; but the appearance and dogged manner of my companions had raised suspicions in the minds of the American officers which were not easily allayed.

Meantime the brig had hauled her wind, and was standing inshore with the lead going, in the direction the boats had taken. Officers with sharp eyes were also stationed at each fore-yardarm to look out for coral reefs. The Foam’s boats reached the entrance to the lagoon just as the brig dropped her anchor, it being considered dangerous to approach nearer the shore.

The brig, I found, was the Neptune, Captain Faith. She was a remarkably fine vessel, carrying nineteen guns, and had been sent out expressly to look for the Foam. Captain Faith and his officers were burning to revenge the insult offered them shortly before by the schooner. It appeared that they had, by some means, notice of her whereabouts, and when they saw the retreating boats, they had little doubt of the true state of the case.

We were all kept separate from each other, and were questioned one by one. What the others said I do not exactly know, but I have reason to believe that not one of them told the same story, I was the last interrogated. “And what have you got to say for yourself?” asked the lieutenant.

“That I was last night put into this boat with the rest, with my hands bound behind my back,” I replied.

“And you believe that the people who so treated you have run off with the ship to turn pirates?”

“I do not believe it,” I answered. “I knew the captain, who was a kind friend of mine, and the ship was his own. If you ever meet Captain Dean of the Mary, he will corroborate what I say.”

“This is a new version of the story,” replied the lieutenant.

“It is the true one; of that you may be assured,” I replied. “I would willingly tell you more, but I cannot, so there is no use questioning me.”

“We shall soon see that,” he observed. “Those who will not speak when they can, must be made to speak.”

I was silent; for if I said more, I was afraid of running the risk of breaking my oath, by betraying Hawk and his followers.

The attention of all on board was now taken up by the manning of the boats, which were, I found, to be sent up forthwith, on an expedition in search of the pirates. Oh, how I longed to warn the brave men I saw with such joyful alacrity getting ready, of the great risk they were about to run! The schooner, I knew, had ten guns on board, and the pirates would be able so to place her as to offer a stout resistance, if not to defeat the man-of-war’s boats completely.

Four of the brig’s boats were sent away, to which was added the one in which I had been taken; so that there was a pretty strong flotilla engaged in the expedition. Remembering, however, the extreme narrowness of the passage, I felt that if the pirates landed, and simply fired down upon their assailants, they might pick every one of them off, without the slightest risk to themselves. I was very much afraid of being compelled to accompany the boats—not that I feared the danger, but I thought that Hawk would fancy that I did so willingly; and though he might be defeated and killed, I did not like the idea of his dying with the impression on his mind that I had betrayed him; or, on the contrary, if the boats were destroyed, of course I could expect no mercy at his hands. With aching eyes I saw them enter the mouth of the lagoon; and perhaps no one on board felt a greater interest in their proceedings than I did.

Chapter Eighteen.

I was allowed to remain on deck, under charge of a sentry, but was in no other way treated as a prisoner. Half-an-hour elapsed, during which the boats were probably looking for the pirate vessel, without a shot being heard. It was a time of the most intense anxiety. At length, as if to make amends for the previous silence, the roar of big guns and musketry was heard reverberating in quick succession among the rocks. One fancied that one could distinguish as each boat came up to the contest, and the schooner fired at her in return. The wreaths of smoke could be perceived in the atmosphere, rising above the trees. Once there was a cessation; and it appeared that the boats were driven back. One thing was certain, the pirates had not attempted to stop them at the narrow passage, as they might have done; or, if they had, they had successfully passed it.

Five minutes elapsed—they seemed an hour. Then again the hubbub recommenced, with greater fury than before. So excited did many of the men, and even the officers, become, that I almost thought they would leap into the water, and try to swim to shore, to join in the combat. I fancied that I could even hear the cries and shrieks of the combatants—that I could see the whole scene before me, through the trees; the boats at the mouth of the bight, firing away at the schooner, their officers cheering the men on; the pirates, stripped to the waist, working the guns of the schooner, some on board, and others on either point on shore, with small-armed men scattered in every direction around. The prolonged fight made me feel very doubtful of the result of the contest. There was a pause, and then a loud, fearful explosion, and the masts and spars and fragments of the pirate schooner could be seen rising in the air. She had blown up; but still it might be questioned who were the victors.

There was another interval of the most intense anxiety. In vain we waited for the reappearance of the boats, till the Neptune’s people began to fear that their brave shipmates had been all destroyed. There was only one small boat, the dinghy, remaining on board. The master, the only gun-room officer left besides the surgeon and purser, volunteered to go in and look for them. I was on the very point of offering to accompany him as pilot, when I remembered that I was supposed to know nothing of the place. The commander gave an unwilling consent, for he did not like to risk more of his people. He was just shoving off, when first one boat was seen to emerge from among the trees, then another, and lastly four appeared—thus one only was missing. They pulled slowly on board, and were seen to be heavily laden.

With a shout of joy and hearty congratulation, they were received alongside; but the entire satisfaction at the success of the expedition was somewhat mitigated when it was found that several of their numbers were missing. They had brought off ten prisoners, most of whom were wounded. Some of the packages which had been taken from the Mary were also brought on board. Neither Hawk nor Abraham Jones were among the prisoners: I therefore concluded that they were killed or had escaped. The prisoners, to my horror, at once recognised me and the rest of their comrades, addressing us familiarly by our names, and thus completely identified us with themselves. I suppose they did this from a feeling of revenge, from fancying that we had been the cause of their disaster. The captain, on this, ordered us all to be secured and treated as prisoners alike, till he had time to investigate the matter fully.

I heard an account of the expedition from one of the seamen who had been engaged in it, as he described it to a messmate. It appeared that the pirates had at once gone on board the schooner, which they had placed, just as I supposed they would, directly across the entrance of the bight. Here Hawk fought her most bravely, once compelling the boats to retreat.

On a second attempt to board, she was discovered to be on fire, notwithstanding which Hawk had remained in the vessel till the last moment, when, leaping into the boats, he and some of his crew escaped to the shore. Many of them, who could not, were blown up. Fortunately, one boat’s crew only of the Americans had got on board by the stern. Several of these poor fellows were lost; but, wonderful to relate, others, by leaping over the taffrail at the moment they felt it lifting under their feet, were saved and picked up by their friends. It was considered useless to pursue the fugitives. The prisoners taken were those picked up in the water, and a few found wounded on shore. Securing them, and attending to the wounded of both parties, as well as collecting some of the booty, had caused the delay. The guns, also, planted by the pirates at the two points of land on either side of the bight, were spiked and thrown into the water, and all arms found about were carried off.

Such was the end of the Foam; and such will, in every ease, probably be the concluding scene of piratical craft and their crews now-a-days. They certainly deserve no better; and although their captains, to rise to that unenviable post, must possess some of those fiercer qualities which people are apt to admire, I have no fancy for making them interesting characters, or heroes of romance.

On hearing that there was a considerable amount of booty on shore, the captain despatched fresh hands to bring it off. I longed to caution them that Hawk, if he was alive, was a man very likely to play them a trick, but I had no opportunity of doing so till they had gone. The boats were sent away, and I was afterwards had up for examination. I then, as the schooner was destroyed, no longer felt myself bound by my oath to keep silence; I therefore gave a rapid sketch of my adventures as the best way of accounting for being found in such bad company. The captain laughed at my statements, which, he said, were altogether incredible, and assured me that he fully believed that I deserved hanging as much as the rest.

I assured him that I had not deceived him, and requested him to confront the negro, Mark Anthony, with me, and that he would corroborate all my assertions. Had I known more of the worst part of human nature, I might not have made this request. When the black was brought up, he gave a malicious grin at me, and, putting his hand on his heart, assured the captain and officers that, as he spoke the truth, I was the most wicked, vicious youngster on board the schooner, to which he knew that it was useless to deny that he belonged—that he was perfectly innocent of any piratical act, having been carried off to act as cook—that he had at first taken an interest in me, and had done his best to reform me, but in vain, and that lately he had given my case up as hopeless.

“What do you mean by lately?” I asked.

“Just de last six months or so,” he answered, with the greatest effrontery.

“I beg, gentlemen, that his answer may be noted; for I hope to be able to prove that I have not been on board the schooner as many weeks,” I said, with a calm voice, which had, I think, some effect on my hearers.

There was such a mass of false swearing and contradictory evidence taken during the examination, that the naval officers were compelled to reserve any judgment on the case till they should arrive in port, when it might be handed over to the lawyers to sift to the bottom. Greatly to my satisfaction, the boats returned laden with further goods taken from the Mary; but it required two more trips before they could all be brought off. The task was at last accomplished, without any of the pirates having made their appearance, and sail was then made to the northward.

I found that our destination was Charleston, to which port the brig belonged, and where my trial and that of the other prisoners would take place. Had it been New Orleans, I thought I might have been able to prove that I had gone to sea in the Susannah, and Captain Searle might be found, who would give a favourable account of me. While I was thinking of this, I suddenly began to reflect that perhaps Captain Searle might turn upon me as the African had done, though for a different reason. He would be able to prove that I was at New Orleans, certainly, but then the Foam was there at the same time. She had watched, attacked, and robbed him, and taken out of his vessel me and another person, who, without any unwillingness, had turned pirate, so that I had perhaps all along been in league with the freebooters, and my pretended ignorance of Hawk and his craft might have been all sham. I might indeed be considered, as the negro declared I was, worse than all the rest.

As I reflected on these things, I remembered that my destiny was in the hands of a higher Power; that I had acted rightly according to the best of my belief; and that He would direct all things for my future good. This feeling gave me strength to endure the present and confidence in the future. I have thus invariably found it in all the affairs of life. When I have conscientiously done my duty, though inconveniences and annoyances may have apparently happened in consequence, the end has always been fortunate when I have been able to arrive at the result. The consequence of many of our acts, we must remember, is yet in the eternal future, unfathomed by mortal ken. To that time we must look forward for the reward of any of our acts which may be considered by our beneficent Father worthy of reward; and also to that time (we must not conceal from ourselves) for punishment for our misdeeds, unless our Saviour mercifully intercede for us.

Our voyage to Charleston was very rapid. I certainly was in no hurry to have it over, when I had so disagreeable a prospect before me as a trial, and not impossibly an execution. I was treated with less harshness than the rest of the prisoners—perhaps on account of my youth—perhaps because some believed me innocent. I fain hoped on the latter account.

At length we arrived. I will not stop to describe Charleston. It is a fine, flourishing city, with a dock-yard, where many of the ships of the American navy are built. I saw little of it, for soon after the Neptune had dropped her anchor I was conveyed with the other prisoners on shore to jail.

The Americans are as fond, fortunately, of the go-ahead system in law as they are in everything else. In the settlements founded by Spain and Portugal, we might have been kept six months without being brought into court; here, before as many days were over, our trial commenced. The fate of those taken in the schooner was easily settled. Several robberies were proved against them; and she was sworn to as the same vessel which had fired into the brig off the coast of Cuba, and had there carried the pirate flag, besides having also killed and wounded several officers and men in the United States navy.

The trial of the people in the boat next came on. The others swore that we belonged to the schooner and the negro, in the bitterness of his feelings against me, had acknowledged the same. I told my history as my best defence.

“Ask him if he can swear he no fire de big guns—he no pull and haul—when we fight de brig,” exclaimed the malignant black, perfectly indifferent to his own fate. I held my peace.

“Prisoner at the bar, can you swear that you did not aid and abet those engaged in making unlawful war against the United States brig Neptune?”

“I cannot swear to that, because, in a fatal fit of forgetfulness, seeing every one excited around me, I might have pulled and hauled at the ropes of the schooner.”

“An acknowledgment of his guilt?” exclaimed the counsel for the Government; and I, with all the rest, was adjudged to be hung at the end of the week at the yardarm of the brig which had captured us. Never was a nest of more atrocious pirates broken up, said the public papers, commenting on the trial, and never were men adjudged to meet a more deserved doom.

Now the reader will almost be prepared to know how I was saved. I must own that I never expected to be hung. I felt that I was innocent, and I trusted that some means would be offered for my escape.

Just as I was being led out of court, there was a cry of “Witnesses! witnesses for the trial of the pirates!” Looking up, I saw several seafaring men entering the court, and among them two persons whose appearance at that juncture made my heart leap into my mouth with joy and gratitude, and proved that the finger of God had directed their coming. Need I say that they were Captain Dean and Mary, and that the other people were the crew of the barque, released from the power of the pirates by my means?

Their story created a great sensation in court; and Captain Dean was ready to swear, from his knowledge of me, that I had no willing participation in any of the acts of the pirates. My story was now believed; but I had acknowledged having worked the guns in the action with the brig, and I had, by the evidence of all present, willingly, and of my own accord, rejoined the pirates, though every opportunity had been offered me of escaping.

I urged my oath in extenuation of my conduct, and that I was bound to return. This was not held in law to be any excuse. I had no business to take an oath of that nature, it was asserted by the counsel for the Government. The sentence of death against me was, however, rescinded, on account of the many extenuating circumstances brought forward in my favour; but still I could not be set at liberty.

The sentence of the people who had been found with me in the boat was afterwards commuted to imprisonment for fourteen years; and I was offered a conditional pardon, provided I would volunteer to serve for two years on board a ship of war just then about to sail, and short of hands.

I was sorry to be again thus separated from Captain Dean and Mary; but as I had no dread of the service, I, without much hesitation, accepted the offer. “I will do my duty and retrieve my character,” I thought; “and as, I trust, there is no chance of a war with England, I see no reason to prevent me.”

Chapter Nineteen.

The next day I found myself transferred on board the United States corvette Pocahuntas, of twenty guns, and one hundred and fifty men, including officers, marines, and petty officers. I found that she was bound to the North Seas; to look after the interests of the United States fisheries. She was strongly built and strengthened, so as to contend with the bad weather she might expect to meet, and the loose ice she was also likely to encounter. I shall describe her more particularly by and by.

The day after I had become one of the crew, while I was below, I was informed that a person was alongside inquiring for me. I looked over the side, and there I saw, as I expected, Captain Dean and Mary. They came on deck, and Mary was very nearly throwing her arms about my neck and kissing me, while her father took both my hands and held them in his.

“I owe everything to you, Peter,” he said, and the tears stood in his eyes—“my life and property, and more, the safety of this dear child; and I do feel most cruelly not being able to make you any return. In England the sovereign would have given you a free pardon to a certainty; here, in such a case as yours, we have no one to appeal to. I have introduced myself to your captain, and, as he seems a kind man, I trust he will interest himself in you. I beg to offer you an outfit, which I have brought on board; and I fear that there is little else I can do for you. When you come back I shall be on the look-out for you, and then you must fulfil your promise of sailing with me. Make yourself a thorough seaman in the meantime, and I think I can promise you very soon the command of a ship.”

Mary joined in, and entreated me first to take care of myself, and then to come back to Charleston to rejoin them.

“You know, Peter, I shall be nearly grown up by that time,” she said, in her sweet, innocent, and lively manner, though she was half crying at the time. “Then, you know, if you become first mate, I shall be able to act as father’s second mate; so we shall have quite a family party on board the dear old ship.”

Thus we talked on, joking often through our sorrows, till it was time for my friends to go on shore. With heavy hearts we parted. Had we been able to see the future, haw much heavier would they have been! I found in the chest which they had brought me numberless little things, which all told of sweet Mary’s care and forethought. I had just time to write a few hasty lines to my family, but the letter never reached home. While I was in prison, and my fate uncertain, I dared not write.

The next morning, at break of day, the boatswain’s whistle roused me from my slumbers, and his gruff voice was heard bawling out, “All hands up anchor,” followed with another pipe of “Man the capstan.”

To a person accustomed to the merchant service, where, from the few hands which can be employed, the duty must be carried on slowly and cautiously, the work on board a man-of-war appears as if done almost by magic. The rapidity and certainty of action is gained only by great arrangement, method, and practice. Every man on board has his proper post and particular duties; and all are accustomed to listen for and obey the signal of command, be it the human voice, the boatswain’s pipe, a peculiar flag, or the report of a great gun or musket. The crew are separated into two divisions, with their respective officers: these divisions are called watches—the starboard and larboard—because one does duty, or watches, while the other rests below.

On important occasions, when greater strength is required, or it is necessary to shorten sail in a hurry, or danger is apprehended, both watches, or all hands, are called. Thus, getting under weigh, or going into harbour, or at divisions and quarters, all hands are at their proper posts at the same time. Each top has its proper crew, who are known as fore-top men, main-top men, and mizzen-top men, whose duty is to tend the sails above them. On deck there are the sheet-anchor men stationed on the forecastle, whose duty is to tend the head-sails, anchors, etcetera, and consequently the most trustworthy veterans are selected for the office. In what is called the waist, or the centre of the ship, the landsmen and least skilful of the crew are placed. They have to pull and haul with the marines, and to clean the decks, and to do various ignoble duties below. From the part of the ship where they are stationed, they are called waisters. The after-guards are stationed on the quarter-deck, and have to tend the spanker and other after-sails, and to haul the main brace.

The officers are divided into commissioned officers, namely, the captain and the lieutenants, the master, surgeon, and purser; the warrant officers, who are boatswain, gunner, and carpenter, and the midshipmen; and, lastly, the petty officers, who have their rating given them on board ship by the captain or first lieutenant, and may be equally disrated by them.

There are slight variations in the British and United States navies; but the latter has adhered very closely to the customs of the former; and however republican our well-beloved cousins may be on shore, afloat they wisely carry out the principles of an absolute monarchy in the most perfect manner.

There are certain general duties in which all hands are engaged, and in which each has a number. Thus a man has one number at mess, another at quarters, and another at divisions. Discipline is everything on board a man-of-war. Without it such a mass of people could not possibly be moved together, and all would be confusion and constant disaster. There must be a head to command, either worn by the captain or first lieutenant. If the latter is a good seaman, all may go well in spite of the incapacity of his superior; but a clever captain will never submit to have a stupid first, so that it is seldom that the office of first lieutenant is held by other than a good seaman. It would take up too much space were I to attempt to describe all the grades and offices on board a man-of-war. It will suffice when I state that every man has his proper place, and that one follows the other in rank, down to the lowest rated officer. I was rated as an able seaman, which I considered a high honour, considering the little knowledge I felt myself to possess, and was placed in the after-guard. I had to take my trick at the helm, which I was also glad of, as it enabled me to perfect myself in steering.

The commander, Captain Gierstien, was a man who had seen much of the world, and was, I have reason to believe, a very good seaman; so was Mr Stunt, the first lieutenant, who was a disciplinarian of the most rigid school; and certainly the ship was in very good order as a man-of-war. But there was a sad want of any of the milder influences which govern human beings. Kind words and considerate treatment were not to be found. This I soon discovered; and it seemed as if a leaden weight were attached to my heart. Strict regulations, the cat, and fear did everything. How the second lieutenant, Mr Dunning, contrived to gain his rank I do not know, for he was nothing at all of a practical seaman but then he spouted poetry, and wrote verses in praise of freedom; and this talent, I conclude, had gained him his appointment, though, by the bye, the verses appeared to be very bad.

There were several of my own messmates with whom I became intimate. Though rough in manner, they were kind of heart; and I will say of two or three of them, that all their sentiments were such as no gentleman need have been ashamed of possessing. I found them both agreeable and instructive companions; and I was glad to enjoy their friendship, the more from the very want of kindly feelings which prevailed generally throughout the ship. Andrew Thompson was my greatest chum. He was a true-hearted seaman, every inch of him. He had been all his life at sea, and had had his eyes open, as the saying is, all the time. He used to take great delight in describing the countries he had visited, and the ports and harbours in which he had brought up, as also in giving me instruction in all branches of seamanship.

My other friend was called Terence O’Connor, an Irishman, as his name betokens, with all the good qualities generally ascribed to the natives of that country. He liked me, as being a countryman, in the first place; and secondly, because I liked him. He was still young, and had nothing of the Mentor about him, like Thompson. He was brave, and true as steel. I should not say that he was a first-rate seaman; but he was active and energetic, and he knew how to obey—indeed, he was a capital hand to have as a mate.

There was also an English lad I liked much, Tom Stokes by name. He was not very bright, and he used to be sadly bullied by the crew; but as I was strong, could and did protect him, and his gratitude won my regard. He had been tolerably well educated; and being fond of reading, with a retentive memory, he possessed a good deal of information. Left an orphan, without a friend in the world, he had come to sea; and quitting his ship at Charleston, he had entered on board the Pocahuntas. I mention these three of my shipmates for reasons which will hereafter be seen. I had several other friends, whom I liked more perhaps than Tom Stokes, and as much as O’Connor, but I need not describe them.

We had fine weather on first putting to sea, and had thus time to let everything shake into its place before a gale came on. It was early in the year, but for some reason or other we were ordered to get northward as fast as we could. For the first week we had calms, and then the wind came ahead, so that our progress was very slow. Instead of running through the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, we were to keep on the eastern coast of Newfoundland, and to approach the northern shore of Labrador.

“You’ll want your Flushing jacket and trousers, not forgetting worsted socks and gloves, my boy, when you get there,” said Thompson, who gave me this information. “You’ve never felt anything like the cold, nor seen anything like the fogs, to be found in those parts.”

He told me that few Europeans had settled on the coast of Labrador; but that some Moravian missionaries were stationed at four or five spots, for the purpose of converting the Esquimaux to Christianity. “Those must be Christians, indeed, to my mind, who will go and live in such a climate, for the sake of teaching their religion to the ignorant heathen, who would not otherwise have a chance of having the truths of the gospel preached to them,” he observed; and I agreed with him. “I’ve been told,” he continued, “that during the winter the thermometer often falls 30 degrees below the freezing point; and though the houses of the missionaries are heated by stoves, the windows and walls are covered all the time with ice, and the bed-clothes freeze to the walls. Rum is frozen in the air as rapidly as water, and rectified spirits soon become thick like oil. From December to June the sea is so completely frozen over that no open water is to be seen. Once some of the missionaries ventured, in February, to visit some Esquimaux forty miles distant, and although wrapped in furs, they were nearly destroyed. Their eyelids froze together, so that they were continually obliged to pull them asunder, and, by constantly rubbing, prevent their closing; while one of them had his hands frozen and swollen up like bladders. During their short summer, however, the heat is excessive; and mosquitoes, in swarms, infest the air.”

“I hope we shall not have long to remain in those regions,” I remarked.

“I hope not,” said Thompson; “but who can tell? Ships, when they get into the ice, cannot always get out again, and some have been frozen up for several years together; yet, by proper precautions, few of the people on board have died, and at length have returned to their friends and country.”

“It must be very dreary work, Andrew, having nothing but the ice and snow to look at for such a length of time together,” I remarked.

“I’ll tell you what, Peter, when you have lived as long as I have, you will discover, I hope, that it is not what one sees on the outside, so much as what is in the inside of a man, which makes him happy and contented, or the contrary,” said Andrew. “Now I have met several men, who have passed two winters running in those regions, when the sun was not to be seen for months together, and ice and snow was all around them; but the captain and officers being kind, and doing everything to amuse them and to take care of their health, they assured me they never enjoyed themselves more in their lives.”

“I would rather not try it in our present ship.”

“Nor would I, Peter,” said Andrew; and the subject dropped.

“What an odd name they have given to our ship!” I remarked one day, when Tom Stokes was near; “I cannot think where it comes from.”

“Oh, I can tell you, Peter,” said Tom, sitting down close to me. “I read some time ago a history of North America, and I remember meeting with the name of Pocahuntas. You must know that she was an Indian princess, that is to say, she was the daughter of a powerful chief inhabiting that part of the country which is now the State of Virginia. A small body of English, had settled there, with a governor, a handsome young man, placed over them. They were cultivating the ground and building houses in fancied security, when the Indians attacked them, killed some, and carried off others, among whom was the governor, as prisoners. It was the custom of the Indians to torture their prisoners in the most dreadful way before killing them. Such was to be the lot of the governor; but, fortunately for him, he was seen by Pocahuntas, who instantly fell in love with him, and interceded for his life with her father. The prayer was granted, on condition that he would become her husband. He was too glad to accept his life on such terms; for the young lady was very beautiful, and he would thereby form an alliance with a very powerful tribe, and secure his countrymen from further molestation. He became much attached to his beautiful and faithful bride; and, having succeeded in converting her to Christianity, he married her according to the rites of the Church. From this union sprung some of the most respectable and wealthy families of the State.”

I thanked Tom for his story, and agreed that the Princess Pocahuntas ought to be held in reverence by all true Virginians. Our conversation was interrupted by the cry of “All hands, shorten sail!” We sprung on deck. A heavy gale had come on, and the ship was heeling over to her scuppers under it. I was aloft in an instant, helping to reef the mizzen-topsail; the topgallant-sails and courses had been clewed up.

The wind was about north-west, and blew very cold. The leaden waves rose sullenly on every side, topped with hissing foam, and every instant they leaped higher and higher, as if lashing themselves into fury. The twilight of evening was just giving way to the gloom of night. I never remember a more dismal-looking close to a day.

We had managed to close-reef the mizzen-topsail; but the main-topsail, which was more difficult to manage, was still bulging out above the yard, the hands on which it threatened every instant to strike off, as the ship, with desperate force, kept plunging her bows into the opposing seas.

“Come, bear a hand with that main-topsail there,” exclaimed Mr Stunt through his speaking-trumpet, “or—”

What he was going to say I know not, for at that instant there arose the fearful cry of “A man overboard!—a man overboard!”

It sounded like the knell of a fellow-being. Captain Gierstien was on deck. I was near him.

“If I lower a boat I shall lose some other brave fellows,” he exclaimed aloud, though he was speaking to himself.

“We’ll gladly risk our lives to save him, sir,” cried two or three who were near him; “it’s O’Connor—it’s Terry O’Connor!”

“So would I,” escaped from my lips. I had at all events intended to have volunteered to go in the boat.

“Down with the helm! Back the main-topsail!” exclaimed the captain in the same breath. “Stand by to lower a boat; but hold fast. Can any of you see or hear him?” The ship was hove to, and all hands stood peering into the loom and trying to catch a sound of a voice. O’Connor was a first-rate swimmer, and he was not a man to yield to death without a struggle—that we knew.

It must be understood that, though several sentences were spoken, not thirty seconds had elapsed after he had struck the water before the order to heave the ship to was given. She was also going but slowly through the water, though, from the way she was tumbling about, a landsman might have supposed she was moving at a great rate.

“Does any one see him?” asked the captain. Alas in that dark night even the sharpest eyes on board could not discern so small an object as a man’s head floating amid those troubled waters.

“Does any one see him?” There was a dead silence. The hopelessness of the case struck a chill through all our hearts. Two minutes—three—passed away. We continued from all parts of the ship peering into the darkness—some to windward, others to leeward, and others a stern. Now I thought I saw something, but it was the dark top of a wave under the glistening foam. Five minutes had elapsed since the accident. Long before this the ship must have left him far astern, and he must have sunk beneath those heavy waves. Such was the feeling gaining possession of many.

Again the captain made the final inquiry, “Does any one yet see him?” An ominous silence gave the sad response. “Then it is hopeless waiting longer. Fill the main-topsail. Up with the helm.”

Scarcely had the captain uttered these words in a loud voice, than a hand in the main-top hailed the deck with the words, “I hear a voice from down to leeward, sir.”

I had heard it also, I was certain. It was O’Connor’s manly voice. It was not a shriek, the death-wail of a struggling wretch, but a bold, nervous hail.

“Hold fast then with the main-topsail braces,” cried the captain. There was no need of that order, by the bye. “Keep the helm down. Stand by to lower the starboard quarter boat.” It was the lee one.

“Volunteers, away!” Several sprung to the falls. I was among the first; so was Tom Derrick, an active young topman. He leaped into the bow as the boat was being lowered; I into the stern to unhook the after falls; the rest of the volunteer crew followed. The boat was lifting and pitching with fearful violence alongside, to the great risk of being swamped. Poor Derrick stood up to clear the falls, I believe, or to fend off the bow of the boat from the ship’s side. I saw his figure in an erect position for an instant—the boat’s bow pitched into the sea—the next instant he was gone. In vain the man close to him tried to grasp him—he went down like a shot; not a cry was heard, not a sign of him was again seen.

There was no time to be lost, if we would save O’Connor. Every moment the fury of the gale was increasing. Our oars were out, and over the foaming sea we pulled in the direction whence the voice had come. The ship rose towering astern of us, her dark masts lifting and falling against the leaden sky. By her we guided our course. We thought we must have reached the spot where O’Connor should have been.

“Be alive, shipmates,” said a voice close to us. “In bow oar, and lend us a hand.” It was O’Connor’s voice. He was swimming with perfect composure close to us on the top of a wave, and striking out toward the bows, so as to avoid the stern. He was with some little difficulty hauled on board, for he had not a stitch of clothing on with which we could catch hold of him.

“Thank ye, shipmates all,” he exclaimed, as he sprung into the stern-sheets. “But lend us a jacket, some one, will ye? for it’s bitter cold out of the water, and I’ve left all mine, do ye see, for Daddy Neptune, when he wants a new rig-out.”

A seaman will joke in the midst of a furious engagement, or at other moments of the greatest peril; and I believe Terence was truly grateful to the merciful Providence who had so wonderfully preserved him. We threw our jackets over him, to shelter him as well as we could, and pulled back as fast as we were able to the ship. There was a short time for talking and hearing how it had happened, as may be supposed. We had great difficulty in getting on board again, and it required extreme caution to prevent the boat being swamped alongside. At last we reached the deck, and the boat was hoisted in.

“Why, you haven’t got him,” said the captain, seeing the same number come back as had gone away in the boat.

“Yes, sir,” we answered; “but poor Derrick has gone;” and we explained how our other shipmate had been lost. So there was a sigh and a tear for poor Derrick; and a cheer and congratulations for O’Connor’s preservation.

Our captain ordered O’Connor at once to his hammock, observing that his nervous system must have received a great shock, and that he need not do duty for some days, while the surgeon was directed to see to him. O’Connor very gladly turned in; and the surgeon feeling his pulse, prescribed a stiff glass of grog, a style of medicine of which sailors most approve. After he was made comfortable, I went and sat by him, and congratulated him heartily on his preservation.

“Why, you see, Peter, there’s an old saying about a man not being able to drown who is born to finish his career in another way, in which a rope plays a prominent part; but I hope that’s not true in my case. You must know, indeed, that when I first struck the water, as I was hove off the yard, I thought I should escape. When I came to the top again, after I had sunk some way down, thinks I to myself, there’s no use trying to swim with all this hamper of clothing about me; so the first thing I did was to cast it all adrift, and to kick off my shoes. I had some difficulty in getting out of my jacket, but I succeeded by treading the water with my feet the while. Remember, Peter, always have your sea-going clothes made loose, so as to be able to throw them off in a moment. You never know when you may require to be rid of them. When I was free of my clothes, I thought there would be no use striking out and wearying myself, to try and regain the ship, because I saw that all I could do would not bring me up alongside her again; so I threw myself on my back, with my arms folded on my breast, and lay as quiet as a turtle basking in the sun of Ascension. You know singing out in the water tires a man almost as much as struggling with his arms and legs, so I kept my voice also for when it was wanted. There was no use, you see, singing out at that time, because I knew that there would be a noise on board, and people asking who had gone, and where was. I heard a cry of ‘A man overboard!’ just as I came to the surface. I could see the ship all the time, and I was glad to find she did not leave me. I don’t mean to say, Peter, but what my feelings were very awful, for I knew the difficulty and danger of lowering a boat; but I did not think my shipmates would ever desert me, without trying to pick me up. There I lay, then, tossing on the seas, and looking at the ship. I hoped I should be observed, for I heard the captain ask, ‘Does any one see him?’ I being to leeward of the ship, his voice reached me; but I did not expect to make any one hear on board. How long the time appeared! At last I heard the order given to fill the main-topsail. ‘Now or never,’ I thought; and just as I rose on the summit of a wave, I leaped as high as I could, and sung out at the very top of my voice. Never did I shout louder, for it mattered nothing if I burst my lungs, if I was not heard. How thankful I felt when I heard the order given to lower a boat! My advice to you, Peter, is, ‘Always keep your presence of mind, and, while life remains, never despair.’”

Chapter Twenty.

The Pocahuntas continued on her course to the northward, with variable weather. I believe we had got a considerable way to the eastward of where we should have been; but of that I have no certain knowledge, as a foremast man has no means of ascertaining the ship’s position, except when she makes the land, unless the officers choose to tell him. At last a fine westerly breeze sprung up, and we went gaily along.

Now, however incredible what I am going to relate may appear especially as happening to O’Connor, yet it is, I can assure my readers, perfectly true. Terence had been sent on the fore-topgallant-yard—what to do I do not recollect, for I was aft at the time—when by some means or other he lost his hold and fell over the yard. Another man, who was on the yard and saw him fall, ejaculated, “Poor Terence, this time it’s all over with him!”

Falling from that height on the deck, his brains would inevitably have been dashed out of his head; but, as he fell, the hitherto sluggish wind filled the foresail, on the bulge of which, at the very instant his body striking, it was thrown with considerable force forward right into the sea. As before, Terence preserved his consciousness, or, at all events, recovered it as he struck the water. He struck out bravely alongside the ship.

“Heave us a rope, shipmates,” he sung out. I ran to the side, and was just in time to throw him a rope as he dropped past. He caught hold of it, and hand over hand he hauled himself on board into the mizzen-chains. From thence jumping into the waist, he shook himself dry, like a Newfoundland dog, and went forward again to his duty, as if nothing had happened.

“Peter,” he observed afterwards to me, when we were together, “if I never had any religion before, I think I should have some now. You see, when I felt myself going, I thought it was all up with me, and never was so surprised in my life as when I found myself in the water. Tell me, Peter, do you think it was God who made the foresail belly out at the moment it did?”

“I think it was by His will it so happened,” I answered. “I don’t think chance did it.”

“But do you think He would take the trouble to look after such a poor fellow as I am?” he asked.

“A sparrow, we are told by the Bible, falls not to the ground that He knows not of,” observed Andrew Thompson, who had sat himself down near us. “Then don’t you think, messmate, He would look after a human being, with a soul to be saved?”

“I feel that He preserved my life; but I don’t understand it,” replied Terence.

“No, messmate, none of us can understand His mysteries. We see the earth and the sky and sea—the sun and moon rise and set—we feel the wind blow, and the snow and the rain fall. But we cannot comprehend how all this is ordered, though we must acknowledge that it is for our good; and we feel that the power of the Ruler of all is so much greater than we can understand, that it is hope less to attempt it. But I say, messmate, that is no reason why we should not believe that all these things are; but, on the contrary, that God, who creates and cares for the smallest birds, watches over us also.”

We both acknowledged the truth of Andrew’s creed; and let me assure my young friends that a blessed comfort it was to us afterwards, when dangers, such as few have surmounted, surrounded us.

We continued standing to the northward; and, as far as we could learn, we were considerably to the eastward of Newfoundland. The change of temperature made us glad of warm clothing; but as yet there was no cold to be complained of. We might have guessed that we were approaching the arctic regions, by the character of the numberless sea-fowl which at times surrounded us. We were now, I believe, in latitude 54 degrees or 55 degrees; but I am uncertain, from the reasons I before stated.

Our officers had their guns on deck, and amused themselves by shooting as many of the birds which came in their way as they could; but my messmates called them by the various names of shearwaters, boatswains, kittiwakes, dovekies, Mollymokes or Mollies, gulls, buntings, and many others, whose names I forget. Those the officers did not want were given to the crew, who were in no ways particular as to the nature of the fresh meat they could procure. The shearwaters especially we found very good, particularly when made into pies. For the purpose of enabling us to make crust, a greater quantity of flour than usual was served out. At first our pies had a very oily and fishy taste; but Andrew showed us that this fishy flavour is confined to the fat, the whole of which is under the skin, and chiefly near the thighs. By carefully skinning the birds, they tasted like ordinary land-fowl; and before the officers found out the secret, we had a capital pie every day for dinner.

Our most constant companions were the Mollies; for which bird the North Sea men have as great an affection and veneration as sailors round the Cape of Good Hope have for Mother Carey’s chickens or the superb albatross: They have an idea that the spirits of the brave old Greenland skippers, the successors of the fierce sea-kings, have, when quitting their mortal frames, entered these fleet denizens of the air, still desirous to wander over the scenes of their former exploits. They are very strong and graceful on the wing and though they scarcely seem to move their gracefully-rounded pinions, they can fly in the teeth almost of the fiercest gale—now swooping into the dark troughs of the sea—now skimming over the white foaming crests. They seldom, except during calm and moderate weather, alight on the water, being ever constant on the wing; and they will fly so close to the ship, that I have fancied I could catch them with my hand.

One calm evening, as I was stationed on the poop, one of these birds, with noiseless wing, came flying so close to me that he almost brushed my nose; but before I could lift my hand to catch him, he was gone. Several times some of the pretty little snow-buntings attempted to alight on our rigging; but, like thistle-downs, before they could reach it, they were blown to leeward, and, exhausted and weary, were soon overwhelmed by the waves.

We had fishing-lines on board; and one day, the wind being light, we were told we might try them, when, to our no small satisfaction, we caught some excellent cod and halibut. We were, in fact, passing over a fishing-bank.

The weather now altered for the worse. Sleet, fog, and rain succeeded each other with unvarying rapidity, with an addition generally of a strong gale, coming from the north round to the north-west. For two days it was impossible to lay our course, so we remained hove to, hoping for an abatement of the storm.

I am now coming to one of the most perilous incidents of my life. I think I said that Thompson, O’Connor, Stokes, and I were in the same watch, though we were stationed in different parts of the ship. It had been blowing very hard from the northward during the day; but towards the evening it moderated a little, and the ship was carrying her three whole topsails close-hauled, and looking up to the north-east. No moon or stars were visible, for heavy masses of clouds covered the sky, and seemed to descend till they filled, as it were, the whole space between sky and ocean.

There were look-outs stationed forward, though, as we were supposed to be in the open sea, no danger of any sort was apprehended. Other ships might, by possibility, be crossing our course, but that was not likely; and if, by any wonderful chance, we came near each other, we should probably see and be seen in time to prevent a collision. The larboard watch, to which I belonged, and of which Mr Dunning, the second lieutenant, was officer, had the first watch, namely, from eight o’clock till midnight. At four bells, or ten o’clock, it came to my turn to take my trick at the helm. The weather had become bitterly cold; so I, with the rest, had donned all the warm clothing we could command. I had on a flannel shirt and drawers, with worsted hose and comforter, and over all a thick Flushing jacket and trousers; a Welsh wig, under a south-wester, covered my head, and a thick pair of lined boots my feet, while my hands were encased in woollen mittens—so that I little cared for the inclemency of the weather, provided I had not to face it. This I had to do while at the helm; and I remembered Andrew’s account of the Moravian missionaries having their eyelids frozen together, and thought mine would suffer in the same manner.

To say that the night was very dark would not give an idea of the inky obscurity in which we appeared to be sailing. One could scarcely see one’s hand with one’s arm held out at full length; and as for discerning anything ahead, that appeared impossible. I say appeared, because there is much difference having something to look at and nothing. In the latter case you fancy, because you see nothing, that nothing could be seen if it were there. I heard Mr Dunning, as he passed me, apostrophising the night as dark as Erebus.

The quarter-master, who was conning the ship, was continually exclaiming, “No higher,” as I kept her luffing up into the wind, unable to see the shaking of her canvas, which rose dark and towering above me, till it seemed to be lost in the clouds. Indeed, as we sailed on, we seemed literally to be sweeping the sky with our mast-heads. Thus we ploughed our way, ignorant of what was ahead, through the boiling seas during the whole time I had the wheel.

I had just been relieved, and was finding my way forward, knocking my hands against my sides to warm them, when there was a loud cry from the look-out men of “A ship ahead, standing right for us under all sail.”

“Under all sail—impossible, in a night like this!” exclaimed the officer of the watch, rousing himself from a reverie.

“Luff all you can luff, and we may weather her,” cried the voice from forward, in a tone which showed the emergency of the case; but the lieutenant had seen what he thought was a sail, and exclaimed, “Keep her away—hard up with the helm—hard up.” The commands of the officer were obeyed; the spokes of the wheel were turned a-weather; the ship, falling off, felt the full force of the gale, and flew with redoubled speed through the water.

Andrew Thompson, who was standing next to me, had been peering into the gloom ahead. “A sail!” he exclaimed: “that’s no sail, but an iceberg—I see its light. We might have weathered it; but now we are on it—and Heaven have mercy on our souls!”

As he spoke, a loud, fearful crash was heard—the stout ship shook and trembled in every timber. I was thrown, as were all near me, to the deck with stunning force. Shrieks and cries arose from every part of the ship; and the watch below, in their consternation, came hurrying up on deck, many without their clothes, others with them in their hands. All was dismay and confusion; while the terrific noise of the wind, and the sea dashing over the ship, and the ship striking against the iceberg (for an iceberg it was in truth against which we had struck), added to the cries of the people, the groans of the ship, and the creaking and crashing of the masts, almost drowned the voices of the officers, who were rushing here and there as they came from their cabins, in a vain endeavour to restore order. Many of the people in their fright sprung overboard, and were instantly swallowed up by the waves. The ship rose and fell with tremendous force as the sea lifted her, and the loud crashing forward showed that her strong bows had been stove in. The fore-mast went by the board, the heel probably lifted right out of its step. Then a terrific cry arose that the ship was sinking, and that all was lost.

The sergeant of marines, a rigid disciplinarian, had at the first alarm collected his men, and by the command of the captain brought them, with their arms in their hands, on the quarter-deck, ready to enforce his orders. No sooner was the cry raised that all was lost, than many rushed forward, with the intention of getting on the iceberg.

“Let no man quit the ship,” shouted the captain through his speaking-trumpet. “Beat to quarters, marines; fire on any who attempt to leave the deck.”

Andrew Thompson, O’Connor, and Stokes were close to me, just abreast of the fore-mast. Andrew looked round when he heard the bows of the ship being stove in. “My lads,” he exclaimed to us three, “the ship won’t be many minutes more above water; so if you’d have a chance for your lives, follow me.”

This he said just as the captain had ordered the marines to fire on any who should quit the ship. We did not stop to see whether they would obey or not, but, jumping on the forecastle, ran along the bowsprit and down by the dolphin-striker—a spar which hangs perpendicularly under the bowsprit—from whence we dropped down one by one on to a part of the iceberg which the waves did not reach. The ice was very rough, and we were thus enabled to scramble up perfectly clear of the sea.

Several others attempted to follow our example; and the marines, even at that awful moment, obedient to their orders, commenced firing on them. By the flashes of their muskets, as well as from three or four guns, which the gunner and his crew had time to discharge, the whole dreadful scene was disclosed for an instant, never to be erased from my memory: The ship, with her bow run high upon the berg; her tall masts, with their yards and sails going by the board; the dark ocean and the white-crested seas dashing over her stern, amid which stood a mass of human beings, in all the attitudes of agonised despair and dismay, except those few drilled to obedience, who knew not the danger. Then, again, above our heads, rising to the clouds, the white shining iceberg, which at every flash seemed to glow with flames of fire—the bright light reflected from pinnacle to pinnacle, and far into the caverned recesses of its stupendous sides.

Can I ever forget the dreadful despairing shriek which rent the skies, as the bow lifting high in the air, it seemed, the stern sank down, even at the instant the marines fired their last volley: it was a volley over their own graves! Slowly the proud ship glided from the icy rock, on which she had been wrecked, down into the far depths of the ocean. Soon all were engulfed beneath the greedy waves. No helping hand could we offer to any of our shipmates. The taller masts and spars followed, dragged down by the sinking hull; and in another instant, as we gazed where our ship had just been, a black obscurity was alone before us. I say we, for I saw that others were near me; but who they were I could not at the time tell. I called out, and Andrew’s voice answered, “Is that you, Peter? I am glad you’ve escaped, lad. Who is there besides?”

“I’m here, Andrew, thanks to Providence and your advice,” cried Terence.

“And so am I; but I don’t think I can hold on much longer,” exclaimed poor Tom Stokes, who had fallen on his side and hurt himself. Terence and I, who were near him, on this grasped hold of him, and dragged him up to the broad ledge on which we were seated, from the rough points of ice—to which he had been clinging. We then all huddled together as close as we could, to keep ourselves warm.

“Perhaps there may be some one else saved,” observed Andrew; so we shouted at the top of our voices, “Shipmates, ahoy! are any of you there?” We listened. The only answering sound was the lashing of the waves against the base of the iceberg; and we were convinced that, out of that gallant crew, who lately trod the deck of the beautiful ship which was now, fathoms down beneath our feet, we four were the only beings left alive.

Chapter Twenty One.

I can scarcely picture the horrors of that night. I would fain, indeed, forget them, but that is impossible. We had preserved our lives for the present moment; but what could we expect beyond, but starvation in its worst form? We had also read and heard enough of icebergs to know that, as they are driven to the southern latitudes, their bases, immersed in water much above the freezing-point, rapidly melt, and huge fragments being dislodged, they are suddenly reversed, creating a tumult as if a huge mountain were plunged into the ocean.

“If we have to stay here long, we shall be frozen to death,” said poor Stokes, his teeth chattering with cold and fear. He was the only one of us who had got wet. “Trust in Providence, lad,” said Andrew solemnly. “He has wonderfully preserved us thus far. He will not desert us, unless it be His good pleasure that we should die; and then we must: meet our fate like reasoning men, thanking Him for His especial mercy that He has given us time to repent of our sins, and has not hurried us, as He has our shipmates, into eternity without a moment’s warning.”

“Should I never have another opportunity, I thank you now, Andrew, for making me think of such things in the way you have done,” exclaimed Terence, from the fulness of his heart. “Had it not been for you, shipmate, I should not have seen the finger of God in the various ways in which He has been pleased to preserve me, and I should have died the ungrateful, unthinking wretch I had hitherto lived.”

“I have been but an humble instrument in His hand, Terence,” answered Andrew, in his usual calm, humble tone. “You see, I should be very wrong, and very wicked indeed, if, knowing what is right, I did not take every opportunity, when there was no fear of discrediting religion, to teach my shipmates.”

“You spoke to me at a proper time, Andrew; and your words had, I hope, a right effect,” I observed.

“And to me also,” said Tom; “and I thank you.”

“Well, shipmates, bad as we are off, and worse as we may be, I don’t feel unhappy when I hear you say those words; that I can tell you,” exclaimed Andrew. “It’s a joyful thing for a man, when he has seen the sun rise for the last time, to feel that there is a chance of some few things being scored in his favour in the world to which he’s bound. But mind you, I don’t say it’s what I would pride myself on, for I know that the most one can do may count as nothing; but still it’s pleasant, and nothing can make it otherwise.”

Strange as it may seem, thus we talked on. Indeed, what other subject could we talk on but religion? for every moment we felt that we might be in the presence of our Maker. As Andrew warned us, the shock the iceberg had received by the ship striking against it might have detached what are called calves, great lumps from the bottom, and, should the gale increase, it might capsize in an instant.

We had many hours to wait for daylight. We were so well clothed, from its having been our watch on deck, that we did not feel the cold particularly; but poor Tom continued to suffer. Fortunately Andrew discovered in his pocket his pipe with some tobacco, and a flint and steel. He lighted the pipe, and let Tom have a smoke, which revived and warmed him, and we then all took a few whiffs round. This little luxury seemed to do us much good. We sheltered Tom as much as we could from the wind with our bodies; and we wrung out his wet jacket, and chafed his hands and feet till the circulation was restored. The night, however, seemed interminable. To favour us still further, the wind fell, and shifted further to the south, which made it much warmer. The sea also went down, for it did not seem to lash with such fury as before our floating resting-place.

“What chance have we of escaping?” I asked of Andrew, after a lengthened silence.

“There may be some of the wreck cast up on the berg, and with it we may make a raft, and reach the coast of Newfoundland or Labrador; or the berg itself may be driven ashore, but that I do not think at all likely; or we may be seen by some ship and taken off. I know of no other possible chance of escape.”

“Then I trust we may be seen by some ship,” I ejaculated. “There must be many whalers in these parts.”

“They keep farther to the eastward, generally,” replied Andrew. “They are also not fond of icebergs, and try to avoid them.”

I own that, seeing him so calm and collected, I fancied he must have some hopes of deliverance, by means of which we were ignorant; so I asked him whether he thought we should find any food to support us.

“I have often heard of people finding means of subsistence when in as bad a condition as we are,” he replied. “Providence has decreed that man should require food to support life; and therefore the air and the sea, as well as the earth, afford him food. Even in the cold regions of the north there is an abundance; and the very food which we could scarcely manage to digest in the south is there wholesome and palatable. In the plains of Asia, for instance, where the earth affords the greatest produce, the people care to eat little besides fruit and corn; while in the land of the Esquimaux, where neither fruit nor corn can grow, they thrive on whale’s blubber, the flesh of bears and wild-fowl.”

“Perhaps we may catch some wild-fowl in the morning,” I observed.

“Perhaps we may; but I think we should hear them if there were any perched about the berg, and I have been listening for some time for them without hearing a sound.”

By this remark of Andrew’s I knew that he had been considering how we should support life, though he was prepared for the worst; and also, probably, how we had best act under all the circumstances which might occur. I might have sailed with Andrew for a long time, in calm weather, without discovering the real heroic qualities which, under his rough exterior, he possessed.

Morning at last dawned; and what a change from the previous day! Then, all had been storm and gloom; now, all around was calm, beautiful, and bright. Before the sun rose, the whole eastern sky was glowing with an orange tinge; while every fleecy cloud around was tinted with gold and red, orange, or pink, and every conceivable intermediate hue; while the clear portions of the sky itself were of the purest and most ethereal blue—the whole sea glowing with the same varied and beautiful colours. But still more beautiful and wonderful seemed the vast mountain of ice on which we floated, as in every fantastic form it appeared, towering above us. The pinnacles and turrets of the summit were tinted with the glowing hues of the east; while, lower down, the columns and arches which supported them seemed formed of the purest alabaster of almost a cerulean tint; and a round us, on either side, appeared vast caverns and grottoes, carved, one might almost suppose, by the hands of fairies, for their summer abode, out of Parian marble, their entrances fringed with dropping icicles, glittering brilliantly.

It is not to be wondered at, if we did not admire the enchanting spectacle as much as it deserved, for we could not forget that we were floating on an iceberg, in the middle of the North Sea; but still the scene made an impression on my mind which I shall not forget. We had struck on the lowest and least precipitous side of the iceberg, there being a wide flat space some distance above the water, with one ledge rising above the other, for some way up,—so that we had ample room to walk about; nor was the ice so slippery as to cause us much fear of tumbling into the water. I had heard a rippling noise during the night, and could not conceive whence it came; but now, on looking around, I perceived that it was caused by a small cascade, which, from the ice at the top continually melting, came trickling down the side.

“We shall have fresh water, at all events, in abundance,” I observed to Andrew, who had awoke from a sleep into which he, with our other companions, had fallen.

“Yes, Peter; and from what I see not far off, if I mistake not, we shall have food also,” he added, pointing to a dark object which lay on a ledge below us, a little way to the left.

“If looks like an animal of some sort,” I exclaimed. “But I am afraid it will be off before we can catch it. Shall we run down and secure it?”

“I have no fear on that score,” he replied; “it is a seal, and from the way it is lying, it is, I suspect, dead. Indeed, a live animal would not have got on the ice so early in the morning. They are now feeding, and love to come out of the water to bask at noon in the sun. We will wake up Terence and Tom, and get them to help to drag it up out of the reach of the sea. It will probably not be very palatable, though it will doubtless serve to keep us alive. But before we commence the work of the day, let us return thanks to Heaven for having preserved us through the great perils of the past night.”

We roused up our companions; and I believe did most sincerely offer up our thanksgiving for the mercy which had been shown us in saving us out of so many from destruction. We then, with care to avoid falling into the sea, descended to where the body of the seal had been thrown. The animal was dead, but it was quite fresh, and had probably been cast up that very night; at all events, it could not have been there long.

“I doubted not that God would send us food. This did not happen by chance,” said Andrew. We found that we could not drag the entire body of the seal up to the higher ledge, so we cut thin slices out of it, hoping by drying them in the sun to preserve them longer. We first skinned it carefully, as Andrew showed us that by stretching out the skin it would afford us some little shelter at night. Having collected a supply of food to last us for many days, we dragged the remainder of the carcase out of the reach of the waves, and carried the meat to the upper ledge.

“Now, my lads,” said Andrew, who took the lead in everything, we willingly obeying him, “it is very right to secure some food for ourselves in the first place; but as we shall none of us have a fancy for spending the rest of our days here, we’ll look out to see if there’s a ship in the offing, and if so, to make some signal to attract her notice.”

We all agreed; and before attempting to eat some of the seal, for which, indeed, we had little fancy, we set to work to climb to one of the highest pinnacles of the berg. We found it impossible to reach the highest, but we got some way up; and not a sail was to be seen as far as the eye could reach on the part of the horizon visible to us. Our climb had shown us, however, a considerable portion of the lower part of the berg, and we observed several things lying about, evidently cast there by the waves. We immediately descended to secure them.

There was a hen-coop with some chickens in it, and though they were drowned, they were very acceptable; there were two boarding-pikes, a boat-sail, and several spars and bits of rope, which had been lying in the boats or on the booms. These were all treasures, and, collecting them, we carried them up to our ledge. There were also fragments of wood and chips washed from the cook’s galley, and bits of quarter-boat which had gone to pieces with the first sea. These latter we dried in the sun, and afterwards kindled with them a small fire, over which we cooked two of our fowls, and dried the seal’s flesh for future use. We without difficulty ate the fowls, but had not yet got up an appetite for seal-flesh.

“We might be worse off, there’s no doubt about it,” observed Terence; “and it strikes me, Andrew, that what with the hen-coop and the spars, we might build a sort of a raft which would keep us afloat a short time, should the berg take to making a somerset?”

“I was thinking of the same thing,” was Andrew’s reply. “They will form but a small raft; but if the berg drives anywhere near shore, it will, at least, enable us to reach it. The sooner we set about making it the better. It will keep us off the cold ice in the meantime, and by rigging the boat’s sails on the pikes, we shall be sheltered from the wind; and, my lads, let me tell you, we might be much worse off, so let us be thankful.”

This conversation took place while we were making our breakfast. Instead of tea, we knocked off, with the boarding-pikes, lumps of ice, which we ate, and found perfectly fresh. This, Andrew explained, arose either from the iceberg having been formed of the accumulation of the snow of many winters on the coast of Greenland, and thus having been always fresh; or if formed out of salt water, from the ice, when freezing, having ejected the saline particles. He told us that water, when freezing, has the property of purifying itself, and of squeezing out, as it were, all extraneous or coarse matter.

Our not over-luxurious repast being finished, Andrew proposed our attempting again to ascend the berg to plant a signal-post and flag to attract the notice of any passing ship. Terence was for spreading out the boat’s sail; but Andrew reminded him that on the white iceberg that would not be readily seen, and advised our fastening our coloured handkerchiefs together instead.

“We must first, however, get to the top of the berg,” said Terence; “and, to my mind, these boarding-pikes will serve us a good turn.”

No sooner thought of than tried. With the boarding-pikes we chopped steps out of the side, where it was too precipitous to surmount without such aid; and by fixing the pikes below us, we shoved ourselves up with them. In this manner, after considerable labour, we reached a high pinnacle of the berg. It was not broad enough for us to stand on without fear of falling off, so we sat astride on it while we chopped a hole deep enough to fix one of the spars in, which we had hauled up for the purpose. At the top we secured four red cotton handkerchiefs, which, as they blew out, might be seen at a considerable distance. We beat the ice tightly round the heel of the spar, and it appeared to stand firmly and well.

“Now, on whatever side of the berg a ship approaches, it will be seen that some human beings are on it,” observed Andrew, as we prepared to descend, having first carefully surveyed the horizon on every side.

At this juncture we had a loss, which caused us great dismay, and, we thought, would prove a very serious inconvenience. After lighting the fire, Andrew had put the flint and steel into his jacket pocket, along with his handkerchief, on drawing out which they were jerked out also, and before we could catch them, they had fallen over the steep side of the berg. Away they bounded, from ledge to ledge, till they fell into the sea. Had they lodged in any crevice, one of us might probably have attempted to recover them, and should very likely have fallen into the sea in so doing; so, as Andrew observed, all was for the best. It was fortunate, we observed, that we had dried some of our seal’s flesh, or we should have had to eat it quite raw.

We now descended, and commenced at once to form our raft. We had few materials, and our only tools were the knives and the heads of the boarding-pikes. We first made a framework of the spars; and then, knocking the hen-coop to pieces, we nailed the planks on to the top, securing the whole fabric more firmly with ropes. When completed, as we looked at it, we agreed that it was a very small ark to support four people on the stormy ocean.

“I don’t think it will have to float me, shipmates,” said poor Tom, who had not recovered his hurt. “I feel as if I could not weather out another night like the last.”

“On you’ll do well enough, lad,” answered Andrew, in a kind voice. “Your clothes will be dry, you’ll have a dry plank to lie on, and a roof over your head. You’ll do yet, trust to me.” These encouraging words had an immediate effect on Tom’s spirits, and we heard no more of his complaints.

We had observed, as we sat on the top of the berg, several articles floating round the base, and some lodged in crevices which we had not before discovered. Our raft being completed as far as our materials would go, I volunteered to try and get hold of some of the things. To do this with safety, I begged my shipmates to hold one end of a line, which we had formed out of the various pieces collected, while the other I secured round my body. By keeping the line always tight, I was able to lean over the edge and pick up several things in the water. The first was a bucket, in sound condition. This was valuable, as it would contain fresh water, and prevent the necessity of our chewing the cold ice, which chilled us extremely. Then I found some more spars, and the fragments of one of the boats, which must have been stove in and got adrift before the ship went down. These enabled us to increase our raft to a size which afforded us hope that it might support us in our necessity.

When I was tired, Terence followed my example, and also added to our store of valuables. As he was hunting about, almost out of sight, among the rougher parts of the berg, we heard him sing out, “A prize! a prize!” and, standing up, he held aloft an iron pot with the cover on. The cover had been jammed tightly down, so that it had floated like a buoy.

“There is something in it, though,” he observed, shaking it; and, on getting off the cover, we discovered a piece of beef ready for cooking. It had evidently floated out of the cook’s galley.

“I quite forgot, though, that we had no means of lighting a fire; so, after all, it won’t be of any use,” sighed Terence, after we had all four collected again on our raft.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Andrew. “I have seen a fire kindled by means which few people would think of, but I am not quite certain that I can manage it; however, I’ll try. It’s worth the experiment; for if we can light a fire, we may make some soup, which will do us all good.”

Saying this, he climbed some way up the berg, where he knocked off a pure piece of ice from one of its sparkling pinnacles. We all sat round, wondering what he was going to do. With the boarding-pike he carefully chopped the lump, till he had made it into a thick circular cake; then he pared away the edges, and afterwards commenced operations with his knife, scraping away, till he had formed both sides into a perfect convex shape. Lastly, he took it between his mittens, and rubbed it round and round till he turned it out with a fine polish.

“There,” he said, “there is a fine burning-glass for you.”

“A burning-glass!” I answered, laughing. “A piece of ice shaped like a burning-glass; but you will never get anything like fire out of that, I should think!”

“I should think not,” said Terence, but not in the same positive way that I had spoken; for he had, justly, a great respect for everything Andrew did.

“Give me your hand here, then,” said Andrew to me. I took off my mitten and gave it him willingly. He looked at the sun, which was shining brightly, and held the ice between it and my hand. I saw a little bright spot appear on my hand; but I thought nothing of that, till, feeling an acute sensation of burning, I snatched my hand away in a hurry, to the amusement of my companions.

“I thought it would answer,” exclaimed Andrew triumphantly. “I saw the master of a whaler I was once on board make several like this, and play the same trick to his people I played you; and he afterwards explained that any perfectly transparent substance in a convex shape—that is, bulging out like this—will collect the rays of the sun, and form a burning-glass. But now, while the sun is out, and before our burning-glass melts, let us light a fire and boil our soup.”

The chips we had collected very rapidly dried; so we soon had a fire kindled by this unexpected means. The soup refreshed us wonderfully; but we were very sparing of it, by Andrew’s advice; for we could not tell how long we might have to remain without means of obtaining more food.

Thus passed away our first day on the iceberg, without a sail appearing in the horizon to afford us a hope of rescue.

Chapter Twenty Two.

That night, overcome by fatigue, strange as it may seem, we all slept soundly. The sun again rose, and discovered us still floating in safety on our unstable resting-place. The day passed much as the former one had done.

We had been actively employed during the greater part of it, and therefore, in spite of our extraordinary position and the deep anxiety we felt for our future fate, we were all able to sleep, if not very soundly, at least for some hours, when the third night closed in upon us. I need not say that Andrew offered up our prayers aloud for deliverance to the Great Being who had hitherto so mercifully preserved us.

I dreamed, it seemed to me, all night long. Sometimes I was at home with my father and mother and sweet sisters, and they were all laughing and talking, while we stood at the window of the dining-hall and looked out at the beautiful and familiar prospect before it. Someone was describing to them some adventures very similar to mine; but I felt that I could have nothing to do with them, for I was still, I knew, on an iceberg in the Northern Ocean, likely any moment to be overwhelmed beneath it. Then I thought a ship appeared, and Captain Dean was at the helm, and that sweet Mary, dressed in white, and looking like a seraph, stood on the forecastle waving to me to come off to them. I, of course, could not move, for my feet were jammed into a hole in the ice, and I struggled in vain to drag them out. On a sudden a storm arose, and Mary shrieked; and even her father turned pale, as the ship rose on the tops of the angry billows, and rolled over and over, bow foremost, till she was lost to my sight in the distance. I cried out with terror, and my own voice awoke me, when I found that my feet were projecting beyond the shelter of the sail, and were bitterly cold.

I got up to warm them by stamping them up and down, and the noise awoke my companions. They naturally told me to lie down and be quiet; but the night was so fine and calm, that I said I would go a little way from them not to disturb them, and would walk up and down for an hour or so. I had no fancy for any more of those dreadful dreams, and I felt that the exercise would do me good. As I looked out on the tranquil, dark-shining sea, in which the glittering stars floating, so it seemed, in the blue ether above me were reflected as in a mirror, all sorts of strange fancies came into my head. I remembered all I had read or heard of mermen and mermaids, of ocean monsters and sea-spirits, and I could scarcely persuade myself that I did not see some gliding before me. Certainly I could hear them: now there was a distant roar, now a loud snorting noise near me; there were voices wandering through the air, and strains of sweet music seemed to come up from the deep. I was almost positive I could hear music: sweet and faint and soft as a seraph’s sigh, it came down to my ear on the gentle wind. I would on no account have missed listening to that enchanting melody.

For a long time I continued gazing on the sea without feeling any inclination to sleep, when I fancied that I saw the dark sails of a ship about a mile off, and directly to windward of us. I peered into the darkness to assure myself, for I did not like causelessly to arouse my companions. How eagerly I looked may be supposed. If there was a ship where I supposed, the music I had heard must have come from her. At last I was almost confident that there was a ship; but as I had my doubts, I went back to Andrew and touched his arm.

“Andrew,” I said, trembling all over in my eagerness, “I do not wish to raise false hopes, but look out there and tell me what you see.”

“See, lad!—why, a sail; there’s no doubt of it,” he exclaimed hurriedly. “A barque-rigged vessel standing on a bowline to the north-west. She’s a whaler, I suspect; but how to make the keenest ears on board hear us, is a puzzle.”

We called Terence and Tom, who instantly sprung to their feet and joined us in looking out for the stranger.

“Could not we make a fire as a signal?” I asked, “that would attract her.”

“You forget that our flint and steel went overboard, and the ice without the sun won’t light a fire,” he answered; “but we will see what our voices can do. Now, my lads, let’s hail together.”

On that, standing up, throwing out our chests, and putting our hands to our mouths, we gave a shout which none but strong lungs could have uttered. It must have been carried a good mile to windward over the calm sea, but no responding cry came down to our anxious ears.

“There is no use wearing out our lungs with hallooing,” said Terence. “They wouldn’t hear us, up to windward there, even if they were much nearer. We must have patience, shipmates!—it’s no use.”

“God’s will be done,” ejaculated Andrew. “He may yet think fit to send us help.”

The tone Andrew gave to our minds prevented us from despairing or sinking into despondency. I do not mean to say that we did not, at first, feel the most bitter disappointment as the ship receded into the darkness which surrounded us, but this feeling did not endure. We, as our wise companion advised us, “trusted in God that He would save us;” and we all along felt that He would do so.

We earnestly watched the ship as long as she was visible, and long after, though we scarcely expected her to tack, or to repass near. At length we returned to our raft, and endeavoured to forget our disappointment in sleep. We lay down, under our sealskin and sail, and after an hour’s trial, I once more closed my eyes. How long I had slept I do not know, when I was again awoke by a loud noise and a violent movement of the iceberg.

Andrew suddenly started up, exclaiming, “The time has come! Hold on to the raft, my lads; hold on.”

He meantime seized a boarding-pike, ready to steady the raft. His impression was that the iceberg was in the act of rolling over, and that now was the time our raft would be of service, if it could survive the waves caused by the submersion of the snow-formed mountain on which we rested.

We waited in awful suspense, believing that our last moment had indeed arrived. It is difficult to calculate time on such occasions. Gradually the rocking movement of the berg ceased, and we found that the ledge on which we were posted had sloped rather more towards the water than before, so that it was necessary to continue holding on by the boarding-pike to prevent its gliding off.

“What has happened?” I exclaimed, as I first again drew breath freely. “I thought it was all over with us.”

“So did I, lad, at first, before I had time to think. I now suspect the cause of the commotion; and it is a mercy that the consequences have not been more terrible. When the circumstance which has just taken place happens, the whalers say that an iceberg has calved—that is, a huge lump of ice has broken away from the base of the berg, and has floated up to the top of the water. The noise we heard was when it struck against other parts, and first came to the surface. The loss of a large mass, of course, makes the berg lop-sided; and should another lump break away, it may go right over. Should we survive till the morning, we shall probably see the calf floating near us. I have known large ships overwhelmed by bergs falling on them. You know that it is the custom to moor ships to the lee side of a berg, to prevent their drifting to leeward with a contrary wind. A friend of mine, who gave me the account, belonged to a whaler, the Thomas, of Hull, Captain Taylor, fishing in Davis’s Straits. Well, one day they lay moored to an iceberg, with a long scope of warp out, and thought themselves quite secure. On a sudden, without any notice, as they were sitting at dinner, a tremendous noise was heard and a blow was felt, just as if the ship had struck on a rock. Up went the bow in the air, till the keel showed above water, and the taffrail was almost under it. All thought the ship must go down; but still she floated, not much the worse for the blow. It was found, what all the old whale-men knew well enough, that a calf had broken away from the bottom of the berg, but fortunately had struck the keel fairly, without injuring the ship’s bottom. Sometimes a calf falls from the top of a berg; but I hope one will not come down on our heads, for if it does, it will settle us outright.”

Andrew said this quite calmly, though he felt that what he was describing might any moment happen. He afterwards reminded us that pieces were more likely to fall from the summit in the day-time, when the sun was shining on it, than at night, and that therefore we should not let the thought oppress us.

It may be supposed that we did not sleep, nor attempt to sleep, any more that night. As there was no moon, we had not any means of ascertaining how the time passed; but we calculated that it was about two o’clock in the morning when the last occurrence I have described took place. The air had been very light when I first looked out; now it was a perfect calm, so that not even a ripple was heard against the side of the berg. We were therefore not uncomfortable, as far as our feelings went, could we have divested ourselves of the recollection of the peril to which we were momentarily exposed.

Oh how long that night seemed! I fancied, that it would never have an end: each minute seemed prolonged to an hour—each hour to a winter’s night. Sometimes we talked, and listened to Andrew’s description of the events which had occurred to him when he before visited the Polar Sea. At other times we were all silent together; but Andrew took care this should not last long; and never did man so exert himself to keep up the spirits of his companions. He was actuated by a true Christian spirit; and nothing else would have enabled him, I am confident, to forget himself and watch over us in the way he did.

There had been a spell of silence, when Terence exclaimed, “What say you, Andrew, if we were to launch our raft, and try to reach the coast of Newfoundland while the calm lasts? It might be done, might it not?”

“I think not,” was Andrew’s reply. “While we remain on the iceberg, we have a chance of being seen; but, on a raft, a ship may pass close to us and not heed us, while, if a gale should come on, the raft would not live an instant. Even should we near the coast, which I do not think likely, we should probably be knocked to pieces on the rocks; so I say stay to the last extremity. If the iceberg won’t hold us, then take to the raft.”

Of course we determined to follow Andrew’s advice; indeed, we all looked up to him as our guide and captain. With no little thankfulness did we welcome the first streaks of dawn on the eastern horizon. Again we knelt down and offered our prayers to Heaven. We had scarcely risen to our feet when a shout of joy escaped from our lips; for there, in the grey misty dawn, with her canvas hanging against her masts, lay motionless on the calm water a ship—the same, doubtless, which we fancied had passed far away from us in the night. Was that calm sent by Providence to effect, our salvation? The result will prove it, or when His now inscrutable ways are made manifest. How our hearts beat with hope and fear! My first impulse was to scream out to her. I checked myself, and asked Andrew what he would advise. He did not answer for some time.

Eagerly we watched the stranger. She was a barque—a whaler, no doubt. “Will she see us?” we asked one another. “Will she near the iceberg again, or will she sail off in an opposite direction?”

Those who have been placed in a similar position to the one in which we were, can alone truly comprehend to the full the intensity of our feelings. We could scarcely breathe—we could scarcely speak. All our thoughts were concentrated in that one point; our very being seemed wrapped up, as it were, in it. The night had passed slowly away; but still more slow did the light of day seem to creep over the world.

I said we were for some time silent. At last Andrew answered my question by saying, “The first thing we must do, shipmates, is to climb up to the top of the berg, and spread out our red handkerchiefs; so as to show a broad face to those on board yonder vessel. As soon as the sun is high enough, we’ll try and light a fire, and the smoke may be seen by them; but if not, then we must trust ourselves to the raft, and try to paddle up to her. Perhaps we may reach her before a breeze springs up; but perhaps not. Yet I don’t think it will get up till noon.”

“But why not get on the raft at once?” I urged; for I had more confidence in it than he had.

“Because if we do, we may not be able to return to the iceberg, which we should wish to do if we miss the ship,” he answered. “But on that point I will agree to what you all wish. What do you say, Tom?—you are the youngest, and should speak first.”

“I say, then, let us try the raft,” said Tom, who fancied even that he could swim to the ship.

“And so do I,” I added.

“And I,” exclaimed Terence, eagerly. “We’ll drive her up to the ship in no time.”

“Then, shipmates, the sooner we are off the better,” we all cried out together.

Terence and I climbed up to the top of the berg, and spread out our handkerchiefs between two upright spars, and we thought they could not fail of being seen. Andrew and Tom, meantime, were filling the iron pot with water, collecting some of our seal flesh, and otherwise getting our raft ready. Securing one end of our rope to a point of ice, we eased the raft carefully down into the sea. To our satisfaction it floated well alongside, but it required great caution not to upset it as we stepped upon it. We at once saw that Andrew had good reason for not wishing to trust to it; for no sooner were we on it, than, calm as the sea was, the water washed completely over it, and, had we not placed two planks across it to sit on, we should have been wet through directly. We each of us held a small piece of the boat’s planking in our hands to serve as paddles.

“Away we go, my lads,” exclaimed Terence, as he gave a strong shove against the iceberg with a boarding-pike; and with a cheer, which, perilous as was our adventure, we could not repress, we began vigorously to ply our paddles. It was a matter of life and death, we saw. If we missed the ship, our chance of returning to the iceberg was small indeed. Our progress was very slow. We might have made a mile an hour—perhaps not so much—and we had three miles to go at least. Still we did not flag in our exertions. We each of us chewed a piece of seal’s flesh to stay our hunger, though we had no inclination or power to swallow anything. We scarcely spoke a word all the time, but every now and then we turned a glance back, to judge how far we had got from our late abode.

One mile was passed, and we were not seen. Indeed, so small a speck as we were on the ocean, we could not expect to be observed till the sun had risen. Our great anxiety was respecting the wind—still the sea continued calm as a mirror. On we went—our eyes were on the ship’s sails. Alas! a light cat’s-paw skimmed across the ocean—the topgallant-sails of the barque blew out; but before they had any influence in impelling her through the water, they again drooped as before. Another cat’s-paw came stronger than the first, and rippled the whole surrounding surface.

Oh with what agony we saw the topsails bulge out, and the barque’s head turn from us! We simultaneously shouted, or rather shrieked out in our eagerness. It was of no avail. We strove to drive the raft on faster than before. What could our utmost efforts accomplish in overtaking a ship, her sails filled even with the light air then blowing? No longer were cat’s-paws playing on the surface of the sea, but a well-defined ripple, almost small waves, were covering every part of it; and, as we worked our way among them, they washed around our feet. Every sail on board the barque began to draw; she had got steerage way, and was standing from us. We were not seen; and hope, which had hitherto sustained us, fled. Our hearts sunk, and scarcely could we longer ply our useless paddles.

“Andrew, what say you to this?” asked Terence at length.

“Persevere to the last, like men,” replied Andrew. “We may have to return to the iceberg; but even then we must not lose courage, or our trust in Providence.”

Just then the sun rose from his watery bed with glorious refulgence in an unclouded sky. I looked back, to judge how far we had got from the iceberg. Truly if it had appeared beautiful when we were on it, doubly so it did appear now, glittering in the beams of the sun; some parts of alabaster whiteness, and the rest tinged with hues of gold and pink and most transparent blue. It was an object well calculated to attract the eyes of a stranger.

A cry from my companions made me turn my head. The barque’s sails were shivering, as she luffed up to the wind. Directly after a boat was seen to be lowered, and quickly being manned, it pulled towards us. Then indeed our hearts rose to our bosoms, and we shouted with joy. Poor Tom, from the great revulsion of feeling, was nearly fainting and falling off the raft, had we not supported him. Still we paddled on, and the boat seemed to fly towards us. She was quite close to us, when, in our joy we waved our paddles above our heads, and gave way to another shout.

“Hillo, who have we here?” exclaimed a voice from the boat. “What, mates, we didn’t see you!”

Such was the case; they had seen our signal, but had overlooked us. The surgeon of the ship, never having before seen an iceberg, was gazing at it with his glass, and was the first to remark our handkerchiefs; and not being able to make out what they were, he had directed to them the captain’s attention. He was in the boat, and assisted to help us off our raft.

Once on board and safe, the strength which had hitherto supported us, gave way, and we sunk down to the bottom of the boat, overpowered with various emotions. I trust and believe that we were all of us grateful to Heaven for our wonderful preservation.

The boat towed our raft alongside, as it was too valuable for firewood to be lost. We were hoisted on board, unable to help ourselves, and were received by the master, officers, and crew with the greatest kindness and attention. The surgeon ordered us at once to be put into warm hammocks, while some warm liquid was poured down our throats, which soon restored us. However, no one questioned us about our adventures till we were more completely recovered.

Two events occurred which ought to have increased, if they did not, our sense of gratitude for our preservation. Scarcely had our feet touched the deck of the barque than a strong breeze sprang up, which sent her at the rate of some seven knots an hour through the water, far away from the iceberg. Before, however, she had run out of sight of that floating island, its glittering summits were seen to lean forward, and, with a sound which could be heard at that distance, to fall prostrate in the water, while the waves created by its submersion reached so far as perceptibly to lift the ship as they passed. Thus was I, with my companions, preserved from the most awful and perilous position in which I was ever placed.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The vessel on board which we so happily found ourselves was called The Shetland Maid,—her master, Captain John Rendall. She measured three hundred and fifty tons, was barque-rigged, and perfectly fitted as a whaler, being also strengthened by every means which science could devise, to enable her to resist the pressure of the ice to which such vessels must inevitably be exposed in their progress through the arctic seas. She had forty-two souls on board, including officers, being some few short of her complement, as two fell sick in Orkney before leaving, and two were unhappily lost overboard in a furious gale she encountered soon after sailing.

Andrew, Terence, and I remained two days below under the doctor’s care, and by the third had completely recovered our usual strength. Tom Stokes, who had suffered most, and was not naturally so strong, took a week before he came round.

As soon as we appeared on deck, the captain called us aft, and desired to know our adventures. Andrew was the spokesman, and the captain expressed himself much pleased with our messmate’s mode of narrating them.

“Well, my men,” he said, “I have lost some of my crew, and I suppose you’ll have no objection to entering regularly for the voyage in their place. You’ll share with the other able seamen eighteenpence for each tun of oil, you know, besides monthly wages.”

We told him that we should be glad to enter, and would sign articles when he pleased; and that we would answer for Tom Stokes, that he would do the same.

Behold me at last, then, as I have styled myself, Peter The Whaler. We were now standing to the northward, and rapidly approaching the ice. Before, however, I proceed with an account of my adventures, I will describe the ship, her officers and crew, and the peculiar arrangements made to fit her for the service in which she was employed.

Captain Rendall was a well-educated, intelligent, brave, and, I feel sure, a truly religious man. I may say, without more than justice, that he was the father of his crew. His father had been in the same service before him for many years; and he had the advantage of his experience, to which he added the knowledge he himself had gained. I do not give him as a specimen of the masters of all whalers, for I fear there are few like him, though they must of necessity be intelligent and superior men. There were three mates. The chief mate, Mr Todd, was also chief harpooner or specksioneer. Then there were the other harpooners, boat-steerers, line-managers, and coopers, beside foremast-men, landsmen, and apprentices.

It is not the custom to pay simply monthly wages; but, as an inducement to all hands to exert themselves in their several capacities in capturing fish, they receive a gratuity for every size fish caught during the voyage, or a certain sum for every tun of oil which the cargo produces. The master gets scarcely any pay if he has no success in his voyage; but for every whale killed he gets three guineas, from ten to twenty shillings for each tun of oil, and a thirtieth to a twentieth on the value of the cargo; so that he may make as much as five hundred pounds by a single voyage. The chief mate may get nearly a hundred, and the seamen twenty-five pounds each. Many of the ships belong to Hull and other northern ports of England and Scotland; but it is usual to touch at the Orkneys or Shetland, to complete the complement of the crew with the hardy islanders who inhabit them.

A whaler, in order to withstand the shock of the ice, is strengthened inside, both at the stem and stern, by stout timbers placed in various directions, and fastened securely together; while on the outside she is in parts covered with a double, and even a treble planking, besides other thick pieces, which serve to ward off the blows from the parts most likely to receive them. How little all the strengthening which the art and ingenuity of man can devise is of avail against the mighty power of the ice, I shall have hereafter to describe. The masts of a whaler are lower than in a common merchantman, and her sails are smaller, and cut in a different shape, the courses or lower sails decreasing towards the foot, so as to be worked with slight strength. Sometimes this is of importance, as, when all the boats are away together in chase of whales, three or four men alone remain on board to take care of the ship.

A whale-ship, therefore, though she has great care and expense bestowed on her, has not, in port, the graceful and elegant appearance possessed by some other ships, bound to more genial climes. The crew do not sleep in hammocks, as on board men-of-war, but in berths or standing bed-places, erected on the half-deck forward. It is a dark retreat, and not scented with sweet odours, especially after a ship has begun to take in her cargo; but the weary seaman cares little where he lays his head, provided it is in a dry and warm place.

We next come to the boats—a very important part of the outfit. The bow and stern of a whale-boat are both sharp, rise considerably, and are nearly alike. It has great beam, or breadth, to prevent its being dragged, when towed by a whale, completely under the water. The keel is convex in the centre, to enable it to be turned more easily; and for the same reason it is steered by an oar instead of a rudder. The oar can also turn a boat when she is at rest, and can scull her in calm weather up to a whale without noise. A large-size boat is pulled by five oars, and one to steer, and a small one by four oars; the first being from twenty-six to twenty-eight feet long, and the last from twenty-three to twenty-four. A large one is five feet five inches in breadth; and a small one five feet three inches.

The rowers include the harpooner and the line-manager. They are carvel-built—that is, the planks are placed as in a ship. Boats in general are clinker-built—that is, the planks overlap each other; but as they are difficult to repair, the other simpler method is employed. A ship generally carries seven boats—two or more large, and the rest small. They are suspended by cranes, or davits, in a row outside the rigging, on either side of the ship, and another astern, so that they can be directly lowered into the water. A smart crew will man and lower a boat in the space of a minute, and be away in chase of a whale.

When we got on board, the boats’ crews were busily employed in getting their respective boats and gear ready for action. Each boat had a harpooner, who pulled the bow oar, a steersman, next to him in rank, who steered, and a line-manager, who pulled the after or stroke oar; and besides them were two or three seamen who pulled the other oars.

The first operation, after cleansing the boats, was to get the lines spliced and coiled away; and when it is remembered that each whale may be worth from five hundred to eight hundred pounds, and that, if the lines are in any way damaged, the fish may be lost, it will be acknowledged that they have good reason to be careful. Each line is about one hundred and twenty fathoms long; so that when the six lines, with which each boat is supplied, are spliced together, the united length is seven hundred and twenty fathoms, or four thousand three hundred and twenty feet.

A few fathoms of the line is left uncovered, with an eye at the end, in order to connect the lines of another boat to it; for sometimes, when a whale swims far, or dives deep, the lines of several boats are joined together. The rest of the line is neatly and carefully coiled away in the stern of the boat.

To the upper end of the line is spliced the “fore-ganger” of a “spanned harpoon,” thus connecting the harpoon with all the lines in the boat. A “fore-ganger” is a piece of rope a few fathoms long, made of white or untanned hemp, so as to be more flexible and easily extended when the harpoon is projected from the hand.

As the crew of each boat accomplished the work of coiling away their lines, they gave three hearty cheers, to which we all responded; so we had as much cheering as at a sailing match.

I must try to describe a harpoon, for the benefit of those who have never seen one. It is the whaler’s especial weapon—the important instrument of his success. It consists of a “socket,” “shank,” and “mouth.” The shank, which is made of the most pliable iron, is about two feet long; the socket is about six inches long, and swells from the shank to nearly two inches in diameter; and the mouth is of a barbed shape, each barb or wither being eight inches long and six broad, with a smaller barb reversed in the inside. The object of the barb, of course, is to prevent the harpoon being drawn out of the whale after it has been fixed.

The hand harpoon is projected by aid of a stock or handle of wood, seven feet in length, fixed in the socket. After the whale is struck, this handle falls out; but it is not lost, as it is secured to the line by a loop. The line, it must be remembered, is fastened to the iron part of the harpoon.

Harpoon-guns are now frequently used for projecting harpoons. The harpoon for this purpose is made with two shanks, side by side, one of which goes into the bore of the gun; to the other on the outside the line is attached.

On every harpoon is stamped the name of the ship, so that it is at once easy to ascertain, from the weapon in the whale, by whom it was struck. Lances are also used, with long handles and sharp heads, to assist in killing the whale.

Each boat is furnished with two harpoons, eight lances, and some spare oars; a flag, with its staff, to serve as a signal; a “mik,” as a rest for the harpoon, when ready for instant service; an axe, ready for cutting the line when necessary; a “pigging,” a small bucket for baling out the boat; two boat-hooks, and many other things which I need scarcely name.

A most important contrivance belonging to a whaler is the crow’s-nest, which I may describe as a sentry-box at the mast-head. It is, perhaps, more like a deep tub, formed of laths and canvas, with a seat in it, and a movable screen, which traverses on an iron rod, so that it can instantly be brought round on the weather side. In the bottom is a trap-door, by which it is entered. Here the master takes up his post, to pilot his ship among the ice; and here, also, a look-out is kept, when whales are expected to appear in the distance.

Just consider how necessary it is to have a good shelter, when frequently the temperature of the air is from 10 degrees to 20 degrees below the freezing-point.

I must not forget to mention the means taken for preserving the cargo of blubber. This is done in casks, in which the blubber is placed after it has been cut up into very small portions. The casks are stowed in the hold, and some are placed between decks; and when there has been unusual success, so that there are not casks enough, the blubber is stowed away in bulk among them.

The mode of fishing, and the remainder of the operations, will be described in the course of my narrative.

In three more days we were all ready. The harpoon-guns were cleaned, oiled, and fastened, with their swivels, on the “billet-heads,” in the bows of the boats. Each harpooner got a supply of gunpowder and percussion-caps; and all other requisites were put into the boats.

The crow’s-nest had been got up to the main-topgallant mast-head; and in the afternoon we were ready, and eager to attack the first whale which should appear. In the evening the harpooners were invited down into the cabin, to receive their instructions for the season; and afterwards the steward served out a glass of grog to all hands, to drink “a good voyage and a full ship.”

I had fully expected to see whales in such numbers, that we should have nothing to do but to chase and capture them; but in this I was disappointed, for not a whale did we meet; indeed, with the heavy sea then running, had we got hold of one, we could not have secured it. It was, I ought to say, towards the end of April, and we were in hourly expectation of being among the ice, through which, at that time of the year, it was expected a passage would easily be found to the northward.

We had seen several icebergs, which like their companion on which the corvette was wrecked, had early broken away from the main body, as also washing pieces and several large floes; but we had yet to learn what a field of ice was like.

It was night, and blowing very hard from the south-west. It was my watch on deck, and Mr Todd, the first mate, was officer of the watch. We were standing on a bowline under our topsails, a sharp look-out being kept ahead for danger. O’Connor and I were together, leaning against the bulwarks and talking. “Well, Terence,” I said, “I would rather find myself homeward bound, after all that has occurred, than be obliged to be running into a sea in which we shall all the time be obliged to be cruising among ice.”

“Oh, I don’t consider much of that,” he answered. “It’s only a summer cruise, you know; and when we get back, we shall have our pockets stuffed with gold, and be able to talk of all the wonders we have seen.”

“I hope we may get back. I have no fancy to spend a winter on the ice,” I said.

“There are pleasanter places to live in, no doubt, Peter; but people have lived not only one year, but several years running in those regions, and have not been the worse for it,” replied Terence.

Just then we were startled by the loud cry of “Breakers ahead!” Mr Todd in a moment saw what was to be done. “Wear ship!” he exclaimed. “Up with the helm. Gaff-topsail-sheets let fly. Drop the peak. Square away the after-yards.”

While these and other orders were given and executed, in order to take the pressure of the wind off the after part of the ship, and to make her head turn from it, I glanced in the direction towards which we were running. A pale light seemed to be playing over it; and I could distinguish, amid the foaming breakers, huge masses of ice dashing about and heaving one upon another, any one of which, I thought, would be sufficient to stave in the sides of the ship, if not to overwhelm her completely.

At the same time a loud, crashing, grinding noise was heard, sufficient to strike terror into the stoutest hearts. But it must be remembered that we were all so busily engaged in flying here and there in the performance of our duty, that we had no time for fear. This is a great secret to enable men to go through dangers unappalled. Had we been compelled to stand inactive, our feelings might have been very different.

The ship wore slowly round; but still she seemed approaching the threatening mass. She plunged more violently than before amid the raging sea, and in another moment I felt certain we must be among the upheaving masses. Just then her head seemed to turn from them; but a sea struck her on the quarter and came rolling on board; a tremendous blow was felt forward, another followed. Cries arose from some of the men that all was lost, and I expected to find the ship instantly dashed to pieces.

Our good captain rushed on deck. He cast one glance aloft, and another at the ice. “She’s clear, my lads,” he shouted. The ship came round, and in another instant we were on the eastern or lee side of the floe, and gliding smoothly on in calm water through a broad passage, leading amid the main body of the polar ice.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Our ship made good progress, considering the impediments in her way, towards the fishing grounds in the north, to which she was bound. Sometimes we had a clear sea; at other times we were sailing among patches of ice and icebergs, or through lanes penetrating into packs of many miles in extent, and from which it seemed impossible we should ever again be extricated. Our captain, or one of his mates, was always at this time in the crow’s-nest, directing the course of the ship amid the dangers which surrounded her.

I shall not soon forget the first day of May, which I spent in the icy sea. It was as unlike May-day at home as any day could well be as far as the temperature went, though we were sailing through a sea tolerably free from ice.

“All play to-day and no work, my boy, for we are going to have a visit from a king and queen,” said an old whaler, David McGee by name, as he gave me a slap on the shoulder which would have warmed up my blood not a little, if anything could in that biting weather.

“He must be King Frost, then,” I answered, laughing; “for we have plenty of his subjects around us already.”

“No; I mean a regular-built king,” said old McGee, winking at some of his chums standing around, who had made many a voyage before. “He boards every ship as comes into these parts, to ask them for tribute; and then he makes them free of the country, and welcome to come back as often as they like.”

“Thank him for nothing for that same,” I answered, determined not to be quizzed by them. “But don’t suppose, David, I’m so jolly green as to believe what you’re telling me; no offence to you, though.”

“You’ll see, youngster, that what I say is true; so look out for him,” was old McGee’s answer, as he turned on his heel.

I had observed that for a few days past the old hands were busy about some work, which they kept concealed from the youngsters, or the green hands, to which class I belonged. Everything went on as usual till eight bells had been struck at noon, when an immense garland, formed of ribbons of all colours, bits of calico, bunting, and artificial flowers, or what were intended for them, was run up at the mizzen-peak. On the top of the garland was the model of a ship, full-rigged, with sails set and colours flying. Scarcely had it gone aloft, when I was startled by a loud bellowing sound, which seemed to come from a piece of ice floating ahead of the ship.

“What’s that?” I asked of old David, who persevered in keeping close to me all the morning. “Is that a walrus blowing?” I thought it might be, for I could not make it out.

“A walrus! no, I should think not,” he answered, in an indignant tone. “My lad, that’s King Neptune’s trumpeter, come to give notice that the old boy’s coming aboard us directly. I’ve heard him scores of times; so I’m not likely to be wrong.”

The answer I gave my shipmate was not very polite. One never likes to be quizzed; and I, of course, thought he was quizzing me.

“You’ll see, lad,” he answered, giving me no gentle tap on the head, in return for my remark. “I’m not one to impose on a bright green youth like you.”

Again the bellow was heard. “That’s not a bit like the sound of a trumpet,” I remarked.

“Not like your shore-going trumpets, maybe,” said old David, with a grin. “But don’t you know, youngster, the water gets into these trumpets, and makes them sound different?”

A third bellow was followed by a loud hail, in a gruff, voice, “What ship is that, ahoy?”

Old David ran forward, and answered, “The Shetland Maid, Captain Rendall, of Hull.”

“Heave to, while I come aboard, then; for you’ve got some green hands among you, I’m pretty sure, by the way your gaff-topsail stands.”

“Ay, ay, your majesty. Down with your helm—back the main-topsail,” sung out old David, with as much authority as if he was captain of the ship.

His orders were not obeyed; for before they were so, the gruff voice sung out, “Hold fast!” and a very curious group made their appearance over the bows, and stepped down on deck.

I was not left long in doubt as to whether or not there was anything supernatural about them. “There,” exclaimed David, pointing with great satisfaction at them, “that big one, with the thing on his head which looks for all the world like a tin kettle, is King Neptune, and the thing is his helmet. T’other, with the crown and the necklace of spikes under her chin, is Mrs Neptune, his lawful wife; and the little chap with the big razor and shaving-dish is his wally-de-sham and trumpeter extraordinary. He’s plenty more people belonging to him, but they haven’t come on board this time.”

Neptune’s costume was certainly not what my father’s school-books had taught me to expect his majesty to wear, and I had always supposed his wife to be Amphitrite; but I concluded that in those cold regions he found it convenient to alter his dress, while it might be expected the seamen should make some slight mistake about names.

Neptune himself had very large whiskers, and a red nightcap showed under his helmet. In one hand he held a speaking-trumpet, in the other a trident surmounted by a red herring. A piece of canvas, covered with bits of coloured cloth, made him a superb cloak, and a flag wound round his waist served him as a scarf. A huge pair of sea-boots encased his feet, and a pair of sealskin trousers the upper part of his legs. Mrs Neptune, to show her feminine nature, had a frill round her face, a canvas petticoat, and what looked very like a pair of Flushing trousers round her neck, with the legs brought in front to serve as a tippet. The valet had on a paper cocked-hat, a long pig-tail, and a pair of spectacles on a nose of unusual proportions. I had read descriptions of Tritons, the supposed attendants on Neptune, and I must say his valet was very unlike one. I might have been prejudiced, for I had no reason to feel any warm affection for him.

“Come here, youngster, and make your bow to King Neptune,” exclaimed David, seizing me; and, with number of other green hands, I was dragged forward and obliged to bob my head several times to the deck before his marine majesty.

“Take ’em below. I’ll speak to ’em when I wants ’em,” said the king in his gruff voice. And forthwith we were hauled off together, and shut down in the cable tier.

One by one we were picked out, just as the ogre Fi-fo-fum in the story-book picked out his prisoners to eat them. There was a considerable noise of shouting and laughing and thumping on the decks, all of which I understood when it came to my turn.

After three others had disappeared, I was dragged out of our dark prison and brought into the presence of Neptune, who was seated on a throne composed of a coil of ropes, with his court, a very motley assemblage, arranged round him. In front of him his valet sat on a bucket with two assistants on either side, who, the moment I appeared, jumped up and pinioned my arms, and made me sit down on another bucket in front of their chief.

“Now, young ’un, you haven’t got a beard, but you may have one some day or other, so it’s as well to begin to shave in time,” exclaimed Neptune, nodding his head significantly to his valet.

The valet on this jumping up, seized my head between his knees, and began, in spite of my struggles, covering my face with tar. If I attempted to cry out, the tar-brush was instantly shoved into my mouth, to the great amusement of all hands. When he had done what he called lathering my face, he began to scrape it unmercifully with his notched iron hoop; and if I struggled, he would saw it backwards and forwards over my face.

When this process had continued for some time, Neptune offered me a box of infallible ointment, to cure all the diseases of life. It was a lump of grease; and his valet, seizing it, rubbed my face all over with it. He then scrubbed me with a handful of oakum, which effectually took off the tar. Being now pronounced shaved and clean, to my great horror Mrs Neptune cried out in a voice so gruff, that one might have supposed she had attempted to swallow the best-bower anchor, and that it had stuck in her throat, “Now my pretty Master Green, let me give you a buss, to welcome you to the Polar Seas. Don’t be coy now, and run off.”

This I was attempting to do, and with good reason, for Mrs Neptune’s cap-frill was stuck so full of iron spikes, that I should have had a good chance of having my eyes put out if she had succeeded in her intentions; so off I set, running round the deck, to the great amusement of the crew, with Mrs Neptune after me. Luckily for me she tripped up, and I was declared duly initiated as a North Sea whaler. The rest of my young shipmates had to undergo the same process; and as it was now my turn to look on and laugh, I thought it very good fun, and heartily joined in the shouts to which the rest gave way.

If any one got angry, he was soon made to cut so ridiculous a figure, and to feel his perfect helplessness, that he was compelled, for his own sake, to get back his good-humour again without delay. We had an additional allowance of grog served out, and what with dancing and singing, the fun was kept up till long after dark.

I need scarcely say that the representative of his marine majesty was no less a person than the red-whiskered cooper’s mate, that his spouse was our boatswain, and the valet his mate. I had often heard of a similar ceremony being practised on crossing the line, but I had no idea that it was general on board all whale ships.

The fourth day of the month was a memorable one for me and the other green hands on board. The wind was from the westward, and we were sailing along to the eastward of a piece of ice, about two miles distant, the water as smooth as in a harbour. Daylight had just broke, but the watch below were still in their berths. The sky was cloudy, though the lower atmosphere was clear; and Andrew, who was walking the deck with me, observed it was first-rate weather for fishing, if fish would but show themselves.

Not ten minutes after this, the first mate, who had gone aloft into the crow’s-nest to take a look-out round, eagerly shouted, “A fish! a fish! See, she spouts!” and down on deck he hurried with all despatch.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the crews of two boats had jumped into them, and were lowering them down, with their harpoons, lances, and everything else ready, not forgetting some provisions, for it was impossible to say how long they might be away. The chief mate jumped into one, and the second harpooner into the other, in which my friend Andrew went as line-manager.

Away they pulled. I looked over the side, and saw the whale a mile off, floating, thoughtless of danger, on the surface of the ocean, and spouting out a fountain of water high into the air. I fancied that I could even hear the deep “roust” she made as she respired the air, without which she cannot exist any more than animals of the land or air. Every one on deck follows the boats with eager eyes. The boat makes a circuit, so as to approach the monster in the rear; for if he sees them, he will be off far down into the ocean, and may not rise for a long distance away. With rapid strokes they pull on, but as noiselessly as possible. The headmost boat is within ten fathoms of the fish—I am sure it will be ours. The harpooner stands up in the bows with harpoon in hand. Suddenly, with tail in air, down dives the monster; and the faces of all around me assume an expression of black disappointment. It must be remembered that, as all on board benefit by every fish which is caught, all are interested in the capture of one.

“It’s a loose fall, after all,” said old David, who was near me. “I thought so. I shouldn’t be surprised if we went home with a clean ship after all.”

However, the boats did not return. Mr Todd was not a man to lose a chance. Far too experienced ever to take his eye off a fish while it is in sight, he marks the way she headed, and is off after her to the eastward. With his strong arm he bends to the oar, and urges his men to put forth all their strength, till the boat seems truly to fly over the water. On they steadily pull, neither turning to the right hand nor to the left for nearly half-an-hour. Were it not for the ice, their toil would be useless; but the boat-steerer looks out, and points eagerly ahead.

On they pull. Then on a sudden appears the mighty monster. She has risen to the surface to breathe, a “fair start” from the boat. The harpooner stands up, with his unerring weapon in his hand: when was it ever known to miss its aim? The new-fangled gun he disdains. A few strong and steady strokes, and the boat is close to the whale. The harpoon is launched from his hank, and sinks deep into the oily flesh.

The boat is enveloped in a cloud of spray—the whole sea around is one mass of foam. Has the monster struck her, and hurled her gallant crew to destruction? No; drawn rapidly along, her broad bow ploughing up the sea, the boat is seen to emerge from the mist with a jack flying as a signal that she is fast, while the mighty fish is diving far below it, in a vain effort to escape.

Now arose from the mouth of every seaman on deck the joyful cry of “A fall, a fall!” at the same time that every one jumped and stamped on deck, to arouse the sleepers below to hasten to the assistance of their comrades. We all then rushed to the boat-falls.

Never, apparently, were a set of men in such a desperate hurry. Had the ship been sinking, or even about to blow up, we could scarcely have made more haste.

The falls were let go, and the boats in the water, as the watch below rushed on deck. Many of the people were dressed only in their drawers, stockings, and shirts, while the rest of their clothes were in their hands, fastened together by a lanyard; but without stopping to put them on, they tumbled into the boats, and seized their oars ready to shove off. Among them, pale with terror, appeared poor Tom Stokes and another youngster in their shirts. They hurried distractedly from boat to boat. At each they were saluted by, “We don’t want you here, lads. Off with you—this isn’t your boat.”

I belonged to the after or smallest boat, which was most quickly manned, and most easily shoved off; so that I was already at a distance when he ran aft and saw me going. “O Peter, Peter!” he exclaimed in a tone to excite our commiseration, though I am sorry to say it only caused loud shouts of laughter, “you who have gone through so many dangers with me, to desert me at last in a sinking ship!”

Poor fellow, aroused out of a deep sleep by the unusual sounds, he not unnaturally thought the ship was going down. I heard the gruff voice of the cooper’s mate scolding him; but what he said I don’t know. The scolding must have brought him and the other back to their senses; and they of course went below to get their clothes, and to return to assist in working the ship. On such occasions, when all the boats are away, the ship is frequently left with only the master, one or two seamen, and the rest landsmen on board.

The moment the fast-boat displayed her jack, up went the jack on board the ship at the mizzen-peak, to show that assistance was coming. Away pulled the five boats as fast as we could lay back to our oars. The whale had dived to an immense depth, and the second boat had fastened her line to that of the first, and had consequently now become the fast-boat; but her progress was not so rapid but that we had every prospect of overtaking her. To retard the progress of the whale, and to weary it as much as possible, the line had been passed round the “bollard,” a piece of timber near the stern of the boat. We knew that the first boat wanted more line by seeing an oar elevated, and then a second, when the second boat pulled rapidly up to her. The language of signs for such work is very necessary, and every whaler comprehends them.

We now came up and arranged ourselves on either side of the fast-boat, a little ahead, and at some distance, so as to be ready to pull in directly the whale should reappear at the surface. Away we all went, every nerve strained to the utmost, excitement and eagerness on every countenance, the water bubbling and hissing round the bows of the boats, as we clove our way onward.

“Hurra, boys! see, she rises!” was the general shout. Up came the whale, more suddenly than we expected. A general dash was made at her by all the boats. “’Stern for your lives; ’stern of all!” cried some of the more experienced harpooners. “See, she’s in a flurry.”

First the monster flapped the water violently with its fins; then its tail was elevated aloft, lashing the ocean around into a mass of foam. This was not its death-flurry; for, gaining strength before any more harpoons or lances could be struck into it, away it went again, heading towards the ice. Its course was now clearly discerned by a small whirling eddy, which showed that it was at no great distance under the surface, while in its wake was seen a thin line of oil and blood, which had exuded from its wound.

Wearied, however, by its exertions and its former deep dive, it was again obliged to come to the surface to breathe. Again the eager boats dashed in, almost running on its back, and from every side it was plied with lances, while another harpoon was driven deeply into it, to make it doubly secure. Our boat was the most incautious, for we were right over the tail of the whale. The chief harpooner warned us—“Back, my lads; back of all,” he shouted out, his own boat pulling away. “Now she’s in her death-flurry truly.”

The words were not out of his mouth when I saw our harpooner leap from the boat, and swim as fast as he could towards one of the others. I was thinking of following his example, knowing he had good reasons for it, for I had seen the fins of the animal flap furiously, and which had warned him, when a violent blow, which I fancied must have not only dashed the boat to pieces, but have broken every bone in our bodies, was struck on the keel of the boat.

Up flew the boat in the air, some six or eight feet at least, with the remaining crew in her. Then down we came, one flying on one side, one on the other, but none of us hurt even, all spluttering and striking out together; while the boat came down keel uppermost, not much the worse either. Fortunately we all got clear of the furious blows the monster continued dealing with its tail.

“Never saw a whale in such a flurry,” said old David, into whose boat I was taken. For upwards of two minutes the flurry continued, we all the while looking on, and no one daring to approach it; at the same time a spout of blood and mucus and oil ascended into the air from its blow-holes, and sprinkled us all over.

“Hurra, my lads, she spouts blood!” we shouted out to each other, though we all saw and felt it plain enough. There was a last lash of that tail, now faint and scarce rising above the water, but which, a few minutes ago, would have sent every boat round it flying into splinters. Then all was quiet. The mighty mass, now almost inanimate, turned slowly round upon its side, and then it floated belly up and dead.

Our triumph was complete. Loud shouts rent the air. “Hurra, my lads, hurra! we’ve killed our first fish well,” shouted the excited chief mate, who had likewise had the honour of being the first to strike the first fish. “She’s above eleven feet if she’s an inch,” (speaking of the length of the longest lamina of whalebone); “she’ll prove a good prize, that she will.” He was right. I believe that one fish filled forty-seven butts with blubber—enough, in days of yore, I have heard, to have repaid the whole expense of the voyage.

Our ship was some way to leeward; and as the wind was light, she could not work up to us, so we had to tow the prize down to her. Our first operation was to free it from the lines. This was done by first lashing the tail, by means of holes cut through it, to the bows of a boat, and then two boats swept round it, each with the end of a line, the centre of which was allowed to sink under the fish. As the lines hung down perpendicularly, they were thus brought up and cut as close as possible down to the harpoons, which were left sticking in the back of the fish. Meantime the men of the other boats were engaged in lashing the fins together across the belly of the whale. This being done, we all formed in line, towing the fish by the tail; and never have I heard or given a more joyous shout than ours, as we pulled cheerily away, at the rate of a mile an hour, towards the ship with our first fish.

Chapter Twenty Five.

A cookery-book, in the possession of my good mother, advises one to catch one’s hare before cooking it. On the same principle I deferred describing how a whale is disposed of till I had seen one caught; for I have heard that it is possible for a ship to return clean, or without having caught a single whale; and this might possibly, I feared, be our case. Every one on board, from the captain downwards, was now in good spirits.

We had got a fish; but it was necessary to secure it carefully alongside, lest it might sink even there, and be lost after all our trouble—such misfortunes having occurred to careless fishers. The first thing we did was to secure at the stern of the ship, on the larboard side, a tackle, which is called a nose tackle, from its being fastened to the nose or head of the fish. A tail tackle was secured to the tail of the fish, and this was brought on board at the fore-chains. Thus the head of the fish was towards the stern of the ship, and the tail towards the bows, the body being extended as much as possible. The right side fin, which was next the ship (it being remembered that the whale was on its back), was then lashed upwards towards the gunwale.

To “cant” or “kent,” in nautical phraseology, is to turn over or on one side. The tackle, therefore, composed of many turns of ropes and blocks, which turns the whale over as the blubber is cut off, is called the “kent purchase” or tackle. One part was fastened to the neck of the whale, or rather the part of the body next the head—for a whale, even in courtesy, cannot be said to have a neck—and the other was tied to the head of the main-mast, the fall being passed round the windlass. The neck, or rather the part which would be the neck if it had one, is called the “kent.”

From the size of the whale, it was impossible to lift it more than one-fifth part out of the water; and this was only done after heaving away at the windlass. Till this operation was performed, not one of us had rested from our labours.

“Knock off, my lads, and turn-to to breakfast,” sung out the master in a cheerful tone. The order was obeyed with right good-will; and perhaps never did a more hungry crew of fishermen sit down to a more jovial meal. Breakfast was soon over, and, strengthened and refreshed, we prepared to turn-to at our task.

On going on deck again, I found that our booty had attracted round us many birds and fish of all descriptions, ready to prey on what we should leave. There were fulmars in thousands, eager to pounce down upon the morsels which they knew would be their share. They were of a dirty grey colour, with white breasts and strong crooked bills, formed to tear flesh easily, and able to give a very severe bite. Then there were numbers of the arctic gull, who may be considered the pirate of the icy regions, as he robs most other birds, not only of their prey, but of their eggs and young. The sea-swallow, or great tern, however, like an armed ship of size, bravely defends himself, and often beats off his antagonist; while the burgomaster a large and powerful bird, may be looked upon as a ship of war, before whom even the sea-swallow flies away, or is compelled to deliver up his prize. There were a few also of the ivory gull, a beautiful bird of immaculate whiteness. They are so timid that they dare not rest on the whale, but fly down, and while fluttering over it, tear off small bits, and are off again before the dreaded burgomaster can come near them.

But now to our prize. First, the harpooners secured to their feet what we called spurs, that is, spikes of iron, to prevent them from slipping off the back of the whale, on which they now descended. I and three other youngsters were meantime ordered to get into two of the boats, into which were thrown the blubber-knives and spades, bone-knives, and other instruments used in the operation in which they were about to engage.

Our duty was to keep alongside the whale, to hand them what they required, and to pick any one up who should by chance fall into the water. The specksioneer, or chief harpooner, took post in the centre of the rest to direct them. The fat is, as it were, a casing on the outside of the whale, so that it can easily be got at. With their blubber-knives the men then cut it into oblong pieces, just as a fish is cut across at table; and with their spades they lifted it from the flesh and bones, performing the same work on a larger scale that the fish-knife does. To the end thus first lifted a strap and tackle is fastened, called the “speck-tackle,” by which those on deck haul it up. This operation is called “flensing.”

As the huge mass is turned round and round by the kent-tackle, the harpooners continue cutting off the slips, till the whole coat of fat is removed. The fins and tail are also cut off; and, lastly, the whale-bone is cut out of the mouth. The whale-bone is placed in two rows in the mouth, and is used instead of teeth, to masticate the food, and to catch the minute animals floating in the water on which it feeds. Each side of bone consists of upwards of three hundred laminae, the interior edges of which are covered with a fringe of hair. Ten or twelve feet is the average size. In young whales, called “suckers,” it is only a few inches long. When it is above six feet, the whale is said to be of size, a term I have before used.

The tongue of the whale is very large; it has a beard, and a very narrow throat. While I was handing a blubber-spade to old David, as I looked over the side of the boat, I saw a pair of bright green eyes glancing up at me with such a knowing, wicked look, that I drew back with a shudder, thinking it was some uncommon monster of the deep, who was watching for an opportunity to carry one of us off.

“What is it now, youngster? Have you bit your nose?” asked David, laughing.

“No,” I replied breathlessly. “Look there—what is that?” I pointed out the eyes, which were still glaring up at me.

“That—why that, my green lad, is only a blind shark. Have not you ever seen one of them before?”

“Only a shark!” I exclaimed with horror, remembering all I had heard about sharks. “Won’t he eat one?”

“No, not he; but just run a boat-hook into him, and try and drive him away, for he’s drawing five shillings’ worth of oil out of the fish every mouthful he takes, the glutton,” said David.

I did as I was desired; but though the point ran right into his body, he only shifted his post a little, and made a fresh attack directly under the stern of the boat. I again wounded him; but he was either so engaged with gorging himself, or so insensible to pain, that he continued with his nose against the side of the whale, eating away as before.

I afterwards learned that this Greenland shark is not really blind, though the sailors think so because it shows no fear at the sight of man. The pupil of the eye is emerald green; the rest of it is blue, with a white worm-shaped substance on the outside. This one was upwards of ten feet in length, and in form like a dog-fish. It is a great foe to the whale, biting and annoying him even when alive; and by means of its peculiarly-shaped mouth and teeth it can scoop out of its body pieces as large as a man’s head.

But the most persevering visitors during the operation of flensing were the sailors’ little friends the Mollies. The moment the fish was struck they had begun to assemble, and they were now pecking and tearing away at the flesh with the greatest impudence, even among the men’s long knives. One at last got between David’s legs, which so tried his patience, that he took it up and flung it from him with a hearty shake, abusing it for running the risk of being hurt; just as a cab-driver does a child for getting into the road, without the slightest idea of injuring it. But the Molly would not take the hint, and with the greatest coolness returned to its repast, thinking, probably, that it had as much right to its share as we had to ours.

The Mollies do not evince an amiable disposition towards each other; and as the “krang” (such is the name given to the refuse parts of the whale) is cut off, they were to be seen sitting on the water by thousands tearing at the floating pieces, and when one morsel seemed more tempting than another, driving their weaker brethren away from it, and fighting over it as if the sea was not covered with other bits equally good. All the time the noise they made “poultering” down in the water, and quacking or cackling—I do not know which to call it—was most deafening.

My good friend Andrew pointed them out to me. He never lost an opportunity of giving me a useful lesson. “There,” he said, “that’s the way of the world. We are never content with what we have got, but must fight to gain something else. Now take my advice, Peter. Do your duty as a man; and when you light upon a piece of krang, stick to it, and be thankful that you’ve found it.” I have never since been in a noisy, quarrelsome crowd, that I did not think of the Mollies and the krang.

I must not forget the green-eyed monster which had so startled me. The surgeon had got a hook ready, covered by a piece of blubber; and letting it fall quietly over the stern before its nose, the bait was instantly gorged. To hook a fish of ten feet long, and to get him on board, are two different things; and our good medico was very nearly drawn overboard in a vain attempt to do the latter without assistance, which, just then, all hands on board were too much engaged to afford. The line was very strong, or the shark would have broken it, as now, finding himself hooked, he had sense enough to struggle violently in order to get free.

I must confess that, when I came on deck after the krang had been cast adrift, I was not sorry to see my friend in that condition. After some trouble we got the bight of a rope over his head, and another round his tail, and hoisted him on deck. If a cat has nine lives, a Greenland shark may be said to have ninety. We cut him on the head and tail with hatchets, and knocked out any brains he might have possessed, and still he would not die. At last the surgeon cut him up, and hours after each individual piece seemed to have life remaining in it.

Sometimes when the tackles are removed the carcase of the whale sinks, and the fish at the bottom are alone the better for it; but at other times, as in this case, it floats, and not only the birds and sharks, but the bears find a hearty meal off it. This krang floated away; and afterwards, as I shall have presently to relate, was the source of much amusement. I ought to have said, that while the harpooners were flensing the whale, another division of the crew were employed in receiving it on deck, in pieces of half a ton each, while others cut it into portable pieces of about a foot square; and a third set passed it down a hole in the main hatches to between decks, where it was received by two men, styled kings, who stowed it away in a receptacle called the “flense gut.” Here it remained till there was time for “making off.”

Having now got our prize on board, the owners being probably 500 pounds richer, should we reach home in safety, than they were a few hours before, we set to work to make off the blubber, that is, to stow it away in the casks in the hold. For this purpose we ran out some miles from the ice, in smooth water, and hove to, with just sufficient sail set to steady the ship. While the skee-man—the officer who has charge of the hold—the cooper, and a few others, were breaking out the hold, that is, getting at the ground or lowest tier of casks, we on deck were arranging the speck-trough, and other apparatus required for preparing the blubber.

The speck-trough is an oblong box, with a lid, about twelve feet in length. The lid, when thrown back, forms a chopping-table; and it is covered with bits of whale’s tail from end to end, which, being elastic, though hard, prevents the knives being blunted. In the middle of the trough is a square hole, which is placed over the hatchway; and to the hole is attached a hose or pipe of canvas, leading into the hold, and movable, so as to be placed over the bungs of each cask. A pair of nippers embrace it, so as to stop the blubber from running down when no cask is under.

The krang is the refuse, as I have said, and the men who separate the oily part from it are called “krangers.” The “kings” throw the blubber in rough out of the “flense gut” to the “krangers” on deck; from them it is passed to the harpooners, who are the skinners. After the skin has been sliced off, it is placed on the chopping-block, before which stand in a row the boat-steerers, who with their long knives cut it up into oblong pieces not larger than four inches in diameter, and then push it into the speck-trough.

The line-managers are stationed in the hold, and guide the tube or lull to the casks they desire to fill. Finally, when no more can fall in, piece after piece is jambed in by a pricker, and the cask is bunged up. Sometimes not only are all the casks on board filled, but the blubber is stowed away in bulk in the hold, and even between decks; but this good fortune does not often occur.

It will be seen by any one who has read an account, that the process of preparing the cargo by the whalers in the southern seas is very different. Andrew Thompson had once been in a South Sea whaler, and he told me he never wished to go in another; for a wilder, more mutinous set of fellows it was never his ill-luck, before or since, to meet. This was, of course, owing partly to the captain, who was a rough, uncultivated savage, and totally unfit to gain any moral restraint over his men.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Peter,” said Andrew, as I sat by him in the forecastle that evening, listening to his yarns, “till the masters are properly educated, and know how to behave like officers and gentlemen, the men will be mutinous and ill-conducted. When I say like gentlemen, I don’t mean that they should eat with silver forks off china, drink claret, and use white pocket-handkerchiefs. Those things don’t make the gentleman afloat more than on shore. But what I like to see, is a man who treats his crew with proper gentleness, who looks after their interest in this world and the next, and tries to improve them to the best of his power—who acts, indeed, as a true Christian will act—that man is, I say, a gentleman. I say, put him where you will, ask him to do what you will, he will look and act like a gentleman. Who would dare to say that our good captain is not one? He looks like one, and acts like one, at all times and occasions; and if we had many more like him in the merchant service generally, we should soon have an improvement in the condition of our seamen.

“But I have got adrift from what I was going to tell you about the South Sea whalers. You see, the whales in those seas are generally sperm-whales, with blunt bottle-noses, altogether unlike the fish about here. There is not much difference in the way of killing them, except that one has not to go among the ice for them, in the way we have here, as they are met with in ‘schools’ in the open sea. What we call ‘making-off’ is there called ‘trying-out.’

“You see, on account of the hot climates they have to come through to return home, and partly from the value of the blubber, they have to boil it to get out the oil; and for this object they have to build large stoves or fire-places with brick on deck, between the fore-mast and main hatchway; and above them are three or four large pots. The blubber is then, you see, minced up, and pitched into the pots with long forks. Just fancy what a curious scene there must be while the trying-out is going on at night—the red glare of the fires, and the thick lurid smoke ascending in dense columns round the masts! Any one, not knowing what was going forward, would think, to a certainty, the ship was on fire; and then the stench of the boiling oil, hissing and bubbling in the pots—the suffocating feel of the smoke—the fierce-looking, greasy, unwashed men—I say, those who have been in a South Sea whaler will never wish to go again.”

I told him that I had no wish, after his description, ever to belong to one, though I liked the life, as far as I had seen of it, where I was.

“I have not a word to say against it, mate,” replied Andrew. “But wait a bit till we come to boring and cutting through the ice, in case we are beset, and then you’ll say that there is something like hard work to be done.”

It took us two hours to kill our first whale, and four to flense it. We afterwards performed the last operation in less time, when all hands were more expert.

The next morning we again stood in towards the ice, to see if there was any opening through which we might force the ship, but none appeared. What was curious, we hit the spot to which the krang of the fish we had killed the day before had floated. We saw something moving on the ice, as we approached, besides the clouds of wild-fowl which hovered over it, and on the sea around.

We pointed it out to the second mate. He took his glass, and, putting it to his eye, exclaimed, “There’s a big white bear has just been breakfasting, and has hauled up some of the krang on the ice, to serve him for dinner; but we’ll try what we can do to spoil his sport.”

In accordance with this resolution, he went to the captain and asked leave to take a boat to try and bring back Bruin, dead or alive.

“You may bring him back dead, but alive you’ll never get him into that boat, depend on it,” answered Captain Rendall, laughing. “However, take care he is not too much for you; for those bears are cunning fellows, remember; and I should advise you to take a couple of muskets, and some tough lances.”

“Never fear, sir,” answered the mate, preparing to lower a boat. “I don’t think a boat’s crew need, any day, be afraid of a single bear.”

Volunteers being asked for, Terence and I, old David and Stokes, and three others, jumped into the boat, and pulled off towards where the bear was seated quietly licking his paws after his meal. The mate had a great idea of noosing him; and for this purpose he and David were each armed with a coil of rope, with a bight to throw over his head, like a lasso, while Terence and I were to take charge of the guns. The mate first made us put him on the ice some few hundred yards on one side of the bear, and then we pulled round to the same distance on the other. Each had a lance besides his lasso, and the mate had a pistol in his belt.

In case of extreme necessity, Terence and I were to fire, and then to land and come to their rescue. As soon as the two had landed, they began to move away from the edge, hoping thereby to cut Bruin off should he attempt to escape. He had, however, no inclination to leave his dinner; though, perhaps, had he not already eaten to repletion, he would not have sat so quiet while we approached.

We meantime pulled close up to the krang, among all the ducks and gulls. This Bruin did not mind, but sat still, looking quietly on. Of course I could then easily have shot him; but that was not the mate’s object. All he did was to growl and show his teeth, as if he longed to have us all within his paws. This made us bolder and less cautious, so we got close up to him.

“We are still too far for me to heave the bight over his shoulders,” cried Terence. “Just see if you can’t get hold of his dinner with the boat-hook, and that will bring him nearer.”

I luckily held my gun in my left hand, while with my right, as I sprang on the ice, I attempted to catch hold of the whale’s flesh with the boat-hook. This was too much for the equanimity even of Bruin, and with a loud growl he sprang towards the boat, happily thinking me too insignificant for punishment. I immediately ran off towards the mate; while so great was the impetus which the bear had gained, that he went head-foremost into the water, just catching the gunwale of the boat as the men in her tried to shove off to avoid him.

Terence seized his musket, but it missed fire; and before either of the others could get their lances ready, Bruin had actually scrambled on board. No one can be surprised at their fright, nor that, as the bear came in on one side, they should jump out on the other. They were all good swimmers, so they struck out for the ice, on to which the mate and I hauled them, while Bruin floated away in our boat.

We thought he would have jumped out again, and attacked us: but he seemed perfectly content with his victory, and inclined for a cruise, as he sat, with the greatest composure, examining the different articles in the boat. How long he might have sat there I do not know, had not the mate ordered me to try my skill as a shot. It was a long time since I had had a gun in my hand, and my ambition was roused. I took a steady aim at poor Bruin’s eye, and he sunk down in the bottom of the boat.

The whole occurrence had been seen from the ship by our captain, who despatched a boat to our assistance. We stood meantime, looking very foolish, on the ice; and those who had been in the water shivering not a little with the cold. After the boat had taken us on board, we pulled towards ours, with the bear in it. We half-expected to see him jump up, and, seizing the oars, pull away from us. Terence declared that he knew a man who said that such a thing had once happened, and that the bear, after a chase of many miles, got clean off with the boat; and that next year, about the same latitude, he was seen cruising about by himself, fishing for seals.

However, we got cautiously up to our boat; and there lay Bruin, breathing out his last. By the time we got alongside, he was quite dead. We all, especially the mate, got well laughed at for having had our boat captured by a bear.

“And so, Mr Derrick,” said the captain, “a boat’s crew can possibly be beaten by a bear, I see.”

“They can, sir,” answered the mate; “I own it; but if you’ll remember, you said I should never get that bear into the boat, alive or dead, and I’ve done both.”

“Not that,” replied the captain. “He got himself in, and he got you out; so I don’t see that you’ve fulfilled your promise.”

However, Bruin was hoisted on board, and the mate secured his skin, which was what he wanted. Of course the adventure caused much joking afterwards, and the boat was ever afterwards called “the bear’s boat.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

For several days, during which we captured another whale, we were cruising about, in the hopes of finding a passage through the ice. We were now joined by a squadron of six other ships, all bent on the same object that we were, to find our way across Baffin’s Bay to a spot called Pond’s Bay, which has been found, of late years, to be frequented by a large number of whales.

I have before forgot to mention the great length of the days; indeed, for some time past there had scarcely been any night. Now, for the first time in my life, I saw the sun set and rise at midnight. It was my first watch; and, as eight bells were struck, the sun, floating majestically on the horizon, began again its upward course through the sky. On the other side the whole sky was tinged with a rich pink glow, while the sky above was of a deep clear blue. I could scarcely tear myself from the spectacle, till old David laughed heartily at me for remaining on deck when it was my watch below. Now was the time to push onward, if we could once penetrate the ice. We had worked our way to the east, in the hopes of there finding a passage.

“Land on the starboard bow!” shouted the second mate from the crow’s-nest. Still on we sailed, till we saw it clearly from the deck. Lofty black rocks were peeping out from amid snow-capped heights, and eternal glaciers glittering in the sunbeams. In the foreground were icebergs tinged with many varied hues. Deep valleys appeared running up far inland; and above all, in the distance, were a succession of towering mountain ranges, reaching to the sky. Still on we sailed.

“Well, lad, how long do you think it would take you to pull on shore now?” asked old David.

“Better than half-an-hour, in a whale-boat, with a good crew,” I answered, thinking the distance was about four or five miles.

The old whaler chuckled, in the way he always did when he had got, what he called, the weather-gauge of me.

“Now I tell you it would take you three good hours, with the best crew that ever laid hand on oar, and the fastest boat, too, to get from this ship to that shore.”

“Come now, David, you are passing your jokes off on a greenhorn,” I replied. “Why, if the water was not cold, I don’t think I should find much difficulty in swimming there, when we got a little closer in.”

This answer produced a fresh succession of chuckles. Still on we sailed; and I confess that at the end of an hour we appeared no nearer than before.

“Well, what do you think of it now?” asked old David.

“Why, that there must be a strong current against us, setting off shore,” I answered, wishing to show my knowledge.

He replied that there was no current, and that I was wrong. Another half-hour passed, and still we did not seem to have gained ground.

“What do you think of our being off Cape Flyaway, youngster?” asked David, pretending to be alarmed. “Did you never hear speak of that? The longer you sail after it the farther off it goes, till it takes you right round the world. If that’s it, and I don’t say it isn’t, it will be long enough before we get back to old England again.” Having thus delivered himself, he walked away, to avoid being questioned.

Tom Stokes, who was near me, and, as I have said, was very fond of reading, heard his remark.

“Do you know, Peter, I am not certain that what David says is altogether wrong,” he remarked, in a mysterious manner. “I have just been reading in a book an account of a voyage made many centuries ago by a Danish captain to these seas. His name was Rink, but I forget the name of the ship. His crew consisted of eighty stout brave fellows; but when they got up here, some of the bravest were frightened with the wonders they beheld—the monsters of the deep, the fogs, the snows, and the mountains of ice—and at last they saw at no great distance a high picturesque land on which they wished to land, but though they sailed rapidly on, or appeared to sail, they got no nearer to it. This increased the alarm they already felt. One-half of the crew were of opinion that the land itself moved away from them; the others that there were some powerful loadstone rocks somewhere astern, which kept the ship back. At last Captain Rink finding a northerly breeze spring up, and being somewhat short of provisions, put up the helm and ran home, every one on board giving a different account of the wonders they had seen, but all agreeing that it was a region of ice-demons and snow-spirits, and that they would never, if they could help it, venture there again.”

For some hours we continued much of Captain Rink’s opinion, till at last I had an opportunity of asking Andrew what he thought about the matter. He then told me that, on account of the clearness of the atmosphere, and the brightness of the snow-covered hills or icy plains, they appear to a person unaccustomed to look on them to be very much nearer than they really are. He assured me that it would be a long time before I should be able to judge of distances; and that he had known a person mistake a few stunted shrubs appearing above the snow a few yards off for a forest in the distance, while land many miles off appeared, as it had to me, close at hand.

It was evening, or I should rather say near midnight, when we really got close in, when we found that the valleys were magnificent fiords, or gulfs running far inland, and that the rocks and icebergs were of vast height. As we sailed along the coast, nothing could be more beautiful than the different effects of light and shade—the summits of the distant inland ranges shining in the sunlight like masses of gold, and the icebergs in the foreground tinged with the most beautiful and dazzling colours.

Beautiful as was the scene, I had no idea that any civilised beings dwelt in such a region of eternal snows. What was my surprise, then, to find the ship brought to an anchor off a small town called Leifly, belonging to the Danes! They have several small colonies along the coast, at each of which are stationed missionaries engaged in the pious work of converting the Esquimaux to Christianity.

I thought that where we lay at anchor was directly under the overhanging cliffs; but I found, from the time the boat took reaching the shore, that we were several miles off. Several Esquimaux canoes came off to the ship to barter with us. One man sits in each boat, which is so long and narrow, that one is surprised it should be able to encounter the slightest sea. The whole is decked over, except a round opening, in which they seat themselves.

All these people were Christians; and in each canoe was a strip of paper stuck in a thong under the deck, on which were written, in Danish, passages from the Scriptures. They were comfortably dressed in sealskin coats, trousers, and boots, with a sealskin helmet. Their heads were large, with a narrow, retreating forehead; strong, coarse black hair, flat nose, full lips, almost beardless chin, and full lustrous black eyes—not beauties, certainly, but the expression was very amiable, and so was their conduct.

We had to lower a boat to assist them on deck when they came alongside, for otherwise they would not have been able to get out of their crank barks without capsizing. The way they manage is as follows:— Two canoes bring up alongside each other, the man in the outer one passing his paddle through a thong which stretches across the deck of the inner one, which it thus steadies till the owner can get out. The inner canoe is then hauled out of the way, and another pulls up on the outside. The last canoe is held by the gunwale till the occupant steps out. They all appeared ready to render each other this assistance. The canoe is called a “kajack.”

The kajacks being hauled on deck, we began our barter. We had to give old clothes, red and yellow cotton handkerchiefs, biscuits, coffee, earthenware bowls, needles, and many other little things; for which they exchanged sealskins, sealskin trousers, caps, slippers, gloves, and tobacco-bags. These articles were very neatly sewed with sinew thread. Our negotiations being completed in the most amicable manner, they took their departure much in the way in which they had arrived.

I afterwards went ashore in the boat, and saw their huts, which were better, I am ashamed to say, than many I had seen in Ireland. Many of them were nearly built of the bones of the whale, which had an odd appearance. There were heaps of filth in front, and troops of ill-favoured dogs were prowling about them.

I saw some of their women, the elder ones being the most hideous-looking of the human race I ever beheld. They wore their hair gathered in a large knot at the top of the head; but in other respects they were dressed exactly like the men, in sealskin garments. Whatever business took us there was soon completed; and once more, in company with several other ships, we commenced our struggle with the ice-monsters of the deep. Our course was still northerly, as what is called the “middle ice” fills up the centre of the bay in impenetrable masses; and it is only by working round it to the north, where it has drifted away from the coast, that a passage to the west side can be effected.

Soon after sailing, we were frozen into a sheet of bay ice for some days. It was slight, and in many places could scarcely bear the weight of a man. Indeed, there were in every direction pools of water, which for some reason or other did not freeze. Our captain had been for some time in the crow’s-nest, looking out for a sign of the breaking up of the ice, when he observed several whales rising in the pools. He instantly ordered the smaller boats to be lowered, and worked through and over the ice to the pools, with harpooners ready to strike any whale which might rise in them. Meantime he armed himself with a harpoon, and ordered others to follow with lances, each with ice-shoes on his feet.

The first man carried the end of a line, and the rest laid hold of it at intervals; so that, should any fall in, they might be able to draw themselves out again. We had not long to wait before a whale was struck, and out flew the line from the boat. So thin was the ice, that we could see the monster through it, as he swam along close under it. Away he went; but, losing breath, he knocked a hole in the ice with his head, to get some fresh air. We followed, but at first he was too quick for us, and had dived again before we came up with him.

We had to look out to avoid the place he had broken as we made chase after him. Our captain took the lead without a rope, going at a great rate in his snow-shoes. He saw the whale close under him, and had just got his harpoon ready to strike through the ice, when up came the fish under the very spot where he stood, and we saw him skip off in a tremendous hurry, or he to a certainty would have gone in, and perhaps have been drawn down when the whale started off again.

Instead of this, he boldly went to the very edge of the ice, and while the whale was blowing, he darted his harpoon deep into his neck. The whale continued his course, but so much slower than before, that we got up to him, and striking our lances through the ice whenever he touched it, we soon despatched him. As he had no means of breathing under the ice, he died quietly, and was dragged up by the line of the first harpoon which struck him; and, by breaking the ice so as to let the line pass, he was hauled up to the ship.

Scarcely was the first secured than a second one was struck, and away we went after him, hallooing, shouting, and laughing. The first man was a little fellow, though, I believe, he cracked the ice. At all events, we had not gone a hundred yards when in fell three men, one after the other; but they did not mind, and by means of the rope they were soon out again, and in chase of our prey.

Poor Stokes got in twice, and I once, to the great amusement of the rest; however, very few escaped without a wetting, so that the laugh was not entirely against us. We succeeded in killing the fish, and I do not know whether it was not as exciting as chasing him in the water; at all events there was more fun and novelty, and that is what a sailor likes.

A fair breeze at length sprung up, which, bringing warmer weather, and enabling us to spread our canvas with effect, we cut away the ice round the ship, and then she, with her strong bows, forced a passage through it. While the wind lasted, with every yard of canvas alow and aloft the ship could carry, we pressed our onward way—sometimes among floes, threatening every instant to close in and nip us; at other times with drift and brash-ice surrounding us; and at others amid open ice, with here and there floating icebergs appearing near us.

To one of these we had to moor, on account of a shift of wind, which blew strong in our teeth; and at first, when I turned into my berth, I did not sleep as securely as usual, from remembering Andrew’s account of one toppling over and crushing a ship beneath it. However, I need scarcely say that that feeling very soon wore off. The objects gained by mooring to an iceberg are several. In the first place, from so large a proportion of the mass being below the water, the wind has little effect on it, and therefore the ship loses no ground; then it shields her from the drift-ice as it passes by, and she has also smooth water under its lee. Casting off from the iceberg, as did our consorts from those to which they had been moored, when the wind again became favourable, we continued our course.

We were now approaching the most dangerous part of our voyage, the passage across Melville Bay, which may be considered the north-eastern corner of Baffin’s Bay. Ships may be sailing among open ice, when, a south-westerly wind springing up, it may suddenly be pressed down upon them with irresistible force, and they may be nipped or totally destroyed.

All this I learned from old David, who was once here when upwards of twelve ships were lost in sight of each other, though the crews escaped by leaping on the ice.

“Remember, youngster, such may be our fate one of these days; and we shall be fortunate if we have another ship at hand to take us on board,” he remarked.

I never knew whether he uttered this not over-consolatory observation for my benefit, to remind me how, at any moment, the lives of us all might be brought to an end, or to amuse himself by watching its effect on me.

For a week we threaded our way among the open floes, when a solid field seemed to stop our further progress. This had been seen hours before, from the unbroken ice-blink playing over it. Our captain was in the crow’s-nest, looking out for a lane through which the ship might pass till clear water was gained. After waiting, and sailing along the edge of the field for some time, some clear water was discovered at the distance of three or four miles, and to it our captain determined that we should cut our way. The ice-saws were accordingly ordered, to be got ready, with a party to work them, on the ice. I was one of them; and, while we cut the canal, the ship was warped up, ready to enter the space we formed.

The ice-saw is a very long iron saw, and has a weight attached to the lower end. A triangle of spars is formed, with a block in the centre, through which a rope, attached to the upper part of the saw, is rove. The slack end of the rope is held by a party of men. When they run away from the triangle, the saw rises, and when they slack the rope, the weight draws it down, as the sawyer in a sawpit would do. As the saw performs its work, the triangles are moved from the edge of the ice. As the pieces were cut, they were towed away, and shoved along to the mouth of the canal.

All the time we were at work, some of the men with good voices led a song, in the chorus of which we all joined; and I must say we worked away with a will. It was harder work when we had to haul out the bits of ice, the ship being towed into the canal. With a cheerful shout we completed our canal, and got the ships into a natural lane; and the rest following close upon our track, we worked our way along for many miles, by what is called tracking.

This operation is very similar to the way a canal-boat is dragged along a canal through the green fields of England, only that men have, in the case I am describing, to do the work of horses. A tow-rope was made fast to the fore-mast, and about a third of each ship’s company were ordered to drag their respective ship ahead. Away we went, as usual, with song and laughter, tramping along the ice for miles together, and towing our homes, like snails, after us.

For several days we continued the same work; and afterwards, when we got out of the lanes, and the ice was found broken, or so irregular that it was impossible to walk over it, we had to carry out ice-claws, or what may be called ice-kedges, to warp the ship ahead. The ice-claws grappled hold of the ice, and the warp being then carried round the capstan, or windlass, we hove in on it, just as if we were heaving up an anchor, only that this work continued for hour after hour, and days and nights in succession, without intermission.

Ten days passed away much in the manner I have described. We then got into comparatively clear water for a few hours, during which time the other ships joined us. As there was no wind, we had to tow the ship ahead in the boats, so that there was no cessation of our labours.

“Well,” I exclaimed to old David, “I suppose after all this we shall soon get into an open sea again.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, or of anything else, lad,” he answered. “We have not yet got into the thick of it, let me tell you.”

I found that his words were too true. The boats had been hoisted in, for a breeze had sprung up, and we were progressing favourably, when we came to some large floes. The openings between them were wide, and without hesitation we proceeded through them. On a sudden these vast masses were seen in motion, slowly moving round and round, without any apparent cause. The captain hailed from the crow’s-nest, ordering the ice-saws to be got ready, and the ship to be steered towards one of the largest floes close on the larboard bow. The sails were clewed up, and the ice-claws being carried out, the ship was hauled close up to it; and while the captain and carpenters were measuring out a dock, a party, of which I was one, set to work with the saws.

There was no time to be lost. A moment too late, and our stout ship might be cracked like a walnut, and we might all be cast homeless on the bleak expanse of ice to perish miserably. The floes were approaching rapidly, grinding and crushing against one another, now overlapping each other; or, like wild horses fighting desperately, rearing up against each other, and with terrific roar breaking into huge fragments.

“Bear a hand, my lads; bear a hand, that’s good fellows. We’ll not be nipped this time if we can help it,” sung out the officers in a cheering tone to encourage us, though the anxious looks they cast towards the approaching masses showed that their confidence was more assumed than real.

Whatever we thought, we worked and sung away as if we were engaged in one of the ordinary occupations of life, and that, though we were in a hurry, there was no danger to be apprehended. The dock was cut long-wise into the ice the length of the ship, which was to be hauled in stern first. As there was every appearance of a heavy pressure, the ice at the inner part of the dock was cut into diamond-shaped pieces, so that, when the approaching floe should press on the bows, the vessel might sustain the pressure with greater ease, by either driving the pieces on to the ice, or rising over them.

The crews of all the other ships were engaged in the same way, but, as may be supposed, we had little time to attend to them. Our captain was engaged in superintending our operations; but I saw him cast many an anxious glance towards our advancing foes.

For an instant, he ran to the side of the ship and hailed the deck. “Mr Todd,” he said, “it will be as well to get some casks of provisions, the men’s clothes, and a few spare sails for tents, and such-like things, you know, ready on deck, in case the nip should come before we can get into dock.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate, not a bit disconcerted; and with the few hands remaining on board he set about obeying our commander’s somewhat ominous directions.

I ought to have said that the rudder had at the first been unshipped and slung across the stern, as it stands to reason that when pressed against by the ice it should be the first thing injured. Still we worked away. We had begun to saw the loose pieces at the head of the dock.

“Hurra, my lads! knock off, and bear a hand to haul her in,” shouted out the captain; “no time to be lost.”

With a right good will we laid hold of the warps, and towing and fending off the ship’s bows from the outer edge of the ice, we got her safely into the dock. We then set to work to cut up the pieces. We completed our labours not a moment too soon; for before we had got on board again, the tumult, which had been long raging in the distance, came with increased fury around us, and we had reason to be grateful to Heaven that we were placed in a situation of comparative safety.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

We were safe—so the old hands said; but it required some time before one could fully persuade one’s self of the fact. Not only were the neighbouring floes in motion, but even the one in which we were fixed. Rushing together with irresistible force, they were crushing and grinding in every direction, with a noise far more terrific than that of thunder.

The ship meantime, notwithstanding all our precautions, was driven back before the force opposed to her; and had it not been for the loose pieces under her stern, she might have been nipped in the most dangerous manner. One might fancy that the floes were pitted to try their strength against each other, though it would have been difficult to decide which was the victor.

I had read descriptions of earthquakes, and the commotion reminded me of them. Those who have crossed a large frozen pond or lake will remember the peculiar noise which even stout ice makes when trod on for the first time. Fancy this noise increased a thousand-fold, thundering under one’s feet, and then booming away till the sound is lost in the almost interminable distance! Then the field began to tremble, and slowly rise, and then to rend and rift with a sullen roar, and mighty blocks were hove up, one upon another, till a rampart, bristling with huge fragments, was formed close around the ship, threatening her with destruction.

It seemed like the work of magic; for where lately there was a wide expanse of ice, intersected with lanes of clear water, there was now a country, as it were, covered with hills and rocks, rising in every fantastic shape, and valleys full of stones scattered in every direction.

In several places large misshapen masses had been forced up in a perpendicular position, while others had been balanced on their summits so evenly, that the slightest touch was sufficient to send them thundering down on either side.

Our own safety being provided for, we had time to look after our consorts. Most of them had managed, as we had done, to get into docks; but one, which had taken a more southerly course, appeared to heel over on one side, and to be in a most perilous condition.

The weather, which during the commotion had been very thick, now for an instant clearing in the direction where she lay, the first mate ascended with his glass to the crow’s-nest, and on coming on deck he reported that the Arctic Swan seemed a complete wreck, and that the boats and the men’s chests were scattered about round her, as if thrown on the ice in a great hurry.

“I fear it’s a very bad case, sir; and if you’ll give me leave, I’ll take a party and see what help we can afford them,” said Mr Todd to the captain.

Seamen are always anxious to render assistance to those in peril; and Captain Rendall having given his permission, plenty of volunteers were found ready for the somewhat hazardous expedition. I was one of them. The risk was, that during our absence the ice might begin to take off; and that we should be separated from the ship, and be left among the heaving and tumbling masses of ice. Of this probably the captain had not much fear, or he would not have allowed us to go.

To assist our return, and also to enable us to rescue any of the crew of the wreck who might be injured, the stern boat was lowered that we might track her up to them. Mr Todd, three other men, and I, formed the party. Away we went towards the ship, dragging our boat with no little difficulty among the hummocks and masses, with some risk of the blocks toppling down on our heads and crushing us.

As we drew nearer the Arctic Swan, an exclamation from the mate made us look up at her. “There they go,” he cried; “I feared so—she’ll never see old England again.”

One mast fell while he was speaking, and the others followed directly after; and one fancied one could hear the crushing in of the ship’s sides even at that distance. That, however, was not the case, for the ice had taken but a short time to perform its work of destruction.

When at length we got up to the ship, a scene of ruin presented itself, which, before I saw what ice was, I could scarcely have believed could have been wrought so speedily. Stout as were her timbers, the ice had crushed them at the bows and stern completely in, and grinding them to powder, the floes had actually met through her. Part of her keel and lower works had sunk, but the rest had been forced upwards, and lay a mass of wreck on the summit of the hummocks which had been formed under it.

The stern, by the concussion, incredible as it may seem, had been carried full fifty yards from the rest of the wreck. Two boats only had been saved, the rest had been crushed by the ice before they could be lowered and carried free. A few casks of provisions had been got up on deck beforehand, in case of such an accident happening, and they, with the two boats, were upon the ice.

The crew had escaped with the greatest difficulty—some having gone below to get their bags being nearly caught in the nip and crushed to death. At first their faculties were paralysed with the disaster; for the thick weather prevented them from seeing that any help was near, and they feared that they should have to attempt to escape in the two boats, which, even without provisions, would not have held them all.

British seamen are not addicted to giving way to despair, and their officers soon succeeded in rousing them, and in inducing them to set to work to take measures for their safety. Having stowed away the most portable and nutritious of their provisions in the boats, they began to make a strong raft, to carry those whom the boats could not contain, purposing afterwards, should the ice not break up before, to build a barge out of the fragments of the wreck.

They were so busily employed that they did not see our approach, and a loud shout we gave was the first intimation they had of it. They all started up to see who was so unexpectedly coming to their relief; and then responded to our cheer with a hearty good-will. They at once began lightening the boats, so as to be able to drag them over the ice to our ship; and some of the provisions we took into ours, as well as their clothes.

The master gave a last glance at the wreck of the ship with which he had been entrusted, and with a heavy heart, I doubt not, turned away from her for ever. After taking some food, in the shape of salt pork and biscuit, which we much needed, we commenced our return to the ship. Delay, we all felt, was dangerous; for, should the commotion of the ice recommence before we could regain the ship, we ran a great chance of destruction.

At length, however, after four hours’ toil, we accomplished our journey in safety, and the shipwrecked crew were welcomed on board the Shetland Maid. Some persons might say that, after all, they had little to congratulate themselves on, for that the same accident which had happened to them might occur to-morrow to us. Though we were, of course, aware of this, I must say that I do not believe the idea ever troubled any one of us; and we all fully expected to return home in the autumn, notwithstanding the destruction which was, we saw, the lot of so many.

That night in the forecastle there was as much fun and laughter as if we had all come off some pleasant excursion, and our light-hearted guests seemed entirely to have forgotten their losses.

“Well, mates, it is to be hoped none of the other ships has met with the same ill-luck that yours has,” said old David. “It will be a wonder if they have not. I mind the time, for it’s not long ago, that nineteen fine ships were lost altogether, about here. It was a bad year for the underwriters, and for the owners too, let me tell you. I was on board the Rattler, a fine new ship, when, in company with many others, we were beset, not far from Cape York, by the ice driven in by a strong south-wester.

“Our best chance was to form a line under the lee of the heaviest floe we could pick out; and there, stem and stern touching each other, we waited for what was to come. The gale increased, and forced the floes one over the other, till the heaviest in sight came driving down upon us. The first ship it lifted completely on to the ice; the next was nearly stove in, and many of her timbers were broken; and then, getting more in earnest, it regularly dashed to pieces the four next it got foul of, sending them flying over the ice in every direction.

“We were glad enough to escape with our lives, which we had hard work to do; and then some hundreds of us were turned adrift, not knowing what to do with ourselves. We thought ourselves badly off, but we were many times better than the people of another ship near us. They had made fast to an iceberg, when it toppled right over, and crushed them and the ship to atoms. We were not alone; for not far from us another fleet was destroyed, and altogether we mustered nearly a thousand strong—Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Danes. We built huts, and put up tents; and as we had saved plenty of provisions, and had liquor in abundance, we had a very jolly time of it.

“The Frenchmen had music, you may be sure; so we had dancing and singing to our hearts’ content, and were quite sorry when the wind shifted, and, the ice breaking up, we had to separate on board the few ships which escaped wreck.”

“I remember that time well,” said Alec Garrock, a Shetlander, belonging to our ship. “It was a mercy no lives were lost, either escaping from the ships, or afterwards, when we were living on the ice, and travelling from one station to the other. It seems wonderful to me that I’m alive here, to talk about what once happened to me. The boat I was in had killed a whale in good style; and when we had lashed the fins together, and made it fast to the stern of the boat, we saw that a number of whales were blowing not far off—I ought to say we were close under an iceberg. We, of course, were eager to be among them; and as, you must know, the stern-boat had just before been sent to us with one hand in her with another line, we wanted him to stay by the dead fish. He said he would not—if we liked to go, so would he; but stay there by himself; while sport was going on, he would not.

“At last we resolved to leave the small boat empty, and to take him in ours. To this he agreed. So, making the whale fast to his boat, and securing the boat to the berg, away we pulled, as fast as we could lay our backs to the oars, after a fish we saw blowing near us. Now what I tell you is true, mates. Not thirty fathoms had we pulled, when over toppled the iceberg right down on the boat, and we were nearly swamped with the sea it made. When we pulled back to look for the whale, neither it nor the boat was to be seen. You may fancy what would have become of us if we had been there!”

“There are none of us, to my belief; but have often, if we would but acknowledge it, been mercifully preserved by Providence,” observed my friend Andrew.

“I won’t speak of what has happened to myself; and Terence, and Peter here. No one will doubt, I hope, but that it was the finger of God directed you to take us off the iceberg; but every day some less remarkable case occurs. A block falls from aloft on the deck, where a moment before we were standing; a musket-ball passes close to one’s ear; a topmast is carried away just as we have come off the yard; and fifty other things occur of like nature, and we never think of being grateful for our preservation. Talking of escapes, I once saw a man carried overboard by a line round his ankle as a fish was diving. We all gave him up for lost; but he had a sharp knife in the right-hand pocket of his jacket, and he kept his thoughts about him so well, that before he had got many fathoms down, he managed to stoop and cut the line below his foot, then striking with all his might, he rose to the surface.”

“Did you ever hear tell of the Dutchman who had a ride on the back of a whale?” asked David. “He had just struck his harpoon into a fish, when, lifting up her tail, she drove the boat into shatters. He fell on his back, and got hold of his harpoon, his foot at the same time being entangled in the line. Away swam the fish on the top of the water, fortunately for him never thinking of diving. He stood upright all the time, holding on by his right hand, while his left tried in vain to find his knife to cut himself clear. Another boat followed, for the chance of rescuing him; but there appeared but little hope of his being saved, unless he could free himself. Just as the fish was going down, the harpoon shook out, and, jumping off its back, to which he gave a hearty kick, he struck out for the boat, and was picked up when he could swim no more. He is the only man I ever heard of who really has ridden on a whale’s back, though there’s many a tale told by those who have, which is not true.”

“I’ve been on the back of a live whale more than once,” said Garrock. “I mean when we’ve been fishing among bay ice, and the fish have come up through the holes to breathe. But I was going to say how last season we had a chase after a fish, which gave us more trouble than I ever saw before. It led us a chase for the best part of the day, after it had been struck. It dragged one boat, with twenty lines fast, right under a floe, and then broke away; and when we killed it at last, it had taken out thirty lines, which, as you know, is close upon six miles of line.”

Thus yarn after yarn was spun. I do not attempt to give the peculiar phraseology of the speakers; but their stories, which I believe to be perfectly true, may prove interesting. For a whole week we were beset, and some of the green hands began to fancy that we should be blocked up for the winter; but the old ones knew better.

Every day the surface of the ice, where the nip had taken place, was examined with anxious eyes, in the hopes that some sign of its taking off or breaking up might be given. At length the pressure became less, the sound under the ice shrill and sharp, instead of the sullen roar which had before been heard; the fragments which had been cast above others began to glide down and disappear in the chasms which were opening around, and water was seen in a long thin line extending to the northward.

A lane was formed, with a wall of fragments on either side; the lane widened, the fragments rushed into the water, and the captain, from the crow’s-nest, ordered the ship to be towed out of dock. The order was cheering to our hearts; and as we had plenty of hands, it was soon executed. All sail was made, and away we flew through the passage, in a hurry to take advantage of it, lest it should again close upon us. We succeeded in getting clear, and soon after were joined by our consorts, which had escaped the nip.

We made the land again to the northward of Cape York, and, when close in, were completely becalmed. The boats of each ship were ordered ahead to tow; and thus we slowly progressed along one of the most picturesque scenes it has ever been my fortune to witness in the arctic regions. The water was of glassy smoothness, the sky of brightest blue, and the atmosphere of perfect transparency; while around floated numberless icebergs of the most beautiful forms, and of dazzling hues, while all around was glancing and glittering beneath a bright and glowing sun.

One berg, I remember, was of enormous size. On the north side it was perpendicular, as if just severed from another; but, as we rounded it on the west, ledge above ledge appeared, each fringed with icicles reaching to the one below, thus forming lines of graceful columns, with a gallery within, appearing as if tinged with emerald-green. The summit was peaked and turreted, and broken into many fantastic forms. On the eastern side a clear arch was seen; and several small cascades fell from ledge to ledge with a trickling sound, and into the water with a gentle splash, which could distinctly be heard as we passed.

It must be remembered that in every direction arose bergs of equal beauty; while in the background were lofty hills covered with snow, tinted of a pinkish hue, and above them, of dazzling whiteness, ranges of eternal glaciers, towering to the sky. I could scarcely have believed that a scene of such enchanting beauty could have existed in the arctic regions, and was inclined to fancy, as I pulled at the oar, that they were rocks of Parian marble and alabaster, and that the galleries and caverns they contained were the abodes of fairies and the guardian spirits of those realms. But avast! what has Peter the Whaler to do with such poetical ideas?

On we worked our way northward. In clear weather, when a good look-out was to be had from the crow’s-nest, we were able to make our way among the streams of ice; but in thick weather, when our course could not be marked out, we were sadly delayed.

At last, after keeping a westerly course for a few hours, we broke through all intervening barriers, and once more felt our gallant ship lifting to the buoyant wave of the open sea, or rather what is called the “north water.”

The ice, by the warm weather, the currents, and the northerly winds, being driven out of Lancaster Sound and the head of Baffin’s Bay to the southward, leaves this part, for most of the summer, free from impediments. In five days after leaving the eastern land, having passed the north of Lancaster Sound, we came off the famous fishing-station of Pond’s Bay.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The whole coast, in most places, was lined with a sheet of ice some ten or fifteen miles wide, to the edge of which, in perfectly smooth water, our ship, with many others at various distances, was made fast.

Fancy a day, warm to our feelings as one at the same time of year in England, and an atmosphere of a brilliancy rarely or never seen at home, not a breath of air stirring the glassy surface of the shining ocean; while on the land side lofty mountains stretched away on either side, with the opening of the bay in the centre, the rocks of numberless tints, from the many-coloured lichens growing on them, rising as it were out of a bed of snow still filling the valleys even in midsummer; while mid-way, along the dark frowning crags which formed the coast, hung a wavy line of semi-transparent mist, now tinged with a crimson hue, from the almost horizontal rays of the sun, verging towards midnight.

These objects also, it must be understood, appeared so close at hand, that I could scarcely persuade myself that an easy run across the level ice would not carry me up to them; and yet all the while they were upwards of a dozen miles off.

Most of the watch were “on the bran,” that is, were in the boats stationed along the edge of the ice, on the look-out for whales. A few hands only, besides myself, were on deck, taking our fisherman’s walk, with our fingers in our pockets, and the watch below were sound asleep in their berths, when Captain Rendall, as was his custom, went aloft before turning in, to take a look-out for fish from his crow’s-nest. We watched him eagerly. In a few minutes he hailed the deck, with the joyful news that at about ten miles off there was a whole run of whales, spouting away as fast as they could blow.

On the instant, instead of the silence and tranquillity which had before prevailed, all was now noise, excitement, and hurry. The sleepers tumbled up from below; the harpooners got ready their gear and received their orders from the master; the boats on the bran came alongside, to have their kegs replenished with water, and their tubs with bread, beef, and pork; while the more eager mates ran aloft, to assure themselves of the best direction to take.

In a few minutes five boats were pulling out towards the run, as if the lives of a ship’s company depended on our exertions. “Hurra, my lads, hurra! give way,” shouted our boat-steerers; and give way we did indeed.

Frequently, as we pulled on, we heard the loud blasts of the narwhals, or sea-unicorns, as they came towards the bay in shoals; and each time I fancied we must be close upon a whale, and that the sport was about to begin, so loud a sound did they make.

The sea-unicorn is, when full grown, from thirteen to sixteen feet long, and has a long spiral horn or tusk growing rather on one side of its upper jaw, of from eight to ten feet in length. The eyes are very small, the blow-hole is directly over them, and the head is small, blunt, and round, and the mouth cannot be opened wide. The colour, when young, is grey, with darker spots on it, and when full grown, of a yellowish-white. It is a very inoffensive animal. It is said to use its horn for the purpose of breaking through the ice to breathe, and neither to destroy its prey nor to defend itself. It swims very fast; when struck, dives rapidly, but soon returns to the surface, and is easily killed. We passed several shoals of them on our pull, before we got up to the run, near a small floe.

“There she blows!” exclaimed our boat-steerer, almost in a whisper, so great was his eagerness and fear of disturbing the fish, as a large fish appeared close to us. We had a fine burst; the harpooner was on his feet, and, his weapon glancing from his hand, struck the monster.

Instead, however, of diving, up he rose, clear almost from the water, his head first, seeming, as his immense bulk appeared against the sky, like some giant of the deep. We thought he was going to leap on to the floe; but, suddenly plunging his head beneath the water, his tremendous tail was lifted above us. I thought all was over. One blow from it would have annihilated us, and dashed our boat into a thousand fragments; but the fish, instead, dived directly down under the floe, his tail only splashing the water over us, and we were safe.

Then arose the exciting shout of “A fall, a fall!” Other boats came hurrying to our aid; but, alas, the line on a sudden slackened, and, with a blank face, the harpooner began to haul it in.

The fish had shaken himself clear of the harpoon, and escaped. Mighty must have been the force used, for the massive iron shaft was twisted and turned as a thin piece of wire might have been bent by a turn of the hand.

But, hurra! there are plenty more fish near; and with a will, little disconcerted, we gave way after them. One was seen at some distance from a floe, in which there was a crack. Now it is known that a whale generally rises close to the nearest floe; and if there is a crack in it, that part is selected instead of the outer edge. We got up to it before the fish appeared; our oars were out of the water; our harpooner standing up and watching eagerly every sign of the approach of our expected prey, guiding by signs the boat-steerer, who, with his oar, was silently impelling on the boat by sculling.

“Gently, boys—there’s her eddy—two strokes more—now avast pulling!”

I could just see the head, and the large black mass of the monster’s back, rising slowly from the water as he spoke, forming a strong contrast to the clear blue and white of the ice, and pure glittering sea. Then was heard the peculiar snorting blast, as she sent up in the air two watery jets; but in an instant we were upon her.

“Harden up, my lads!” shouted the harpooner; and a lusty stroke sent us almost on to the monster’s back; then flew forth his unerring harpoon. For a few moments, but for a few only, the whale seemed prepared to die without a struggle: a convulsive quiver passed through its frame; then, lifting up its flukes, it dived down, like its predecessor, beneath the floe. The iron had sunk in, and, raising our Blue Jack, with a loud shout we proclaimed a fall. Out flew the line with tremendous rapidity. Now the harpooner, sitting on his thwart, attempted to check the fish by turning the line round the bollard; but so quickly did it pass through his hands, shielded by mitts, that, almost in spite of the water thrown on it, smoke ascended from the burning wood, while the bows of the boat were drawn through the underwash to the solid floe beyond.

At times we thought the boat’s bow would have been drawn under the floe; again the line-manager let the line run out, and she rose once more, to be drawn down directly it was checked. But it was all-important to tire the fish, or otherwise all our line might be taken out before any assistance could come. Should this be the case, we might, after all, lose the fish. First one oar was elevated, to show our need of aid; then a second, a third, and a fourth, as the line drew near what is called the “bitter end.”

“Hold on, Darby, hold on!” we shouted in our eagerness; for we feared we might have to cut, or that the boat might be drawn under. Our shipmates tugged away at their oars with all their might; the boats from every direction dashing through the water to the point where they thought the fish might rise. Our line at the very edge began to slacken—a sign that she had ceased diving. She appeared about a quarter of a mile off or more, at the edge of the floe.

The quick-sighted eye of the first mate was on her almost before she had reached the surface; and before she could again seek safety in the ocean’s depths, another harpoon was plunged into her. We instantly began hauling in our lines; but before long she was off again, swimming away some depth below the surface, at a great rate, while we and the other boat were towed after her. Again the strain slackened, and she rose once more; but this time her foes were close to her. Another harpoon was struck, but it was needless. Without mercy lances were thrust into her on every side, till the shouts which reached our ears, as we slowly approached, hauling in our lines, proclaimed that our victory was complete. The fish was now secured, as I have before described, and made fast to a floe, while all but one boat made chase after another fish which blew temptingly near.

I ought to have said that, after securing the whale, all hands turned to with a right good-will to attack the bread and meat we had with us; for though whale-hunting beats hollow any other style of hunting, whether of deer, elephants, or tigers, yet it cannot by any manner of means be carried on without sustenance to the frame.

Away we went, then, the boat of the first mate leading. He, too, was successful in striking the fish. Three times she dived; but each time one or other of her enemies were upon her with harpoon and lances, while her eddying wake was dyed with blood, and a thick pellicle of oil, which attracted crowds of persevering Mollies to feast on it, marked her course.

She at last rose close to a floe, when we all rushed in upon her. The cry of “Stern all!” was given. Her death-flurry had come on. High up in the air she sent a stream of blood and oil, which fell thick upon us in showers of spray, and on a hummock which was near; and the edges of the ice were dyed of a crimson tint.

The weariness which began to oppress even the strongest, told us that we had had work enough, and that a second night was approaching. With shouts of satisfaction, we now began the task of towing our prizes to the ship. It was slow and wearying work; but every fish we took brought us nearer home, so we set cheerfully about it.

When we at length reached the ship, we found that we had been full thirty-six hours away, nearly all the time in active exertion; and yet, from the excitement of the work, neither did we feel unusually weary, nor were we aware of the time which had passed.

I must remind my readers that this could only happen in a latitude and at a period where there is little or no difference between night and day. Our fishing was most successful, partly owing to our good fortune in meeting with the fish, but owing also much to the sagacity of our captain and his officers.

Similar scenes were occurring every day; but though they were all nearly as exciting, and the interest of the sport was never decreased, but rather grew on us, yet, if I were to attempt to describe each chase, and how each fish was killed, my readers would weary with the account.

For the greater part of a month we remained in the bay; and now the fish becoming scarce, and the summer drawing to a conclusion, with a fair breeze we made sail to the southward.

I spoke of our having passed Lancaster Sound, a short way to the south of which Pond’s Bay is situated. I did not mention at the time the interest with which I regarded that vast inlet—the mouth, one cannot help fancying, to the unknown sea which bounds the northern shores of the American continent. I certainly think more of it now, while I am writing, than I did then, because I have since become aware of the many gallant exploits which have been there performed, and the bold attempts which have been made to pierce through it to the seas beyond.

I need scarcely remind my readers that up that passage the veteran arctic explorer, Sir John Franklin, and his brave companions, are supposed to have proceeded. Under his command, the Erebus and Terror sailed from the Thames on the 26th May, 1845, to proceed up Davis’s Straits, then into Lancaster Sound, and from thence, without stopping, to examine the coast, to push westward as fast as they could towards Behring’s Straits.

Captain Crozier had command of the Terror; and the expedition was accompanied by the transport Bonetto Junior, commanded by Lieutenant Griffith, and laden with provisions, clothing, etcetera, to be put on board the ships in Davis’s Straits. Both vessels were fitted with steam-engines and screw-propellers; but they did not go ahead with them more than three knots an hour. Lieutenant Griffith reports “that he left them with every species of provisions for three entire years, independently of five bullocks; they had also stores for the same time, and fuel in abundance.”

The expedition was last seen by the Prince of Wales whaler, on the 26th July, in latitude 74 degrees 48 minutes north, longitude 66 degrees 13 minutes west, moored to an iceberg, and waiting for an opening in the great body of ice, which I described as filling the middle of Baffin’s Bay, in order to reach the entrance of Lancaster Sound. All hands were well and in high spirits, and determined to succeed, if success were possible; but since that day they have never been heard of.

Year after year have those gallant men in vain been looked for, but not without hope of their return, nor without attempts made to discover and rescue them.

When the year 1848 arrived, and no tidings had been received of the lost voyagers, it was determined to send out three expeditions to look for them. One under Captain Kellett, who commanded the Herald and Captain Moore, who commanded the Plover; proceeded to Behring’s Straits, and after continuing along the American coast as far as they could go, they were to despatch some whale-boats, to meet a second expedition under Sir John Richardson and Dr Rae, who were to descend the Mackenzie River, and there to examine the coast; while Sir James Ross, commanding the Enterprise, and Captain Bird, the Investigator, were to proceed at once to Lancaster Sound, and there to examine the coast as they proceeded.

After leaving deposits of food and directions in several places, these expeditions returned, without having discovered any traces of our missing countrymen.

Notwithstanding the ill-success of the first set of expeditions, others were without delay determined on. Captain Collinson was appointed to command the Enterprise, having under him Commander McClure in the Investigator; and on the 20th of January, 1850, they sailed from Plymouth for Behring’s Straits, where they were to be joined by the Plover. They were to endeavour to reach Melville Island.

In the meantime, Dr Rae, who had remained in America, was ordered to continue his search along the northern coast; while the Government of the United States prepared an expedition for the same purpose. The British Government likewise fitted out four ships, under the command of Captain Austin, in the Resolute; the Assistance, Captain Ommanney; the Pioneer; Lieutenant Osborn; and the Free Trader—the two latter screw-propeller steam-vessels.

Two private expeditions have also started. The Lady Franklin is commanded by Mr Penny, a veteran whaling captain, who has with him a fine brig as a tender, called the Sophia. Captain Penny was to be guided by circumstances, in following the course he judged expedient. Besides this, the veteran explorer, Sir John Ross, has taken command of another private expedition. He is on board the Felix, a large schooner, and has the Mary, a tender of twelve tons, with him. They also are to proceed to Barrow Straits, and to examine various headlands on their way. The Mary is to be left at Banks’ Land, as a vessel of retreat, and the Felix will proceed for another year as far as she can to the westward, examining the coast on the way.

These last expeditions have been fitted out in consequence of the energetic and persevering efforts of Lady Franklin, and the niece of Sir John Franklin, Miss Sophia Cracroft; and those who have seen them, month after month, indefatigably labouring in that, to them, holy cause, hoping almost at times against hope, yet still undaunted, persevering unweariedly, must feel and heartily pray that they may have their reward in the happy return of the long-missing ones.

I was unable to refrain from giving this brief sketch of a subject in which every man worthy of the name of Briton must feel the deepest and warmest interest; and I now resume the thread of my more humble narrative.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The return of darkness during the night gave us notice that we were advancing towards the south, and that the short arctic summer was drawing to a close. We could no longer continue our course, hour after hour without intermission, as before, the officers relieving each other in the crow’s-nest, and one watch following the other through one long-protracted day.

It was impossible with any safety to proceed through that icy sea when darkness came on, and therefore each night we were obliged to make the ship fast to a floe till the return of daylight. But those nights were sometimes such as are not to be found in another realm. The bright moon floated in an atmosphere the most clear and brilliant that can be conceived, while the silvery masses of ice lay sparkling beneath it, as they floated on the calm and majestic ocean.

Then the sun at setting bathed the sea, the sky, the rugged mountains, the pinnacles of the icebergs, and the lower floes with colours and tints more beautiful and varied than the imagination can picture, far more than words can describe. But I should not dwell on such scenes, except that I wish to observe that God distributes His bounties throughout the globe with an equal hand; and that, barren and inhospitable as is that land, no less than in southern realms are His power and goodness displayed.

For about four days we had proceeded south, our course interrupted whenever we met with a whale; and if she was killed, we made fast to a floe till we had flensed and made off. Some of the smaller whalers had got full ships, and, with joyous shouts and light hearts on board, they passed us on their way home; and others, unwilling to wait, returned not full, so that we were nearly the last ship.

The weather continued beautifully fine, though now growing cold and chilly. We also had nearly a full ship, and were congratulating ourselves on soon being able to follow those which had preceded us; but, till we were quite full, we could not think of doing so while the ice continued open, and there was a chance of a fish. Consequently we were all on the look-out, and more eager than ever to secure our prey.

One afternoon, while we were under weigh, the cheering sound of “A fish, a fish! see, she blows!” from the crow’s-nest, roused us all to activity. Two boats were immediately equipped and sent in chase. I was in one of them. While we were yet close to the ship, another whale was espied to the southward, at a very great distance. The prospect of getting two fish at a fall was more than could be resisted; and, while we were killing our fish, the master made sail to come up with the other. We were successful; and, with less difficulty than usual, killed the whale at the edge of a floe connected with the land, towards which it had gone for shelter. The whale was killed, and made fast to the floe, waiting for the return of the ship.

While we were all engaged in the chase and capture, no one had noticed the change in the weather. From a fresh breeze, sufficiently to the eastward to enable the ship to stand back towards us, it had fallen a flat calm: the sea lay stretched out before us like a dark shining glass, while an ominous stillness reigned through the air.

Andrew, who was line-manager in the boat to which I belonged, was the first to observe it, as we were assembled on the floe busily engaged in hauling in the lines. He said nothing; but I saw him look up, and, after glancing around for some moments, put his hand over his brow, and gaze earnestly forth in the direction the ship had gone. The anxious expression his countenance instantly assumed alarmed me; and, though he at once resumed his task of coiling away the lines, I saw that all was not right. I then cast my eyes seaward, to see whereabouts the ship was. I need scarcely say that I felt a very natural alarm, when I discovered that she was almost hull down.

Andrew again looked up. The anxious expression on his face had in no way diminished; but he was not a man to alarm or unnerve his companions by any unnecessary exclamation.

“Bear a hand, lads,” he at length said. “The sooner we get in our lines, and tow the fish alongside, the better.”

“I was thinking the same,” said old David. “And I say the sooner the ship stands back to pick us up, the better for us. We couldn’t get the fish alongside till long after dark, if she comes no nearer to us; and how she’s to do that, without a breeze springs up, I don’t know.”

These few remarks scarcely interrupted the task in hand. When it was accomplished, however, and we had time to look round us, we all began to consider more about the difficulty of our position. I must explain that there were two boats, with a crew of five men each, so that we were ten in all. We had with us a few provisions and a cooking apparatus, with our pea-jackets to put on while waiting after our heating exercise.

The harpooners and the elder men now began to consult what was best to be done. David gave it as his opinion that the other boats had been led a long chase after a fish, and that the ship had followed thus far to the southward to pick them up, with the intention of returning immediately to us, when the calm so unexpectedly came on.

“There’s no doubt about what has happened, mates; but I want to know what those who have had experience in these seas think is about to happen,” said Andrew. “There’s something in the look of the sky and sea, and the feel of the air, which makes me think a change is about to take place. I therefore ask whether we shall stay by the fish, or leave her secured to the floe, and get aboard as fast as we can.”

In answer to this proposal, which was certainly wise, and perfectly justifiable, several opinions were given. Some were for getting on board without delay, others were for towing the fish towards the ship, and several were for remaining by till the ship should return, though the majority were for going back in the boats alone.

A more mighty Power than ours decided what was to be done; for, while we were still speaking, a sudden gust of wind came blowing along the edge of the ice from the northward, and throwing up the sea in so extraordinary a manner, that, had the boats been exposed to it, they could scarcely have lived. Then the wind as suddenly fell, and again all was calm as before.

“Now’s your time, lads; we must get on board as quick as we can,” shouted old David. While, accordingly, we were with additional care securing the whale to the floe, the sky, which was already overclouded, began to send down dense showers of snow, which so obscured the atmosphere, that the sharpest eye amongst us could no longer distinguish the ship. To attempt to get on board under these circumstances, would be more dangerous than remaining where we were; so, putting on our Flushing jackets, we got into the boats, and drew a sail over our shoulders, to shelter ourselves as much as possible from the storm.

The snow, which had begun to fall in flakes, now changed to a powder, so dense that it appeared as if night had already come on.

“It’s very dark, Andrew,” I remarked; “what can be going to happen?”

“Why, I’ll tell you, Peter,” answered David, who heard my question. “There’s going to be a harder gale of wind than we’ve had since you came on board; and if the old ship don’t stand up to her canvas, and fetch us before night, there are few who would wish to change places with us, that’s all.”

I did not by any means like this announcement, for I felt that this time old David was not joking with me. However, our only course was to remain where we were. If the gale did come on, we were safer on the ice than on the sea; and if it passed off, the ship would not fail to come and take us on board.

In the meantime, we were continually putting our heads from under our shelter, to cast anxious glances towards where we supposed the ship to be, and in every other direction, to discover if there was any opening in the thick cloud of snow which dropped around us. I say dropped, for I never before saw snow fall so perpendicularly, and in such minute powdery particles. The peculiar and oppressive gloominess which filled the air, made one feel that something unusual was approaching, otherwise I could scarcely fancy that in so perfect a calm any danger could be at hand.

For two hours we sat cramped up in the boat, and, in spite of our warm clothing, suffering not a little from the cold, which was greater than for some time past we had experienced. Suddenly the snow ceased, and with eager haste, Andrew, David, and some others jumped out of the boat and climbed to the top of the nearest hummock, from whence they could get a wider look-out than on the flat ice.

With feelings which it were vain to attempt to describe, we looked for the ship, and could nowhere see her. To the southward there was a thick mist, caused by the snow falling in that direction, and in this she was probably shrouded.

On looking to the north, we perceived in the horizon a bright luminous appearance, something like the ice-blink, but brighter, and which seemed to increase in height. David looked at it for an instant, and then shouted out, “Bear a hand, my lads, and haul up the boats—the gale is upon us!”

Suiting the action to the word, he rushed down from the hummock, accompanied by the rest of us, and we commenced hauling one of the boats up on the ice. While all hands were engaged at this work, and before it was completely accomplished, down came the gale upon us with terrific violence, almost lifting us off our legs, and hurling us into the now foaming and hissing sea. The snow, which lay thick on the ice, was lifted up and blown in clouds over us; the ocean, which before lay so tranquil, was now lashed into fury.

“Haul away, my lads, and run the boat up,” shouted Andrew, his voice scarcely heard amid the tumult. We had taken out most of the things from the other boat, and, having secured the first, were about to haul her up, when a heavy sea, striking the ice, broke off a piece to which she was secured, and carried her and the harpooner belonging to her, who was standing near her, far beyond our reach. To have attempted to launch the boat to go to his rescue would have been madness. One loud, hopeless shriek was heard, and he sunk for ever.

We had little time to mourn for our poor messmate—our own condition occupied all our thoughts. At the same moment that the boat was carried away, the sea broke the whale from the lashings which secured her to the ice, and, without our having any power to preserve our prize, it was driven down along the edge of the floe, from which it gradually floated away.

“What’s to be done now?” I asked, with several others, in a voice of despair.

“Trust in God,” answered Andrew in a solemn voice. “Peter, remember we have been in a worse position before, and He saved us. He may, if He wills it, save us again.”

“But how are we ever to get back to the ship, with only one boat to carry us?” asked some one.

“Captain Rendall is not a man likely to desert his people,” observed David. “The ship will come back and take us off, when the gale is over—no fear of that, mates.”

Notwithstanding the tone of confidence with which he spoke, I suspected that he did not feel quite as much at his ease as he pretended to be. Our position was indeed, I felt, most critical, though I did not express my fears. The gale might continue for days, and our ship, if she escaped shipwreck, which too probably would be her lot, would be at all events driven so far to the south, that she would find it utterly impossible to return. The ice, even, on which we stood, might any instant break up from the force of the waves; and if we could not retreat farther back in time, our destruction would be almost certain. We had a boat; but even in smooth water she could scarcely do more than contain us all, and in such a sea as was likely to be running for some time she could not live ten minutes. We could have no hope, therefore, of regaining the ship in her; and should we be compelled, therefore, to quit the ice, she could afford us no refuge.

We had a small quantity of provisions,—enough, with economy, to sustain life for two or three days, though not more than was intended to supply a couple of good meals, should we have been kept away from the ship a sufficient time to require them. We had some boats’ sails, a cooking apparatus, two harpoons, spears, and two fowling-pieces, brought by the harpooners to kill a few dovekies for our messes. Several things, with a set of lines and harpoons, had been lost in the other boat.

For some time after the fatal catastrophe I have described, we stood looking out seaward, undecided what steps to take. The wrenching asunder of some huge masses of the ice, which the sea drove up close to the boat, and the violent heaving to which the whole body was subjected, showed us that we must rouse ourselves to further exertion. We had no need of consultation to judge that we must without delay get farther away from the sea; and, having laden our boat with all our stores, we began to work her along the ice towards the shore, which lay bleak and frowning some ten miles or so from us.

Our progress was slow; for the ice, though thick, was much rotted from the heat of the whole summer, and in some places it was very rough, while shallow pools of water constantly appeared in our path, and compelled us to make a circuit round them. When we had accomplished nearly two miles, it was proposed that we should wait there to see if any change took place in the weather. There was no longer a motion in the ice, and Andrew and David gave it as their opinion that there was consequently no danger of its breaking up so far from the edge, and that we might remain there in safety. Night was now fast approaching; and the gale, instead of abating, blew with greater fury than at first.

The exertion had somewhat warmed us; but the moment we stopped, the cold wind whistled through our clothing, and showed us that we must prepare some shelter for the night, if we would avoid being frozen to death.

Another point we also discovered was, that we required some one to take the lead, and to act as chief officer among us. The remaining harpooner would, by right, have taken command; but, though expert in the use of his weapon, he was not a man by character or knowledge well fitted to command the respect of the rest of us. This we all felt, as he probably did also, as he raised no objection when David proposed that we should elect an officer whom we should be bound to obey, till we could regain our ship, should we ever be so fortunate so to do.

Three were first proposed, but Andrew Thompson was finally selected; for, though he was known not to have so much practical experience as several of the others, his firmness, sagacity, and high moral character were acknowledged by all.

“And now, my lads,” he said, when he had modestly accepted the office, “the first thing we must do is to build a snow-wall, to shelter us from the wind; and as soon as the wind moderates, we’ll have up a flagstaff on the top of the highest hummock, to show our friends where to look for us.”

According to this advice, we set to work to collect the snow, which did not lay more than three inches thick on the ice. We first made it into cakes, about four times the size of an ordinary brick, and then piled them up in a semicircular form, the convex side being turned to the wind. Over the top we spread a boat’s sail, which was kept down by lumps of snow being placed on the top of it. The canvas was also allowed to hang over a couple of lances lashed together in front, so that we had a very tolerable shelter. The snow was scraped away from the interior; and such spars and planks as we could get out of the boat were spread at the bottom, with a sail over them, to form our bed.

These arrangements were accomplished as the long twilight turned into total darkness. We lay down, and prepared to pass the dreary hours till the sun rose again as best we could. I thought of the time I had spent on the iceberg, and, remembering Andrew’s words, I did not despair. I slept, as did my companions, many of them with the careless indifference to danger which has become the characteristic of most British seamen.

I was awoke by the excessive cold, though we kept as close together within our shelter as we could, for the sake of the warmth. My companions were still asleep, and I was afraid if I moved of arousing them. The storm still raged furiously without, and I could not again compose myself to sleep for the noise it made.

I lay awake, listening to its whistling sound as it blew over the ice, when I fancied that I heard a low grumbling noise, like a person with a gruff voice talking to himself. At last this idea grew so strong on me, that I crept quietly to the curtain in front of our hut, and, lifting up a corner, looked out. The stars were shining forth from the sky, and there was a thin crescent moon, by the light of which I saw a white monster leaning over the gunwale of our boat, examining, it appeared to me, the things in her. I was not long in recognising the visitor to be a large, white, shaggy polar bear. He first took up one thing, and, smelling it and turning it over on every side, replaced it. When, however, he came to a piece of beef, or anything eatable, he without ceremony appropriated it, and was thus rapidly consuming our slender store of provisions. “This will never do,” I thought to myself. “If this goes on, we shall be to a certainty starved.”

We had fortunately brought the two guns into the hut, that they might run no risk of getting damp. They were both loaded; and, drawing back, I got hold of one, hoping to shoot the bear before he was disturbed. If I aroused my companions first, they to a certainty would make some noise, which would probably frighten away our visitor, and we should lose both the bear and the provisions.

When I again put my head from under the sail, he was still at work. I was on my knees, and had got the gun to my shoulder, when he saw me. He was fortunately on the other side of the boat; for no sooner did his eye fall on me, than he began slowly to walk along the side, holding on by the gunwale, evidently intending to get close to me. “My best chance is to hit him in the eyes,” I thought, “and blind him. If he once gets hold of me, he’ll give me a squeeze I shall not like.”

Before he had moved many steps I fired full in his face. The report of the gun, and the loud growl of rage and pain uttered by the brute, instantly awakened my companions. They started to their feet, but had some difficulty to understand what had happened. The bear, on being wounded, nearly fell headlong into the boat; but, recovering himself, he endeavoured to find his way round to the spot where he had seen me.

“A bear, a bear!” I sung out. “Get your lances ready and run him through.” Most fortunately I had hit the monster so directly in the eyes, that he could not see his way, and this prevented him from rushing directly on me; for though I might have leaped out of his way round the back of the hut, he would in all probability have seized upon one of my half-awake companions.

This momentary delay gave time to Andrew to spring to his feet, and to draw out a lance from under the sail. He appeared at the entrance of the hut, just as the bear, slightly recovering himself, was rushing forward, with his mouth open and covered with foam, and a stream, which I could see even in that light, trickling down his face. His paws were stretched out, and in another instant he would have had me in his deadly clutch, when Andrew dashed at him with his spear. The bear seized the handle, and endeavoured to wrench it from his assailant; but the iron had entered his breast, and, in his attempt to rush on, it pierced him to the heart.

The rest of the party were by this time awake, and, armed with whatever they could first seize, and seeing what had happened, they all set up a shout of triumph, every one of us forgetting entirely for the moment the very precarious position in which we were placed.

We had several reasons to be satisfied with having killed the bear. In the first place, had he put his snout into our hut while we were all asleep, he might have killed some of us; secondly, we had saved most of our provisions by our discovering him; and what he had taken was amply repaid by the sustenance his flesh would afford us, and the use to which we might turn his skin, for bedding or clothing, should we have to remain any time on the ice.

“Our friend there has given us a lesson to keep a better look-out in future,” remarked Andrew. “If it had not been for Peter, he might have carried off every bit of our food; so we must take it by turns to keep watch. I’ll stand the first.”

“And I the second, willingly,” I exclaimed. “I’ve no inclination to sleep, and if I did, I should be fancying all the time that the bear had me in his grasp.”

So it was arranged each man should take an hour at a time, as near as could be guessed, and thus all would have plenty of rest, and be fit for work in the daytime.

Before the rest turned in again, we drew the carcase of the bear close up to the hut, so that, if any of his fellows should come near him, they might to a certainty be seen, and shot without difficulty.

Extraordinary as it may seem, the rest of the people were very soon asleep again. Andrew and I were the only two awake. The gun which had been fired was reloaded, and, having placed the two close at hand, we sat down just inside the curtain, leaving only a small aperture on either side of it, through which to look out. We also placed a couple of lances within our reach, that, should any more bears visit us, as we hoped they might, we might have a better chance of killing them; for their flesh, though rank, is not unwholesome, and, at all events, it would enable us to support life as long as it lasted, independently of the value of their skins.

After we had made our preparations, Andrew advised me to lie down and to try to sleep; but I told him that I was too much excited, and that it was impossible, and that, if he would allow me, I would much rather sit up and watch with him; or, if he liked, I would watch while he slept, and would call him if anything occurred.

“Neither can I sleep, Peter,” he answered: “You and the rest have chosen me to guide you, and I doubly feel the responsibility of my office; for I need not tell you that I think our position very bad. From the first time I saw you, I found that you were well educated, and I since have had reason to place confidence in you. Now, Peter, I am afraid that, when we are surrounded with far greater difficulties than we have yet met with, some of these poor fellows will lose heart, and sink under them, unless their spirits are kept up, and a good example is set them. I therefore rely upon you to assist me, by showing that, young as you are, you do not shrink from danger, and that you place a firm reliance on the power of God to deliver us, notwithstanding all the appearance to the contrary.”

I told Andrew that I thanked him for the confidence he placed in me, and that I hoped I should not disappoint his expectations.

“I know you will not, Peter; but I tell you that our courage will be severely tried,” he answered.

“Why, don’t you think the ship will be able to take us off?” I asked.

“I do not think she will, Peter,” he replied. “Before the gale is over, she will have been driven very far to the south; and it will take her so many days to beat back, if the wind should continue foul, that Captain Rendall will consider we must have perished, and that the attempt would be useless, and that he should not be justified in thus risking the safety of his ship.”

“What hope, then, have we?” I asked.

“My greatest hope is, that we may be seen by some other ship passing after the gale has moderated,” he answered. “If that fails to us, we must endeavour to pass the winter on shore. Others have done so before now; and I do not see why we should not manage to live as well as the ignorant natives who inhabit this country.”

“If we had powder, and shot, and fuel, and timber to build a house with, I should say we might do it,” I answered; “but as we have none of these things, I am afraid we shall be frozen to death as soon as the cold sets in.”

“The natives live, and we must try to find out how they contrive to do it,” was the tenor of his answer.

Miserable as the night was, and slow as the hours seemed to drag along, they at last passed away. We had no further visits from the bears, nor were we otherwise disturbed. When daylight came, there was nothing in the prospect to cheer our hearts. On one side there was a sheet of ice covered with snow, with high rocky cliffs beyond; and, on the other, the wide expanse of ocean, still tossing and foaming with the fierce storm which raged over it.

Chapter Thirty.

Our companions slept on, and, while they happily were able to forget the hardships and dangers which were in store for them, we could not find it in our hearts to awake them. At last, one after the other, they awoke. As they did so, they went and looked out at the dreary prospect I have described, and then returning, sat themselves down in gloomy silence in the hut.

On seeing the discontent, not to say despair, which their countenances exhibited, I remembered the conversation I had with Andrew in the night, and determined at once to try and follow his advice; so I went and sat down with the rest.

“Well, mates, things don’t look very pleasant, I’ll allow, but they might be worse, you know,” I remarked.

“I don’t see how that can be,” answered one of the most surly of the party. “Here are we left by our ship, without food or a house, at the beginning of the winter; and it’s cold enough, I’ve heard, in these parts, to freeze up every drop of blood in the veins in ten minutes.”

“Andrew and Terence, and Tom and I, were once much worse off, when we were left on the iceberg,” I observed. “As for food, too, we’ve got a good lump there, which came to our door of its own accord. We’ve every chance of taking plenty more; and I’ve heard say the country is full of game of all sorts. Then, as for a house, we must try and build one, if no ship comes to take us off. Mind, I don’t say that none will come; only if we are left here, we need not fancy that we are going to die in consequence.”

“Faith, Peter’s the boy for brightening a fellow’s heart up,” exclaimed Terence, rousing himself from the despondency which he, with the rest, had begun to feel. “Why, mates, perhaps after all we may have as merry a winter of it as if we got home, though they do say the nights are rather long at that time.”

Terence’s remark did more good than mine. There was something inspiriting in the tone of his voice; and in a few minutes all hands were ready to perform their best,—at all events, to do what Andrew considered for the public good. He first ordered us to have breakfast, for we had been in no humour to take any supper the night before. We accordingly brought in our provisions, and were about to commence on them, when I suggested that we should preserve them for times of greater necessity, and begin, instead, upon the bear.

“But how are we to cook him?” asked some one. “We can’t eat him raw, and we’ve got no oil for the kitchen.”

The kitchen was the cooking apparatus I have spoken of. It was simply an oil lamp with several wicks, and a couple of saucepans, a kettle, and frying-pan to fit over it. The crude oil drawn from the last fish we had killed served for it.

“As to that, lads, he’ll supply the oil to cook himself with,” remarked Andrew. “Let us skin him and cut him up at once, and then he’ll be all ready to pack if we want to travel from this place.”

We soon cut up the bear, very clumsily I will allow, for there was no butcher among us; and collecting the fattest parts to serve as fuel for our lamp, we soon had some bear-steaks frying away under our noses. We took a very little of our biscuit in addition, but Andrew advised us to economise it to the utmost.

The skin was taken off as neatly as we could manage the work, and then, having scraped the inside clean, we hung it up in front of our hut to dry. We spent the whole day anxiously looking out for some sign of the gale abating, for we knew that every hour of its continuance would send our ship farther and farther away from us; but in the evening it blew as hard as it had done at the first.

The wind was too high, and cut us too keenly, to allow us to go from under shelter of our hut in search of seals; but we were not entirely idle. In the first place we drew the boat up to it, and secured our remaining provisions. We also cut up the flesh of the bear into long strips, that they might more easily dry in the air; besides this, we heightened the walls of our habitation, and sloped them inward, so as to enable the sail to cover the hut more completely.

The greater number of the men, however, showed little inclination to work, preferring to pass the day sitting crowded together in the hut in a sort of dreamy forgetfulness of the present, without speaking or moving. I own that few positions could be much more disheartening than ours; but I saw the necessity of keeping the intellects awake, ready for active exertion, if we would save our lives.

We cooked some of our bear-steaks for supper, and boiled up a little cocoa; so that for food we might have been worse off. We found also that the lamp, small as it was, diffused a warmth throughout the hut, which enabled us to pass the night much more agreeably than we had the previous one.

The bears seemed to have been aware of the fate of their brother, for none came near us. Another morning dawned; and though the gale still blew strong, it had somewhat abated; but yet it was still necessary to keep under shelter.

“As soon as the wind drops we must go sealing,” remarked Andrew. “If we could get a good number of seals, or unies, or walrus, we might keep our lamp burning all night and day through the winter. Their flesh is not bad to eat; and then, you know, we can make boots, and caps, and jackets of their skins. We must look out to get them before the cold sets in.”

“Then you think we shall have to winter here?” I asked.

“If the gale had taken off yesterday, I should have expected our ship back; but now I do not think she will attempt it,” he answered positively. We were standing outside the hut, some way from the rest. “However, two ships were left in Pond’s Bay when we came away, and they may see us as they pass, or we may pull off to them if the sea goes down. Peter, we should be thankful that things are no worse. Cold and inhospitable as is this country, we have the means of existing in it, if we have sense to employ them. Even now the wind has dropped and the sea has gone down. It will be as well to get our signal-post up, in case either of the ships should pass.”

I agreed with him; and calling Terence to accompany us, we told the rest that we were going to the edge of the ice to see how things were, and to set up a signal.

Our flagstaff consisted of a spar, with a lance handle as a topmast, and the flag was the jack used in the boat to show that a fish was fast. We took also some line, to serve as shrouds for the staff. We three set off, then, not without some difficulty in advancing; for the wind was still so strong, that we were almost taken off our legs.

The distance, however, was not so great as we expected, for the sea had broken off the edge of the ice for full half a mile. Some of the pieces had been washed away, and others had been hurled far up on the surface, so as to form a high and rugged wall. We had taken the precaution of bringing two hatchets with us; and having selected the highest hummock near the sea, we chopped the summit of it perfectly level. We then cut out blocks of ice, and piled them up, till we had built a pyramid some ten feet high. We left places on which we could stand, to enable us to do this. We then planted our staff in the centre, and secured the shrouds to some large blocks of ice we had dragged up for the purpose.

We thus formed a very conspicuous mark, but we felt that it was too probable the ship might not pass near enough to see it. For some minutes we contemplated our work, and then prepared to return to our companions. Just then Terence happened to turn his eyes to the north-east. He stopped and looked eagerly out. “A sail, a sail!” he exclaimed; “she’s coming down right before the wind.”

“It’s the only way she could come, mate,” said Andrew, not in the least way excited by the announcement. “But are you sure you see a sail? Don’t you think it may be the wing of a seafowl?”

“’Tis too steady for that,” answered Terence. “If we get to the top of the flagstaff hummock, in another minute or so we shall know to a certainty.” In spite of the cutting cold wind to which we were exposed, we stood for several minutes eagerly watching the white spot which Terence asserted was a sail.

I asked if it might not be an iceberg; but Andrew said an iceberg never travelled fast before the wind, because, although a great deal of it was exposed above the water, there was a much larger proportion below, on which, of course, the wind had no influence; and he wound up his observation by pronouncing the spot to be the topsail of a ship.

“Huzza, then, mates, we shall get off this time,” shouted Terence, who had no wish to winter in the arctic regions.

“We must not be too sure of that,” answered Andrew. “Let me ask you, even if we are sure, how are we to get off with the sea there breaking on this sheet of ice? We must not let our hopes blind us to the truth.”

“You are always croaking, Andrew,” said Terence in a vexed tone. He was, like many another man, without much hope, and who, the smaller it grows, is the more inclined to be angry with the person whose plain-speaking tends still further to decrease it.

On came the ship, scudding at a great rate before the gale, right down along the edge of the floe. She seemed, as well as we could then judge, to be about three miles off. We were obliged to descend, and to run about to keep ourselves warm; but every instant one of us was climbing to the top of the hummock to watch the progress of the stranger. She was drawing near when some of our companions discovered her; and we now saw them come hurrying along over the ice towards us, forgetting everything in the expectation of being able to escape from our perilous situation.

By the time they reached us she was just abreast of us, running under her fore-topsail at headlong speed before the wind. How anxiously we watched her, expecting her every instant to heave to; but she glided onward, unconscious of the agony and despair she was creating in our hearts. We waved our hats; we pointed to our signal staff; we leaped up on the hummock; we even, in the extravagance of our eagerness, shouted out at the top of our voices, as if sounds so faint could reach her. But all we could do was vain. On she passed in her course, as if we were not in existence.

“Fire our guns,” said Andrew; “they might possibly be heard.” But in their hurry our companions had left the guns at the hut.

All hope of making ourselves seen or heard was now abandoned; the ship flew by, and soon her hull sank below the horizon. Some of the men, on this, gave way to impious exclamations of discontent, but Andrew checked them. “It is God’s will that we remain here, mates,” he said. “How do we know but that it is for our benefit that we are left where we are? That ship, which we are now so anxious to be on board, may before the night be crushed beneath an iceberg, or perhaps dashed to pieces on the rocks in sight of home, while we may yet be destined to see again our country and our families. Believe me, mates, all is for the best; and though we don’t see the way we are to escape, it may now be ready for us.”

The tone of religious confidence in which Andrew spoke, contributed much to revive the spirits of our companions. The gale was also rapidly decreasing, and hopes were therefore expressed that, should the last ship appear, the boat might be able to reach her, even though she might be too far off to see our signal. However, day drew on, and no ship appeared. The returning darkness warned us that we must get back to our hut without delay, or not only might we not be able to find it, but it might be visited by our friends the bears, and our remaining provisions might be destroyed. We accordingly hurried back, and were only just in time to prevent the latter catastrophe; for, as we got to the hut, we observed three large objects moving over the snow towards the land. They were no doubt bears, who, when they saw us running up, had been frightened away from the food, to which their keen scent had attracted them. I rushed into the hut for a gun, intending to make chase after them; but Andrew told me to desist, as I should not have the slightest chance of killing one, and that they might possibly turn upon me and destroy me.

The third night we spent in our hut was much colder than the former ones, though there was less wind. One of us by turns kept watch, as before. I was asleep, and it was Terence’s watch, when I was awakened by a loud noise like thunder, and a shout from him which made all the party start on their feet. The noise continued. It too much reminded us of that we had heard when the ice, in which we had been beset in our passage through Baffin’s Bay, had begun to break up.

“What’s the matter now?” exclaimed several voices.

“The floe must be separating, and we are perhaps going to be drifted away from the shore,” remarked old David, “But never mind, mates, we can’t be much worse off than we were, and a short cruise won’t do us any harm.”

“How can we tell that the floe will not break up into small pieces, or perhaps drift out and join the middle ice?” I inquired. I thought such a thing might possibly occur, and I wished to secure our retreat on shore.

“There is little doubt that the floe is separating,” said Andrew. “But at all events we can do nothing while it remains dark. As soon as daylight appears, we must decide, without loss of time, what is to be done.”

The noise continued for a considerable time, then all was silent; and I suppose that the piece we were on had already begun to drift away from the main body of ice. I fancied, even, that I could feel a peculiar undulating movement, as if it was acted on by the waves. As soon as morning dawned we eagerly looked out. At first there appeared to be no change; but, as the light increased, we found that between us and the main ice there was a wide passage of nearly a quarter of a mile.

The floe we were on was about a mile across in the narrowest part, and two or three miles long. It seemed, while we watched the land, to be advancing towards the northward and eastward. Our flagstaff was on the same piece, and was not disturbed. But another object met our sight which engaged all our attention. It was a sail to the southward. With what deep anxiety we watched her, I need scarcely say.

“Which way is she heading?” was the general cry.

“To the southward,” exclaimed old David. “She’ll not come near us, depend on that, mates; so we need not look after her. She must have slipped by in the night or in the grey of the morning, or we should have seen her.”

“But don’t you think she may be the Shetland Maid come to look for us?” I asked. “Who is certain that she is standing away from us? for I am not.”

One or two sided with me; but the others were of opinion that the stranger was standing from us.

Meantime the floe drifted out to sea. There was no immediate danger, and we might have remained as secure as we were before, provided it did not come in contact with any other floe, which, had it done, it would probably have broken into fragments, and we should have forthwith perished. All hands were too busy watching the ship to think much on this subject. We watched, but we watched in vain.

If she was our own ship, Captain Rendall must have fancied that he had come as far north as he had left us; and seeing the ice broken and changed, and floes drifting about, he must have thought we had perished. At all events, after an hour’s earnest watching, the most sanguine were compelled to acknowledge that the top-sails were gradually again sinking in the horizon; and before long they were out of sight, and all hope of escaping that year was at an end.

By this time we had been, as it were, somewhat broken in to expect disappointments, so no one expressed his feelings so strongly as on the former occasion. We were also obliged to think of means for securing our present safety. Two things were to be considered. If we remained on the floe, should it break up we must be destroyed; besides this, we could procure no food nor fuel.

After Andrew had heard all of us express our opinions, he resolved to quit the floe and retreat to the main ice. “We’ll stay on the edge of it for one day, or two if you wish it, and we’ll keep a bright look-out for a ship; but it’s my opinion that the last has passed, and that we had better make up our minds to winter on shore. The sooner we begin our preparations the better chance we have of weathering out the time.”

This plan being agreed to, two hands were sent to unstep the flagstaff and bring it forward, while the rest of us dismantled our hut, and dragged the boat to the edge of the floe nearest the shore. It was time that we should be off, for the channel had already widened to half a mile. Though the water was perfectly smooth, the boat, with all our party and our stores, had as much in her as she could conveniently carry.

A quarter of an hour served to carry us across, when we again hauled our boat up; and choosing the highest hummock in the neighbourhood, we again erected our flagstaff. Before, however, we began to build a hut, we examined the condition of the ice round us, to ascertain whether there was a probability of another floe breaking away with us. On finding it, according to the opinion of the old hands, perfectly secure, we put up a tent in the same manner as the last, though of rather a larger size. This done, we cooked and ate the first food we had tasted that day, for we had been too busy all the morning to think of eating.

Andrew then urged us to make diligent search for any of the oil-giving fish which we could catch. Accordingly, armed with our harpoons and lances, we set out, leaving one hand to guard the boat and to keep a look-out for a passing sail.

We first kept along the edge of the ice; but meeting with no success, we turned towards the land to look for any pools which might exist in the ice. After looking about for some time, we came to one nearly the eighth of a mile across. In it were a shoal of narwhals or sea-unicorns, every now and then rising above the water to breathe, and then diving down again in search of prey. Could we have brought the boat so far, we should have had no difficulty in killing them, but now it depended how near they would rise to the edge. It was tantalising to watch them and not to be able to get hold of any.

We divided into three parties, for we had as many harpoons; and at last one rose within reach of David’s weapon. He launched it forth, and struck the fish in the neck. Down it dived rapidly; but it soon had to return to the surface, when we hauled it towards the edge and despatched it quickly with our lances, after which we hauled it upon the ice. In the same manner another was afterwards killed. These were indeed prizes; for, though not so valuable as the seals, their flesh and oil were most welcome.

We found that they were too heavy to drag over the ice whole, so we cut off the blubber and some meat, and left the kral for the benefit of the bears. The horns would, under other circumstances, have been valuable; but we could not afford to burden ourselves with more than what was absolutely necessary.

We at last got back to the hut with our prize; and the hand who was left to watch reported that no sail had appeared. We had now an abundance of oil, so that we were able to dress the flesh of the bear in it, as also to keep up a light in the hut all night long. The next day, if the Shetland Maid did not return, and if no other ship appeared, we were to form our plan for future operations. All that day the look-out hummock was occupied by one of our party with his eye anxiously looking seaward; but hour after hour passed away, and no sail appeared.

What a sinking at the heart, what a blank, desolate feeling came over us, as our last hope vanished! Hitherto we had been buoyed up with the expectation of relief; now the most sanguine felt that the last whaler had departed for the season.

It was my turn to look out just before it grew dark. The floe on which we had floated for so long had now drifted a considerable distance off, and had broken into three almost circular pieces. As I watched, it was met by several other floes of equal magnitude, which were revolving, some in one direction, some in another, without any apparent cause. Then began a most furious contest between them,—hurled together, they overlapped and crushed on each other, till in the course of a few minutes they had broken into a thousand fragments. I was indeed thankful that we had not remained on the floe in the hopes of being seen by a ship.

Darkness coming on, and it being impossible any longer to distinguish objects at a distance, I returned to the hut. I found my companions sitting round our kitchen in the hut, and discussing plans for the future. Some were still anxious to get on to the southward in the boat, in the hopes of overtaking some whaler which might have stopped to fish; but Andrew strongly urged them at once to abandon all hopes of escaping that year, and at once, while they had health and strength, and the weather remained moderate, to make preparations for the winter. He showed the extreme improbability of our overtaking ships which must have been driven very far to the south by the gale, as also the danger of being swamped should the slightest sea get up; while, should we not succeed in our attempt, we should be worn out, and, incapable of providing for the future, must inevitably be destroyed.

I voted with Andrew, and also spoke in favour of his plan, showing, from what I had read and heard, that, notwithstanding the cold, with good management we might preserve our lives and our health throughout an arctic winter. At last this plan was agreed to by all, and we lay down once more to sleep away the time till daylight.

We were up by dawn; and, having laden our boat with all our stores, we commenced our toilsome journey. Our purpose was to make the land, and then to travel along over the ice till we should arrive at some valley, or at the mouth of a river, where we might hope to find some clear water and opportunities of catching fish.

Though the land appeared quite near, it was late in the day before we reached it. What, then, was our disappointment to find not even a beach on which to build our hut for the night! The high black cliff came completely down to the sea, and was fringed by masses of ice piled up against it, so that we could not even reach it without difficulty and danger. Our only course, therefore, was to continue along under it, till we should meet with the opening of which we were in search.

I ought to have said that we had protected the keel and bilge of our boat by securing some spars along them, so that she was able to pass over the ice without damage; but the labour of dragging her was very great, and some even proposed leaving her behind rather than have the trouble of conveying her, till Andrew reminded them that on her might depend our only means of procuring food, and of ultimately escaping next year.

We performed a distance of nearly three miles along the shore, under the same lofty unbroken cliffs; and then Andrew called a halt, and we made our usual preparations for passing the night.

Chapter Thirty One.

For three days we travelled on; and, supposing that we advanced ten miles a day, for thirty miles not a break of any description appeared in the overhanging cliffs on our right. The men had begun to grumble; and those who had wished to proceed in the boat by water, asserted that, if their advice had been followed, we should have made greater progress with less fatigue.

Andrew told them in answer that if they would but keep up their spirits, and persevere for one day longer, we should in all probability come to some opening where we might get on shore, and near which, if the sea was smooth, we might launch the boat and try to get some more fish. This encouraged them; and the following morning, with renewed spirits, we continued on our way.

As the day drew on, there appeared but little chance of Andrew’s promise being fulfilled, for, far as the eye could reach, was the same unbroken line of cliff. It was drawing towards sunset, when I caught sight of what appeared to me a ship thrown on her beam-ends, close under the cliff. The rest laughed at me, and telling me I must be deceived, asked me how a ship could get there.

I answered I was certain that I was not mistaken, and pointed out to them the object I had seen. It appeared to me, when I first saw it, as in a sort of shallow cavern under the cliff; but before we could make any progress towards it, the shades of evening completely obscured it, and long before we could reach it we were obliged to encamp.

We talked a good deal about it as we sat round our lamp in our usual ice cottage; and I dreamed all night that a strange ship had appeared, and that we were to go on board in the morning.

When the morning did really come, I eagerly looked out for the first rays of light falling on the object I had seen. It was now more clear than ever. I first pointed it out to Andrew.

“Well, if that is not a real ship, those are very extraordinary marks at the foot of the cliff,” he observed. “Peter, I believe you are right. It is a ship, and it may prove the means of our preservation.”

Without waiting for any meal, although Andrew insisted on the boat being dragged with us, we advanced towards the supposed ship. David certainly did not believe she was one. “If that’s a ship,” he remarked. “I don’t see how the natives would have spared her. They would have been swarming about her like bees, and would have pulled her all to pieces long before this.”

“I still say she’s a ship, and that we shall see before long,” I answered.

It is extraordinary how the imagination helps out the vision in a case of this sort. I believed that there was a ship, so I saw her; another man did not believe that there was a ship there, so could not perceive her.

We travelled on for three hours before all doubts were set at rest by the appearance of a large ship, thrown, as I said, on her beam-ends, but with her masts and rigging still standing. An overhanging cliff projected to the south of her, and within it was the cavern in which she lay, so that she could only be seen from the point from which we had advanced towards her.

This providential circumstance instantly raised our spirits, and we could not help giving a loud shout of joy, as we hurried on to get on board her. Even should we find no provisions, we could not fail of obtaining numberless things which would prove of the greatest value to us.

As we got near her, her condition at once told that she had been lost amongst the ice; and probably thrown up on to a floe by another striking her, she had drifted afterwards into her present position. For some minutes we stood round her, examining her with a feeling approaching to awe. She looked so shattered and weather-worn, and of a build so unusual, that I fancied she might have been there frozen up for centuries.

At last Terence climbed up her sides, followed by all of us. Her decks were uninjured, and were thickly covered with snow, which had contributed, I suppose, to preserve them. Her masts and lower rigging were standing, though the topmasts had gone over the side. David pronounced her to be a Dutch whaler; and such, I believe, she was. Her hatches were on, and even the companion-hatch was drawn over, which made us think that the crew had remained on board till she was driven into her present position, and had afterwards quitted her with the intention of returning.

This opinion was confirmed when we went below. We found the cabin in good order and the furniture uninjured, for the water had not reached it. On going into the hold we discovered an abundant supply of provisions in casks; but all her tubs were empty, which showed us that she had been wrecked on her outward voyage, before having taken a fish. Her boats also were gone, which showed the way in which her crew had escaped from her. When I first went below, I half expected to find all her people frozen to death, as I had heard of such dreadful occurrences having taken place.

Several books and papers were found in the cabin, but as none of us could read Dutch, we were unable to learn anything from them; but Andrew and David were of opinion that she had been there five years at least, perhaps longer.

Having taken a cursory glance throughout the ship, our appetites reminded us that we had eaten nothing that morning, so we set to work to examine the condition of the stores on board. The meat in the casks was perfectly good, and so even was the biscuit and flour, which had been preserved, I conclude, by the cold from the weevils and the rats. The only animals which had visited the ship were the bears. They had not failed to scent out the good things she contained, but not having been clever enough to lift the hatches off, they had, fortunately for us, been unable to appropriate them.

We were not long in knocking the head out of a cask and in collecting materials to form an abundant meal, which we had not enjoyed for so many days. The cook’s caboose was still uninjured on deck, and his pots and kettles were hung up inside it, with a store of coals and wood ready chopped up. We accordingly lighted a fire, and two of the men, who professed to be the best cooks, prepared our breakfast.

In the cabin we found in jars and canisters a profuse store of tea, coffee, cocoa, sugar, and several sorts of preserved fruits and sweetmeats; indeed there was an ample supply of everything we could require. The cabin was, of course, very much on one side, and moreover very chilly; but, for the pleasure of sitting at a table, we carried our meal down there to eat it.

Andrew took care not to let the opportunity pass by of reminding us that our heartfelt gratitude was due to the Great Being who had so mercifully guided our steps to this spot, where, without trouble or risk, we might provide ourselves with the necessaries of life.

After breakfast I saw some of the men hunting busily about the ship; and from their look of dismay, when, getting hold of a brandy cask, they found the contents had run out, I guessed that their object was to enjoy themselves for a short time by drinking, and I am afraid that many of our party would not have refrained from doing so to excess.

I told Andrew, who was still in the cabin examining the lockers what I had remarked.

“Never mind,” he answered. “All the glass bottles containing spirits or liquid of any sort have also burst with the cold, so that there is no fear of any of them getting drunk. There are a few stone bottles with hollands, and as they were only partly filled they seem to have something left in them; so I will hide them away in case they should ever be required.”

We had just concealed them in a locker in the captain’s state-room, as his sleeping cabin is called when some of the rest returned, grumbling very much at having found nothing to drink. Andrew reproved them mildly for their discontent, when we had been thus led so mercifully to the means of preserving our lives.

“If you had discovered any liquor you might have made merry at first,” he observed; “then you would have become worse than the brutes, without sense; and lastly, you would have been left without strength or energy to bear the difficulties we shall have to encounter. Let me tell you, lads, the liquor you are so fond of only gives you false strength just for a short time after you have drunk it, and then leaves you much weaker than at first. To my mind, people in this climate are very much better without spirits; and in any other climate for that matter. There are times, when a person is almost frozen or overcome with weakness, when they may be of use; but in most cases we are better without them.” Andrew’s reasoning had some effect on his hearers, particularly when they found themselves forced to follow his advice whether they would or not.

We now all assembled together in the cabin to decide on what we should do. Some were for remaining on board, and making ourselves as comfortable as we could; but Andrew at once pointed out the madness of such a proceeding. He argued that even in summer the position under the cliff was excessively cold; that the ship was in no way fitted to serve as a habitation during the winter, when there were days no person could be exposed for ten minutes together to the air without suffering; and that, although there was an abundant supply of salt provisions, unless we could procure some fresh meat, our health would materially suffer.

“My advice, mates, is,” he continued, “that we travel along the coast as we first intended, till we arrive at the sort of place we were in search of when we fell in with this wreck. When we have found it, we will at once build a warm house, and then set to at hunting and fishing till the animals desert the country, and the sea is frozen over, and the long winter nights set in. We will, however, first build some sledges, such as the natives use, and we will carry on them all the things we require from the ship to our station. If any one has a better plan to offer, let him propose it.”

“I think Andrew’s plan is the one to follow, and I propose we set about it without delay!” I exclaimed.

“And so do I,” said Terence.

“And I don’t see that it’s a bad one,” observed David.

“And I think it a good one,” said Tom Stokes.

The rest offered no opposition; indeed they did not know what else to propose. I must observe that now when we had nothing to do with whaling, in which the others had more experience, Andrew fully showed his superiority and fitness to command, so that we all readily obeyed him whenever he thought fit to issue any orders. However, as he felt that he only held his authority on sufferance, he judged it best, as in the present instance, to consult all hands before the formation of any fresh plan for proceeding.

The whole day was spent on board in examining the ship, and in forming our plans, and in making some of the preliminary arrangements. The first of them was to build a couple of sledges, which Andrew showed us how to do, very similar to those used by the Esquimaux. We also packed up some tea, cocoa, and sugar, as also some meat and bread to serve us for present use, till we could bring up the remainder to our winter station.

Among other valuable articles were some carpenter’s tools and two fowling-pieces, some canisters of powder, with a supply of shot, thus giving us the means of killing any game we might meet with. It was, as I said, very cold; but as there was a stove in the cabin, we lighted it, and soon got the cabin comfortably warm. Probably, had we been left to our own devices, we should have all gone to sleep without keeping any watch; but Andrew ordered one of us to keep watch by turns throughout the night, both to supply the stove with fuel and to guard against fire. Had it not been for this precaution, we might have slept away some of the valuable hours of daylight.

As soon as we had breakfasted, Andrew gave the signal for us to start. Some wanted to leave the boat till we had found the spot we were in search of; but he insisted on its being brought along, showing that we must have her at our station, both to enable us to catch fish and to assist us in escaping on the following summer; and that, as she was laden and prepared for the journey, it would be wise to bring her at once.

We could only drag one sledge with us, and on that were placed a few additional stores. Having closed the hatches, we once more left the ship. We travelled on the whole of that day and the greater part of the next, without meeting with a fit place to fix on for our winter station. Some of the grumblers declared that we never should find it, and that we had much better go back to the ship.

The prospect was certainly very discouraging, and even Andrew was beginning to think that there was no help for it but to return, when, on reaching a high black rocky point, we saw a bay spreading far back and surrounded by hills of only moderate height, from which the snow had melted, leaving exposed a variety of grasses and lichens which clothed their sides. I shouted with joy on seeing this to us cheering prospect. To people under different circumstances, the view might have appeared bleak and gloomy enough.

On getting round the point, we landed on firm ground for the first time since leaving our ship; and, strange as it may seem, I felt as if half our difficulties and dangers were over. On climbing up the nearest hill, we saw that a stream, or rather river, ran into the centre of the bay, and that from its mouth to the sea there was a clear channel. Nothing could have been more in accordance with our wishes. We might here be able to supply ourselves with fish, and from the appearance of the country, there would probably be an abundance of game.

We continued along the ice till we saw, a little above the beach, a level spot on the side of the hill, well sheltered from the north. Andrew pointed it out. “There, my lads, is the place where we must build our house, and we must make up our minds to live in it for the next ten months or so at least,” he observed. “We will therefore make it as comfortable as we can, for we shall not be able to shift our quarters when once the frost sets in, let me tell you.”

We proceeded up to the place he indicated, and under it we hauled up our boat on the beach. On a further examination of the spot, we resolved to establish ourselves there, and immediately set to work to erect a habitation which might serve us till our winter-house was ready. For this purpose we collected some large stones which had been washed down from the neighbouring cliffs, and rolled them up the hill. With these as a foundation, with the addition of earth and small stones and turf, we in the course of a couple of hours had raised a wall very much in form like those we had been accustomed to form of snow. Our sail served as a roof; and in an excursion made by some of the party a short distance among the hills, a quantity of a low shrubby plant was discovered, admirably suited for a mattress till we could get bedding from the ship.

Andrew assured us that we had every reason to be thankful that our position was so good; and so I think we had, for it most certainly might have been very much worse. But those who stay at home at ease by their warm firesides would not consider a residence in a hut on the side of a bleak hill, throughout a winter within the Arctic Circle, as a position much to be envied. Everything, we must remember, is by comparison; and I again repeat, we had good reason to be grateful.

The first thing the next morning, off we all started with the sledge, to commence the work of bringing the things from the wreck. The distance was twelve miles, so that we could at the utmost only take one trip in the day. We were all in good spirits, for we had slept soundly and had enjoyed a good meal; but before long, some of the men began to grumble at the distance.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have chosen some place nearer the wreck to build our house,” said one.

“It’s a pity the ship weren’t driven ashore nearer the bay,” cried another.

“Now, for my part, I’d rather let the things remain where they are, than have to bring them all this way,” exclaimed the worst grumbler of the party.

“Or, as I said before, we’d better by half take up our quarters on board,” put in one of those who had advocated that measure at first.

“Now, let me tell you that you are an ungrateful set of fellows to talk as you do,” exclaimed Andrew, who had listened to all that was said. “You saw yourselves that there was not a spot of ground nearer than the place we have chosen fit to winter in; and as to complaining that the ship is no nearer the bay, why, if she had been driven into any other spot than the exact one where she is, she would have been seen by the Esquimaux, and plundered of everything she contains. You’ll soon find the want of everything we can get from the wreck; and if any one chooses to winter aboard her, we’ll leave him plenty to eat, but if he isn’t frozen to death we shall have him back with us before very long, that I know.”

Most of the party sided with Andrew on this as on other occasions, and the grumblers were silenced. As we were perfectly unencumbered, we advanced at a rapid rate, and in about three hours we got up to the ship. We scrambled up the sides by the chain-plates, and were all soon on deck.

“Hillo, who left the companion-hatch open?” exclaimed Terence, who was the first who got aft. No one recollected who could have been guilty of the neglect. “No matter, there’s no chance of any one having been here while we were away,” cried Terence, as he jumped down the companion-ladder.

He had not got down many steps before he sprung up again in a great hurry, with a face of terror, his head shoving back the next man who was following him, and sending him sprawling on deck, while a loud angry growl was heard issuing from the cabin.

“Och, murder!” he exclaimed. “There’s Davy Jones aboard, as sure as my name’s Terence O’Connor.”

“Shut to the hatch there!” shouted David to some of us who were standing abaft the companion. We drew it over just in time to prevent a white head and a pair of sharp claws covered with shaggy hair from protruding out of the hatchway. At the same moment David, who had a lance in his hand, thrust it down, and again a fierce snarling growl was heard.

“Why, mates, we seem to have caught a bear,” observed Andrew, who had come aft to see what had happened.

“We may have caught a dozen, for what I know,” answered David. “And provided they haven’t eaten up the flour, and sugar, and beef we left here, the more there are the better.”

While he was speaking he was pronging away with his spear down the companion-hatch, and the growling grew louder and fiercer.

The bear was now severely wounded and enraged to the utmost; for in spite of the enemies he might have guessed were ready to receive him, he tried to force his way up. “Hand a gun here, and we’ll see if we can’t settle him,” cried David; but the guns had been left leaning against a block of ice outside the ship, and before we could recover them the bear had made another attempt to get out of the trap. Evading the points of the lance, he had seized the handle in his teeth, and then climbing up the ladder, he forced the top of the hatch off with his head, and seemed about to take the deck from us. Andrew, however, had got another lance, and just as his terrific claws were close to David’s shoulder, he gave him a severe wound in the neck. At the same moment I ran up with a gun, and firing into his mouth, he fell dead across the hatchway.

That he was not alone we were convinced by the appearance of another shaggy monster, who now shoved his head up to see what his companion was about. As he showed his head from under the dead body and opened his mouth to growl, David plunged his lance into it with such force that he fell mortally wounded down the ladder, carrying the weapon with him. We had some work to drag the dead bear out of the way, he was so heavy a fellow.

“Are there any more of them?” cried Terence, who, discovering that they were mortal foes, had completely recovered from his fright. He spoke as he was peering into the cabin, and about to spring down the ladder. “Och, yes, here comes another.”

And sure enough a third bear appeared at the doorway, with a look which seemed to ask what we wanted there. As he was too sagacious to come within reach of our spears, and our remaining gun was loaded only with small shot, we scarcely knew how to despatch him. It would have been very dangerous to descend the ladder, for one pat of his paw was sufficient to tear any man’s arm off; so we had to enrage him by shaking our lances in his face, and then pretending to run away to induce him to follow us.

At last we succeeded almost too well; for with a speed of which I did not think a bear capable, he clambered up the ladder, and was making for the side of the ship with the sensible intention of escaping, when we closed in upon him and caused him to stand at bay. He looked at us savagely, singling out one of us to attack, and then rushed upon David; but the old whaler’s lance was ready, and the bear received a mortal thrust in his breast. Notwithstanding this, he rushed forward grinning savagely; but David sprung out of his way, and another lance pierced him to the heart.

We had thus secured some very valuable prizes, and we even hoped there might be more of them below, provided they had not eaten up the stores on which we counted. Not one liked to be the first to go down till we had ascertained whether the cabin had any more occupants. At last none appearing. Terence with cautious steps descended the ladder, ready to spring up again should another bear show his face. Stepping over the carcase of the bear, which lay at the foot of the ladder he looked in. Presently he shouted to us to follow, and we all quickly descended,—anxious to see what damage the bears had committed.

Fortunately all our stores had been returned to the lockers, and they had broken open only one, and had got hold of a jar of brown sugar and another of flour, which, in their clumsy endeavours to eat, they had sprinkled about the cabin. We calculated from this that they had not been there long; for if they had, they would have routed out everything eatable they possibly could get on board.

As it was, our carelessness had been productive of more good than harm, for the skins of the beasts would make us some warm clothing, while their flesh would afford us food for a long time, if we could get no other fresh meat.

Our first care was now to construct a number of hand sledges, for the conveyance of our stores to our winter quarters. The small ones were made so that one person could drag them over the smooth parts of the ice; and on having to pass any rough portions, two or three persons might tackle together, passing one sledge after the other.

To carry the woodwork for our house, we were obliged to form a large sledge, which would require nearly all the party to drag it forward. Taking care to close all the hatches, we loaded our sledges with provisions, blankets, and some additional clothing, and set forward on our return to the bay.

Chapter Thirty Two.

We travelled briskly along over the ice, our encounter with the bears affording us abundant matter for amusement. I forgot to say, that not having time to flay them, we had shoved them down the main hatchway, to wait till the next day. Now and then one or other of the sledges, not carefully constructed, would come to pieces, and we had to wait while it was being repaired; otherwise we got on very well, and, I suspect, faster than if we had not had them to drag after us. At length our journey was almost accomplished, and in a few minutes we expected to arrive at what we already had begun to call our home,—it was, indeed, the only home we were likely to have for a long time to come.

We had rounded the rocky point, and were dragging our sledges towards our hut, when what was our surprise to see a group of human beings, clothed from head to foot in skins, standing round it, examining it apparently with much curiosity! On seeing us they drew up in a line, and advanced slowly towards us down the hill. They numbered twice as many as we did; and as they had arms in their hands, Andrew ordered us to stop, to see what they would do.

“Show them that we wish to be friends, lads, and place your lances and the guns on the ground,” said Andrew.

We did as he directed, and instantly the Esquimaux, for such we saw they were, threw aside their spears and knives, and cried out, “Tima, Tima!” and advanced with outstretched arms towards us.

We uttered the same words and advanced also. We soon saw by the expression of their countenances that they were amicably disposed towards us; and from their manner of behaving, we suspected that we were not the first Europeans they had met.

They all appeared comfortably clothed. The men wore deerskin jackets with hoods to them, to be drawn over the head; their trousers were generally of sealskin, made to reach below the knee, and their boots were of the same substance, with the hair inside. Some of them had shoes over their boots, and an under-jacket of deer-skin. The dress of the women was very similar, except that their jackets had long flaps behind, reaching almost to the ground, and were pointed in front. There were several children, who kept in the background, and they were all dressed exactly like the older ones; and funny little beings they were, reminding one forcibly of hedge-hogs, or rather of little bears and dancing dogs.

They advanced slowly in a line as we walked forward; but when we had got near enough to see each other’s faces they stopped. Whatever sign we made they instantly imitated; and there was a merry, good-natured expression in their countenances, which gave us great confidence in the friendliness of their disposition. Seeing this, we walked forward and put out our hands; they did the same; and presently there was as warm a shaking of hands between us, as if we were the oldest friends each other had in the world.

This ceremony being over, they accompanied us to the hut, which we examined with some little anxiety, to see if they had taken anything away; but nothing was disturbed. The few things, also, which had been left in the boat had not been touched.

“You are honest fellows, that you are,” exclaimed Terence, shaking them all round again by the hand, at which they seemed mightily pleased. We talked away at them, and they talked to us for some time, making all sorts of signs and gestures; but at the end of it all we were not much the wiser, for neither of us could understand a word each other said.

However, we did not want them clustering round us while we were unpacking our sledges, and we were in a hurry to stow our things away before night; so Terence undertook to draw them off. He managed it by taking one by the hand, and making him sit down at a little distance and seating himself beside him; then, making a sign to the first to sit quiet, he led another to the spot, and so on till they all were seated. They then remained very quiet, looking on with an expression of the greatest surprise at the various things we produced. It was almost sunset when they got up, and again shaking hands, took their departure over the hills. By this we supposed that their habitations were at no great distance.

The next morning we were up by daybreak to return to the ship; and as we did not think it wise to leave our property without a guard, Terence and Tom were selected to remain, with two of the guns, to shoot any game which might appear, or to defend themselves if necessary. The ship had not been visited; and having laden our large sledge with some wood from the wreck for building the house, and two small ones with provisions, we set forward on our return.

Terence reported that the Esquimaux had again visited the hut, and had invited him and Tom, by signs, to accompany them over the hills; but that, on his shaking his head and sitting still, they had understood that he could not leave his post, and they went away.

As soon as we had taken some food, Andrew urged us to set about building our winter house without delay, lest the severe frosts should come on before it was finished. The plan he proposed, and which was adopted, was to divide it into two compartments, one for a store-house, the other for our dwelling and cooking room. The latter was fifteen feet square and eight feet high, with a sloping roof, and a hole, with a trap in the top, to let out the air and to serve for a chimney. All this would require a great deal of wood, besides the turf and stones with which we also proposed to build it. We had no means of forming windows; but, as we had heard it was always night during the winter, we thought we should not want them.

The next morning we were off again for the wood, as well as some bears’ flesh and some of the other provisions. Terence, who managed so well with the natives, remained as before, and he reported that they had come, and seemed much surprised with the work we had performed; that they had examined the tracks of the sledges and the additional stores, and then, after a great deal of talking, had returned from whence they came.

The following morning we were disturbed by a loud noise of dogs barking and men shouting; and on looking out of our tents, we saw our Esquimaux friends looming through the twilight, each of them accompanied by a troop of seven dogs harnessed to a sledge formed of the jaw-bone of a whale and sealskins. They came close up to us, talking very rapidly, and pointing in the direction in which the ship lay.

When we prepared to start on our daily expedition, they showed their evident intention of accompanying us. David and some of the other men did not like this, and were afraid that if they saw the ship they might appropriate everything on board; but Andrew assured us that he was certain they had no such intention, and that their purpose was to assist us, otherwise, as they might easily have tracked us along the ice, they would have set off by themselves.

The Esquimaux laughed very much when they saw us trudging along with our clumsy heavy sledges; and calling their dogs to stop with a Wo Wo-hoa, just as a carter does in England, they beckoned each of us to get on to a sledge behind each of them, and placing our sledges on theirs, away we drove. Off went the dogs at full gallop, they guiding them with their whips and their voices along the smoother portions of the ice. It was amusing and very exhilarating to feel one’s self whirled along at so rapid a rate, after being so long accustomed to the slow movements of our own weary feet, and our spirits and courage rose accordingly.

Their sledges were between eight and ten feet long, and about two wide. The runners of some were of the jaw-bones of a whale, and of others of several bones lashed together. To prevent the wearing out of the runner, it is coated with fresh-water ice, composed of snow and ice, rubbed and pressed over it till it is quite smooth and hard.

The dogs are harnessed with thongs of sealskin, passed over the neck and fore-legs, and leading along the back. Great care is taken to select a good leader, who goes ahead with a longer trace than the rest, and in the darkest night, by keeping his nose to the ground, can always find out the right track. The driver uses a whip with a lash many feet in length, but he guides his team more by words than blows; and it is amusing, when the leader hears his own name called, to see him looking round for his master’s orders.

As we drove along, I bethought me I should like to learn the name of my companion; so I pointed to myself, and pronounced my own name several times, “Peter, Peter, yes, I Peter;” and then I touched him, and nodded for him to speak.

He quickly understood me, and uttered the word Ickmallick; and when I repeated it, he seemed much pleased. After this, whenever I touched anything, he always mentioned the name, and so did I; and in that way in the course of our drive we had both of us learned something of each other’s language.

When they arrived at the ship, they appeared very much astonished; and we could only account for their not having seen her, by supposing that they had come from inland, or from the south, and that their fishing excursions never took them in this direction. Their astonishment was much increased when they clambered on board and descended into the cabin; and they seemed almost afraid to touch the numberless strange things they saw. A looking-glass was hanging up; and by chance one catching sight of his face in it, he was riveted to the spot; then he began to move slowly and to make grimaces, which he continued to do, increasing the rapidity of his movements, till he broke into shouts and shrieks of laughter, till most of his companions assembling around him, they became convulsed in the same extraordinary manner.

As we had no time to lose, we covered up the glass, which quieted them; after which we led them into the hold, when no sooner did they see the dead bears than they rushed up to them, and began examining them minutely to see how they had been killed. After this they treated us with much greater respect even than before, evidently admiring the prowess which had enabled us to overcome so many of the few enemies with whom they have to contend. We immediately set to work to remove the lining of the ship, the bulkheads, and such other woodwork as we thought would prove useful to us in building our house. The Esquimaux gave us to understand by signs that they would carry it for us; and as we threw it over the side of the ship, they packed it on the sledges, each sledge carrying six or seven hundredweight. They seemed to fancy that the ship was ours, and that we had come in her; and of course we did not wish them to think otherwise.

Among the things in the cabin, we had discovered a number of knives, hatchets, cotton handkerchiefs, and other articles, which had evidently been brought for the purpose of trading; and some of them we now produced, and signified that we would bestow them on them, as rewards for carrying our property. The way we did this was to load one of our own sledges,—one of our men dragged it on some little way, and then Andrew, pointing towards the bay, went up to him and gave him a knife or a handkerchief. As a hatchet was three times as valuable, he dragged the sledge three times before he received it. My friend Ickmallick’s black eyes sparkled when he saw this, and his countenance was wreathed with smiles for two reasons—first, for the pleasure of comprehending what he meant, and also at the thoughts of receiving so large a reward for his labour.

We were so pleased with the honest countenances and manner of these people, that we had no fears about entrusting the wood and other heavy things to them. If we had known how scarce and valuable wood is to them, we might have hesitated more before we did so.

Among our other labours, we skinned the bears; and, reserving the more delicate portions of the meat, we gave the rest to them. To our surprise, they immediately began to eat large lumps of it raw, though we had lighted the caboose fire to cook our own breakfast, and offered to cook for them.

Some they divided among their dogs; and, as soon as masters and beasts had devoured their meal, they set off together towards the bay, leaving us still busy on board. When they were gone, we were not quite satisfied that we had done wisely in giving them the things. They might, knowing them to be ours, carry them off; or they might have misunderstood our signs, and fancy that we had given them to them. However, the thing was done, and we must abide by the consequences.

We calculated, at the rate they travelled, that they would easily make two journeys in the day; so we employed ourselves in getting loads ready for them on their return. We were not disappointed. In little more than two hours they made their appearance; and so well had they understood us, that those to whom we had promised knives or handkerchiefs for carrying one load held out their hands for them, while those who were to make three for the hatchets signified that they had performed part of their contract.

We now entrusted some of them with the bears’ flesh and skins, and with some casks of salted meat; and we also piled up, outside the ship, a load of wood for each of them, to see if they would come and take it. As soon as they were off, we followed with the more valuable stores; but, as we trudged slowly along, we envied their more rapid means of conveyance, and agreed that we would get them to carry us as well as our stores on the following day.

We had got about two-thirds of the way, when they appeared before us with a fresh relay of dogs. They had come out expressly to meet us; and, putting us and our loads on their sledges, away we trotted quickly towards the hut. We were much delighted when Terence informed us that everything had been safely delivered into his hands.

The next morning we set to work in earnest about our house, and, as we all worked, we progressed much to our satisfaction. During the day the Esquimaux arrived with the loads of wood we had left prepared. They did not show any intention of visiting the ship when we were not there to deliver the things to them; indeed, after watching us at work for a little time, they all went away.

I have not space to describe our proceedings minutely. We first got our storehouse completed, and all our things stowed away in it; and then we built our dwelling-house, and surrounded it with clods of turf, fancying that we had constructed a very comfortable edifice. The Esquimaux paid us daily visits, and carried us to the ship to bring away whatever we required. We were always careful to shut down the hatches before leaving, to keep out the bears; and this they seemed to consider some religious ceremony, for they never attempted to visit the ship during our absence.

I never met with people, in any part of the world, who possessed a more peaceable friendly disposition—such perfect honesty and constant good-humour, with a very fair amount of intelligence. Their courage and perseverance are expended in overcoming the beasts which form their subsistence, and there are few opportunities of developing their intellectual qualities; but in many respects they are, in my opinion, far more civilised than a large proportion of their brethren in the south, who claim to be the most enlightened nations in the world.

Chapter Thirty Three.

We had been all so busy in building our house, and in bringing our stores from the ship and in stowing them away, that none of us had wandered a quarter of a mile from our location. The Esquimaux seemed perfectly to understand what we were about; and when they saw that our work was completed, they came with their sledges and made signs to us that they wished us to come and pay them a visit at their abodes.

By Andrew’s advice, five of us were to go first, and the remainder were to go on our return. Terence and I and David, and two other men, signified our willingness to accompany our new friends. I stepped into Ickmallick’s sledge, and the rest were accommodated in those of the others; and the dogs being told to get up and step out, off we set at a good rate along a valley in which the snow already laid pretty thickly. As there were no fields, or hedges and ditches, we were able to follow the most convenient track, though certainly not the shortest, for we twisted and turned among the hills for the sake of getting a level road so as to treble our distance, as we found afterwards that we could reach the spot to which we were bound almost as speedily on foot.

The Esquimaux location was on the shore of a little bay, opening on a deep fiord to the south. It was a sheltered and romantic spot; and in some respects, we at first thought, superior to the one we had chosen. As we turned round a point of rock we came in sight of a number of tents of some size, arranged along the shore at regular distances from each other. As we appeared, their inhabitants rushed out to meet us—men, women, and children—while the dogs, no insignificant part of the establishment, hurried up the hill to get out of our way, not liking our appearance, or perhaps their masters’ whips, which were used with no sparing hand.

We drove up to the tents in fine style, and were welcomed in the most cordial manner. These tents were supported by a pole of whalebone, about fourteen feet long, placed perpendicularly in the ground, with four or five feet projecting above the roof. The sides and roof were formed of the skins of seals sewed neatly together. The tents were about seventeen feet long, and at the entrance about seven feet wide, increasing towards the farther end, where the bed-places were situated, where they are about nine feet in width. The beds were formed of a shrubby plant strewed over about a third of the tent, and kept separate by pieces of bone laid across from side to side. The doors opened towards the south-west. They also were formed of a bone framework, with the skins stretched on them, and were made to overlap each other. The entrance to the tents was much the lowest part. The skins were pegged down to the ground with curved bits of bone, also parts of the whale; indeed, everything about the tents may be said to have been made of skin and bone, as in truth were all the articles we saw in the possession of our friends.

It was worthy of remark how well these people adapted their mode of living to the circumstances of the country, and how ingeniously they made use of the very few objects they had the means of obtaining. I thought to myself, suppose a civilised man, or indeed a whole army of civilised men, were to be placed in this region, not having been accustomed to whaling and sealing, as my companions were, every one of them would perish within a few hours, or days at the utmost; and these people, who are called savages, have contrived to supply themselves with all the conveniences and necessaries of life. We felt that had we not discovered the wreck, and afterwards fallen in with them, we might have fared very ill indeed.

When we got off the sledges, our new friends invited us to enter their tents. I went into Ickmallick’s, where he introduced me to his wife and children. She was young, and had a pleasant amiable expression of countenance, which made me feel quite at home. She was employed in cooking the family meal. Her fireplace was composed of a few stones in the corner of the tent, with a lamp of oil and moss in the centre; and over it was suspended a small stone vessel of an oblong shape, and larger at the top than the bottom, containing a mess of sea-horse flesh, with a quantity of thick gravy. The dinner was just ready; so all of us sitting round in a circle, with the dish in the centre, we set to. I had become in no ways particular, or I might not have relished my meal, for there was rather more blood and dirt in the mixture than might have been wished for; but some of the ribs were very palatable, though I should have preferred some bread and salt and potatoes with them.

I considered my appetite good; but Mr and Mrs Ickmallick and their interesting family distanced me far, and in a few minutes each of them had eaten more than would have served me for the whole day.

The dish out of which we were eating was made of whalebone, one piece being bent for the sides, and another flat piece being used for the bottom, and sewn so neatly together that it was perfectly water-tight. The knives they used were made of the tusk of the walrus, cut or ground sufficiently thin for the purpose, and retaining the original curve of the tusk.

In the tent I observed a number of the weapons they use in the chase. The spears or darts employed in killing seals and other sea animals are something like harpoons, consisting of two parts, a spear and a staff.

The latter is of wood when it can be obtained, and is from three and a half to five feet in length; and the former is of bone, ground to a blunt point. The lines attached to the spears are cut out of sealskin, well stretched and dried, and then coiled up like a rope. To serve as a float, a large bladder is used.

Most of the ladies had their faces tattooed, and some their hands; and I certainly did not think it improved their beauty, though I suppose they did. The children were fat and rosy, and really interesting-looking, and so were some of the younger girls; but my gratitude for their hospitality prevents me saying anything about the elder ladies. Their jet-black glossy hair hung down carelessly over their shoulders, and was not tied up like that of the people we had seen on the Greenland coast. They carried the younger children on their backs, in little sacks or hoods, just as the gipsies do in England.

The women were under five feet in height, and few of the men surpassed five feet four, five, or six inches. The complexion of the young women was very clear, and by no means dark; their eyes were bright and piercing, and their teeth of pearly whiteness, though their lips were thicker and their noses flatter than people in England consider requisite for beauty.

From the quantity of clothes they wore, both men and women appeared a much larger people than they really were, especially the children, who looked like little balls of skins.

When we came out of the tents we found the air very cold; and to warm himself, Terence began to jump about and to snap his fingers, singing at the same time. This seemed particularly to strike the fancy of our hosts; and in a little time men, women, and children had joined us in a reel, and we were all dancing and singing away furiously, till we could scarcely move for fatigue.

It made us all very merry, and improved the intimate terms on which we were with our friends. As the sun was sinking low, we made signs that we wished to return home; but they signified that they could not part so soon from us, and that we must pass the night at their huts. As we felt perfect confidence in them, and were willing to see more of their habits and customs, we determined to remain. We had some more singing and dancing, and they were highly delighted at seeing Terence and another man dance an Irish jig, they carefully noting every movement that was made.

As soon as it was over, two of them got up, and amid shouts of laughter performed a very good imitation of the dance. When the dance was over, we were invited into the tents to partake of some more of their savoury messes, they probably thinking that as we had eaten so little, according to their notions, the first time, we must be hungry again. They pressed us much to eat more; and Ickmallick selected what he considered the tit-bits, and watching his opportunity, endeavoured to pop them into my mouth, not at all to my satisfaction, though I endeavoured to conceal the annoyance I felt lest I should hurt their feelings, for I saw it was done with the kindest intentions.

The meal was scarcely over when notice was given that a herd of sea-horses, or walruses, or morse, as they are sometimes called, had come into the fiord, and were at no great distance from the bay. The opportunity of catching some of these animals, so valuable to the Esquimaux, was not to be lost, so, seizing their spears and lines, they hurried down to the beach.

Here their canoes were placed bottom upwards on two upright piles of stones, about four feet from the ground. This is done to allow the air to pass under them, and to prevent them from rotting. They are about seventeen feet long and rather more than two feet wide, decked over, except a hole in the centre in which the rower sits, and round this there is a high ledge to prevent, the sea washing in. Two feet of the bows float out of the water. The timbers or ribs, which are five or six inches apart, and the stem and stern, are of whalebone; and they are covered with the skins of the seal or walrus sewed neatly together. When driftwood can be found, they employ it. The paddle is double, and made of fir, the edges of the blade being covered with hard bone to secure them from wearing.

With the greatest caution the Esquimaux lifted their canoes into the water, to prevent them rubbing against the rocks, and they then helped each other in, we assisting the last man. I observed that each of them took a few handfuls of sand with him in the canoe. As we stood on the beach, we could see the walruses blowing like whales as they came up the fiord, and our friends eagerly paddling out towards them. The canoes went along as fast as a quick-rowing gig.

The walrus may be said to be something like a bullock and a whale, and it grows to the size of an ox. It has two canine teeth twenty inches long, curving inward from the upper jaw; their use is to defend itself against the bear when Bruin attacks it, and to lift itself up on the ice. The head is short, small, and flattened in front. The flattened part of the face is set with strong bristles. The nostrils are on the upper part of the snout, through which it blows like a whale. The fore-paws are a kind of webbed hand; they are above two feet long, and may be stretched out to the width of fifteen to eighteen inches. The hind feet, which form a sort of tail-fin, extend straight backward. They are not united, but are detached from each other. The termination of each toe is marked by a small nail. The skin of the animal is about an inch thick, and is covered with a short yellowish-brown coloured hair. The inside of the paws in old animals is very roughened, from having to climb over the ice and rocks. Beneath the skin is a layer of fat, the thickness varying in different seasons.

The canoes were soon among the herd, and several of the animals were immediately struck. Instead, however, of darting away, each of the wounded animals made at the canoes, and their occupants had to pull hard to keep out of their reach. When the other walruses saw this, they also swam towards the canoes to the assistance of their companions, and a regular contest commenced between man and beast.

The men, by the clever twists and turns they gave their canoes, managed to keep out of their way, the wounded animals all the time growing weaker and weaker; and whenever any of those untouched approached so near as to endanger the canoes, they threw a handful of sand so dexterously in their eyes, that the enraged animals were blinded and confused, and immediately swam off.

I regretted that we had not our firearms with us, as we might very soon have killed a large number without difficulty, provided the report did not frighten them away.

It was quite dark by the time the canoes returned to the beach, each towing in triumph the dead body of a walrus. On hearing of their success, the people who remained on shore set up shouts of joy, and hastened down to carry off the blubber and the more delicate morsels for their next day’s meal. The greater portion of the flesh was stowed away in holes in the bank, lined with a coating of snow, and thickly covered over with large stones, so that no animal could get at them. They have no fear in this climate of their food being destroyed by vermin or small insects.

We thought our friends had done eating for the day, but the temptation of some fresh blubber was too great to be resisted, and to our astonishment they again set their pot on to boil, and ate till they could eat no more.

Terence and the rest of my party fared in the same way, in their respective tents, which I did. Ickmallick, when he had done eating, made a sign to me to occupy a corner of the family couch; and the whole family were soon snoring away and making a no very harmonious concert, when a dozen or more dogs sneaked in and took up their quarters at our feet.

The lamp was left burning all the night. It is a shallow crescent-shaped vessel of potstone, or what is called soapstone from its soapy feel. The wick is composed of dry moss, rubbed between the hands till it is quite inflammable. It is disposed along the edge of the lamp, on the straight side, and a greater or smaller quantity lighted, according to the heat required or the fuel that can be afforded.

I was much pleased by observing the clever way in which the lamp is made to supply itself with oil, by suspending a long thin slice of whale, seal, or sea-horse blubber near the flame, the warmth of which causes the oil to drip into the vessel, until the whole is extracted.

The wick is trimmed by a piece of asbestos stone, and a quantity of moss is kept ready to supply the wick.

Immediately over the lamp is fixed a framework of bone, from which the pots are suspended; as also a large hoop of bone, having a net stretched tightly within it. Into this net are put any wet things which require drying, and it is usually filled with boots, shoes, and mittens. The lamp kept up a pleasant heat in the tent during the night, and without it we should have suffered much from the cold, as it was freezing hard outside.

The first thing my hostess did in the morning was to set on the cooking-pot. The toilet was made as rapidly as that of a family of bears, for all they did was to get up and shake themselves. Before they went out, however, they pulled on some shoes over their boots to keep their feet dry, for it had been snowing hard in the night. I was very little inclined to partake of the breakfast, though I did my best to eat a little to please them.

We now explained to our friends that we wished to return; and they showed their willingness to comply with our wish by catching their dogs and harnessing them to their sledges.

In every part of the world the dog is the faithful companion and servant of man, but especially so in these icy regions. I do not know how the Esquimaux could exist without dogs. Not only do they drag heavy weights for long distances at a great rate, but they by their excellent scent assist their masters in finding the seal-holes; and they will attack the bear and every other animal with great courage, except the wolf, of which they seem to have an instinctive dread.

In appearance and colour they much resemble the wolf; but the latter when running always carries his head down, and his tail between his legs, as if ashamed of himself, while they always hold their heads up, and their tails curled handsomely over their backs.

In the winter they are covered with hair three or four inches long and a thick under-coat of coarse wool, so that they can withstand the severest cold, if protected from the wind by a snow wall or a rock.

Their masters treat them very roughly; and, when food is scarce, they leave them to pick up any garbage they can find. They often beat them unmercifully; but in spite of ill-usage the dogs are much attached to them, and, on their return from a journey, show as much pleasure, by jumping up and trying to lick their faces, as any well-bred hounds in England. If they show a disposition to stray, a fore-leg is tied up to the neck, so that they tumble down when they attempt to run.

The females are tended by the women, and treated with great care, and the puppies are often fed with meat and water at the same time as the children. Consequently, when grown up, they always follow women more willingly than men; and when they are drawing a heavy load, a woman will entice them on by pretending to eat a piece of meat, and by throwing her mitten before them on the snow, when, mistaking it for food, they hurry forward to pick it up.

We afterwards purchased a number, which we found very useful for hunting, as also for drawing a sledge; though we never managed them as well as the Esquimaux did.

A drive of a couple of hours carried us back to our house, where we found our companions well, and ready to accompany our new friends on a visit to their tents. We employed ourselves during their absence in thickening the walls of our house, and in getting our boat ready for hunting seals, in order to lay in a good supply of oil for winter use.

We had no time to lose, for every day the weather was getting colder and colder, and the days shorter, and we might expect the winter speedily to set in.

All this time, it must be remembered, there was no want of ice and icebergs on the sea, and snow on the ground; but still, when the sun shone, the air was pleasantly warm to our feelings, long accustomed to constant exposure to sharp winds, which would have chilled the blood of most of our countrymen accustomed to live at home at ease.

We found our house at night colder than we expected; and we resolved to catch as many animals as we could with warm skins, to make ourselves clothing.

The next morning, while the rest of us were engaged about the house, Tom Stokes, who had gone some way along the beach to watch for any seals which might appear, came running back, declaring that he had seen a fierce-looking wild man grinning at him over a hummock of ice, and that he must be one of the mermen he had read about, but which he did not before believe to exist. He said that when he first saw him, he was in the water; that he came out on the ice, and put up his fist, and made faces at him, and that, though he hove a stone at him, he did not seem to care.

“I’ll see what this merman is,” I observed, taking up a gun loaded with a bullet, and following Tom to the spot.

There, sure enough, was an ugly black-looking monster; but instead of a merman, it was a walrus. I got round so as to have a fair shot at its side, and knocked it over sprawling on the ice. It had not strength left to crawl off the ice, and Tom and I going up to it, despatched it with our spears. We summoned the rest, and dragged it home on our big sledge in triumph. We never ceased afterwards to joke Tom about his ugly merman.

Chapter Thirty Four.

We fancied that we had got everything comfortable for the winter, which now, about the middle of October, began to set in with severe earnestness, with heavy falls of snow and strong northerly winds. Our house, on which we had so much prided ourselves, did not keep out the cold blast as we expected; and though we covered ourselves up with blankets, and sails, and skins, and kept up a constant fire in the little stove we had brought from the cabin of the wreck, we were almost perished with cold.

It was after a very severe night, and we were consulting what we should do to keep warm, that we saw the sledges of our Esquimaux friends come dashing along down the valley towards us. We were anxious to return the hospitality they had shown us so we asked them into the house and stirred up our fire, threw some more wood on it, and put on a pot of lobscouse to regale them.

They could scarcely restrain their feelings of dismay when they saw this waste of wood, to them so precious a thing, and by signs they entreated us to desist; reminding us that they had cooked their meat in a very different way. However, as the pot began to boil, there was no necessity for putting more wood on.

They then tried to show us, by significant gestures, that they thought we should be frozen to death in our house when the cold increased. To do this, they shivered very much, then shut their eyes, and stretched out their limbs till they were rigid, and looking round at the walls, shook their heads, as much as to say, “This will never do.” Then they smiled, and explained that they could soon show us how to manage.

Having selected a level spot near our house, they beat the snow on it down till it was quite hard, and then marked out a circle about twelve feet in diameter. They then, from under a bank where the snow had drifted thickly and was very hard, cut out a number of slabs like large bricks, about two feet long and six inches thick. These they placed edgeways on the spot marked out, leaving a space to the south-west for the door. A second tier was laid on this, but the pieces were made to incline a little inwards. The top of this was squared off with a knife by one of them who stood in the middle, while the others from without supplied him with bricks.

When the wall had been raised to the height of five feet, it leaned so much that we thought it would certainly fall in; but still our friends worked on till they could no longer reach the top. The man within then cut a hole in the south-west side, where the door was intended to be, and through this the slabs were now passed. They worked on till the sides met in a well-constructed dome; and then one climbing up to the top, dropped into the centre the last block or keystone.

The rest of the party were all this time busily employed with their snow-shovels in throwing up the snow around the building, and in carefully filling any crevices which might have been left.

While we stood looking on with amazement at the rapidity and neatness with which the work was executed, the builder let himself out as a mole does out of his mole-hill. He cut away the door till he had formed a gothic arch, about three feet high, and two and a half wide at the bottom. From this door in the same way two passages were constructed about twelve feet long, the floor of them being considerably lower than the floor of the hut, so that one had to creep up through them into the hut.

We were wondering how they were to see through the thick snow, when from one of the sledges a large slab of fresh-water ice was produced; and the builder cutting a round hole in one side of the roof, it was let into it to form a window.

After the window was cut, the builder remained inside for a short time, and then invited us to enter. He had collected the snow on one side to form the beds for a family. Round the remaining portion seats were formed, and a place for holding the cooking-lamp.

Indeed the house thus rapidly formed was perfect in every respect. The light which came through the ice was like that transmitted through ground glass, very soft and pleasant, and tinted with the most delicate hues of green and blue. A domed room of the most shining alabaster could not be more beautiful. We found that our friends intended to take up their abode near us; for as soon as they had finished one hut, they began upon others, making signs to us that the first they intended for our occupation.

We would rather, perhaps, for some reasons, that they had selected a spot at a greater distance; but they were so honest and good-natured, that we had little cause to complain. Andrew suggested that though we might not use the hut they had built, we might take a lesson from them, and cover in our house with snow of the same thickness as their walls, procuring from them slabs of ice for the windows.

No sooner was this proposed than we set about the work, at which, when our indefatigable friends observed it, they were so pleased that several of them came to assist us in forming the bricks of snow; and in a short time a thick wall was run up, which made a very sensible difference in the temperature of our room. The next day we covered in the roof, leaving only a very small opening for the chimney. We also built a deep portico before the door, with a second door to it, which prevented the wind from whistling in as it had before done.

Besides this, we built a courtyard to our house, with the walls eight feet high, to protect us from the wind; and at last we began to flatter ourselves that we might be tolerably comfortable, though we had to own that, notwithstanding all the means we had at our command, the Esquimaux were better able to make themselves so.

Our fire, from the constant care it required and the difficulty of procuring fuel, gave us most trouble; so remembering the lamp we had seen in the tents, we resolved to adopt a similar plan.

We had been so busily engaged in improving our own house, that we had not remarked the progress made by our friends in the construction of their habitations. They now invited us to enter them again, when we found all the families established comfortably in them.

After creeping through the two low passages, each with its arched doorway, we came to a small circular apartment, of which the roof was a perfect dome. From this, three doorways, also arched and of larger dimensions than the outer ones, led into as many inhabited apartments, one on each side, and the other facing us as we entered.

The scene presented by the interior was very interesting. The women were seated on the beds at the sides of the huts, each having her little fireplace or lamp, with all her domestic utensils about her. The children crept behind their mothers, and the dogs, except the female ones, which were indulged with a part of the beds, slunk out past us in dismay.

The roof and sides of the inner rooms were lined with sealskin, neatly sewed together and exactly fitting the dome, which gave the whole a very comfortable nest-like appearance. On examination we found that the beds were arranged, first by covering the snow with a quantity of small stones, over which were laid tent-poles, blades of whalebone, and other similar-shaped things; above these a number of little pieces of network, made of thin slips of whalebone; and lastly, a quantity of leaves and twigs. Above all was spread a thick coating of skins, which could not now by any chance touch the snow, and a very comfortable couch was the result.

The lamps were the same as those used in the tents, and were quite sufficient to afford ample warmth to the apartments. Indeed, had the heat been greater, it would have caused the snow to melt, to the great inconvenience of the inhabitants.

I have already described some of their domestic utensils—their pots hollowed out of stone, with handles of sinew to place over the fire; their dishes and plates of whalebone; and their baskets of various sizes, made of skins; their knives of the tusks of the walrus; their drinking-cups of the horns of the musk-ox; and their spoons are of the same material. They also make marrow spoons out of long, narrow, hollowed pieces of bone, and every housewife has several of them tied together and attached to her needle-case.

Every person carries a little leathern case, containing moss well dried and rubbed between the hands, and also the white floss of the seed of the ground-willow, to serve as tinder. The sparks are struck from two lumps of iron pyrites; and as soon as the tinder has caught, it is gently blown till the fire has spread an inch around, when the pointed end of a piece of oiled wick being applied, it soon bursts into a flame, the whole process occupying a couple of minutes.

While speaking of their domestic habits, I may remark that in summer they live on the flesh of the musk-ox, the reindeer, the whale, the walrus, the seal, and the salmon, besides birds and hares, and any other animals they can catch; but in the winter they seldom can procure anything but the walrus and small seal, so that they suffer often from hunger. Then I am sorry to say they are very improvident, and eat to repletion when they have a good supply, seldom thinking of saving for the future.

This is their great fault. I should say that they are a most amiable, industrious, and peaceful people, whose minds are well prepared to receive the truths of Christianity, though at present they appear to have little or no notions whatever of any sort of religion, and none of a Supreme Being.

The children, from their pleasing manners, took our fancy very much. They never cry for trifling accidents, and seldom even for severe hurts. They are as fond of play as other children; and while an English child draws a cart, an Esquimaux has a sledge of whalebone, and instead of a baby-house it builds a miniature snow-hut, and begs a lighted wick from its mother’s lamp to illuminate the little dwelling.

Their parents make for them as dolls, little figures of men and women habited in the true Esquimaux costume, as well as a variety of other toys, many of them having reference to their future occupations in life,—such as canoes, spears, and bows and arrows.

Grown people as well as children use the drum or tambourine in their games. They are fond of notching the edges of two bits of whalebone, and whirling them round their heads to make a humming sound, just as English boys do; and they also make toys like wind-mills, with arms to turn round with the wind.

From an early age boys are taught habits of industry; and when not more than eight years old, their fathers take them on their seal-catching expeditions, where they learn how to support themselves during their future life. They are frequently entrusted, even at that early age, to bring home a sledge and dogs several miles over the ice; and at the age of eleven boys are to be seen in water-tight boots and mocassins, with spears in their hands and coils of line on their backs, accompanying the men on their fishing excursions.

The village had been established a few days when my friend Ickmallick proposed that I should accompany him in an expedition in search of game inland. The Esquimaux had not yet seen us use our guns; but, from having discovered that we had killed the bears and the walrus by some means unknown to them, they were impressed with an idea that we were able to kill any animals without difficulty.

Andrew having no objection to my going, I supplied myself with a store of provisions to last me several days, with a skin and a couple of blankets, a cooking-pot and cup; and with my gun in my hand, I took my seat on my friend’s sledge. Besides the six dogs which drew it, we were accompanied by two brace of hunting dogs, those in the team being also equally serviceable for running down game. Ickmallick had some walrus flesh and blubber for himself and the dogs, and a dish for our lamp. He was armed with a bow and arrows, a spear, and a knife.

I had become possessed of a dog of the name of Tupua, a very fine animal, who had grown very much attached to me, in consequence of my feeding him regularly and treating him kindly. He now followed the sledge with the rest of the pack. Ickmallick cracked his whip, and off we went over the hard frozen snow at a rapid rate. Where we were going to I could not tell, except that our course was about west and south-west.

The first day we saw no game of any description. We travelled, I suppose, about thirty miles; for though sometimes we went along over the hard snow very fast, at others we had to go over very rough ground, and to climb hills. Had I not seen the snow-hut built before, I should have hesitated about accompanying my friend, on account of not knowing how we were to pass the nights. I was, however, not surprised to see him set to work behind a sheltered bank, and in the course of half-an-hour, with my assistance, run up as comfortable a hut as under the circumstances of the case we could desire, with a lamp burning within, and a luxurious bed ready, while another hut, close to it, was run up for the dogs. The dogs being fed, and our pot having produced us a savoury mess, of which my companion ate by far the larger portion, we went to bed and slept soundly till the morning.

We had started about two hours when the sharp eyes of my friend discovered the traces of two musk-oxen on the steep side of a hill. Immediately jumping off the sledge, he unyoked the dogs, and commenced building a hut over it, which might also serve us at night. He then let slip his dogs, who went off at full speed and were soon out of sight, as the nature of the ground did not allow a very extensive view. I let go mine also. But being unaccustomed to walking in the snow, I could not keep up with Ickmallick; so he slackened his pace, refusing to leave me behind, though I urged him to do so, lest we should lose our expected prey. He assured me, however, that the dogs would take very good care of their own business. We went on, therefore, laboriously enough for two hours, over a very rugged country, and through deep snow, when, finding that the footsteps of the dogs no longer followed that of the oxen, he concluded that they had got up with the animals, and were probably holding one or both at bay.

We soon found, on turning a hill, that this was the fact; when the sight of a fine ox at bay before the three dogs cured my fatigue in an instant, and we went off ourselves at full speed to the rescue.

Ickmallick, however, kept the lead, and was in the act of discharging his second arrow when I came up. We saw that it had struck on a rib, since it fell out without even diverting the attention of the animal from the dogs, which continued barking and dodging round it, seizing it by the heels whenever they had an opportunity or when it turned to escape, and then retreating as it faced them.

In the meantime it was trembling with rage, and labouring to reach its active assailants, but, experienced as they were in this service, unable to touch them. It was easy to see that my companion’s weapons were of little value in this warfare, or at least that victory would not have been gained under many hours, as he continued to shoot without apparent effect, finding his opportunities for an aim with much difficulty, and losing much time afterwards in recovering his arrows.

I therefore thought it was time to show what I could do with my mysterious weapon, and putting in a ball, I fired at the animal at about fifteen yards from it. The ball took effect, and it fell; but rising again, it made a sudden dart at us, very nearly catching me as I sprang aside. Fortunately there was a rock rising out of the ground close to us. Behind this we dodged, when the ox, rushing at it with all its force, struck its head with tremendous violence against it.

The animal fell down, stunned for a moment, with a crash which made the hard ground echo to the sound. On this Ickmallick leaped forward and attempted to stab it with a knife; but it was instantly up again, and he was obliged to run for shelter behind the dogs, which came forward to renew the attack. Bleeding profusely as the animal was, its long hair down its sides being matted with blood, yet its rage and strength seemed undiminished, as it continued rushing forward and butting with the same ferocity as before.

In the meantime I had reloaded my gun behind the rock, and was advancing to take another shot, when the animal darted towards me, to the great alarm of my friend, who thought I should be killed. He called to me to return to my shelter, but I had time, I felt, for a cool aim. I fired, and the animal fell not five yards from me. The sight of his fallen enemy made my companion scream and dance with joy, and on his coming up it was dead.

On examining it, we discovered that the last ball had passed through the heart. From the habits of the Esquimaux, I expected that my friend would have lost no time in extracting a dinner out of the ox; but I found that I had done him injustice, and that his prudence was more powerful than his stomach.

He was satisfied with mixing some of the warm blood with snow, thus dissolving as much as he required to quench his thirst; and he then immediately proceeded to skin the animal, knowing very well, what I might have recollected, that the operation would shortly become impossible in consequence of the severity of the cold, which would soon freeze the whole into an impracticable mass.

For the same reason he divided the carcase into four parts, that we might be better able to lift it. As we were unable to carry off our prize, we built a snow-hut over it, setting up marks that we might know the spot again. We however took away a small portion for a meal, which on reaching our abode we cooked, and found excellent.

We were up by daylight to go in search of the other ox, the traces of which we had seen. We searched for it for two hours, when we discovered it grazing on the top of a hill free from snow. There was only one path by which it could escape. That we occupied; and as we advanced rapidly towards it, our shouts and the loud barking of the dogs alarmed it.

First it seemed as if it would rush at us, but its heart failed it and it turned and fled. There was a precipice before it; but it either did not see it, or fancied that it could leap to the bottom in safety. We observed it disappear, and I thought it was lost, and on reaching the edge of the cliff it was nowhere to be seen. My friend, however, beckoned me to accompany him, and winding down the hill, we found the animal at the bottom of the precipice, killed by the fall.

It was cut up in the same way as the first, and a snow-hut was built over it.

We employed the next day in bringing up the flesh and skins of the oxen to our hut; and fortunate it was that we did so, for it snowed so hard that I do not think we should otherwise have been able to find the spot where we had left them. We were out looking for more oxen, when, being on some high ground, I saw some dark objects to the north, advancing over the snow in a line which would bring them to the foot of the hill where we were.

I pointed them out to Ickmallick, but his keen eye had perceived them. They were a herd of deer migrating to the south. They travelled on at a rapid rate, not stopping to graze, nor turning to the right hand nor to the left. My companion pulled me by the sleeve, and urged me down the hill, where he beckoned me to take up my post behind a snow wall, which he with the greatest rapidity threw up.

We had scarcely knelt down when the herd appeared in sight, dashing onward. I waited till I could get a good shot, and fired at a fine buck. I hit him, but he continued his course with his companions. We thought he was lost to us, but he very soon dropped behind the rest. On this Ickmallick let slip the dogs, which he had held all the time in leashes. They were very soon at the stag’s heels, and brought him to bay. He was a fine object as he stood conspicuous on the white sheet of snow, now tinged with the blood which flowed from his side, his antlers still raised in defiance at the dogs barking round him, and yet scarcely daring to attack him. Though deserted by his companions, he fought nobly; but he was already exhausted by loss of blood, and could no longer ward off the attacks of the dogs at his throat.

At last he sank, and we were just in time to prevent him from being torn to pieces by the ravenous dogs. A stroke from Ickmallick’s knife put an end to his torture, and gladly would I have avoided the reproachful glance of his eye as the weapon struck him. This unexpected good fortune made my companion resolve to return home; and he seemed to regret that he had not brought another sledge to carry back our game.

The deer was prepared as had been the oxen, and going back to the hut for a sledge, we conveyed it there before night.

Ickmallick, to my astonishment, made a dish of the vegetable contents of the intestines, which he seemed to consider very excellent, though I could not prevail upon myself to taste it.

The next morning we started on our journey homeward. I could not recognise the face of the country, it was so covered with snow; and still less could I have found my way against the heavy snow which was driving in our faces.

It was slow work, for we had in several places partly to unload the sledge and to go forward, then to return for the remainder of our property. It was, however, satisfactory to feel that we were independent of inns and innkeepers, and that we had ample means of making ourselves comfortable at night. As usual, when it began to grow dark we built our hut, lighted our fire, cooked our supper, made our beds, and were very soon fast asleep.

I awoke at the usual hour, feeling rather oppressed with the heat. I then aroused my companion, whose slumbers were heavy after the five or six pounds of solid flesh he had devoured, and inquired what was the cause of this. He pointed to the door of the hut, which I found was completely blocked up with snow. He laughed to show me that there was nothing to fear, and began making preparations for breakfast.

On further examination of the state of things, I found that we were snowed in, but to what depth I could not say, further than that, as six to seven feet frequently fell in the course of a night, I supposed, as was the case, that we might be buried beneath that depth of snow. This seemed to make no difference to Ickmallick, for he ate away as heartily as usual, and then packed up our goods in preparation for departure.

Having accomplished this task, he began cutting away the snow, so as to form a passage just large enough to admit his body. When this was done, we crept through it into the cold bleak air, and it took us a considerable time before we could enlarge the cavity sufficiently to get out the sledge and dogs with our goods. The heat, with the wear and tear of the journey, had somewhat damaged the runners of the sledge, and we had to melt some snow and to rub it hard over them before the conveyance was fit to proceed. The day closed in before we reached home, but Ickmallick knew the road too well, as did his dogs, to make it necessary to stop.

I fancied that I recognised the cliffs of the coast in the distance, when suddenly just before us I saw some pale lights, like those from gigantic glow-worms, rising out of the ground. The dogs came to a standstill; and voices of welcome rising from the interior, showed me that we had arrived at the village, now covered to the roofs of the huts by snow. The lights I saw were emitted through the ice windows in them. I walked on to our own house, where I found all my companions well; and before long Ickmallick brought in half the deer and a quarter of one of the oxen, which he seemed to consider my share of the produce of the chase.

Chapter Thirty Five.

We thought that we had known what cold was when the winter first began; but when a strong northerly wind commenced, having passed over either a frozen sea or sheet of snow, then we really felt how hard it could freeze. Even the Esquimaux kept within their snow-huts, and we could not venture beyond the shelter of our snow-wall, without instantly having our faces frost-bitten.

It was not till the last day of November that we entirely lost sight of the sun, and the long arctic night commenced. But the night of that region cannot be compared to the dark, gloomy nights of more southern climes. Overhead the sky was generally beautifully clear, and the moon and stars shining on the snow gave a light scarcely less bright than that of day.

About noon, also, there was always a twilight, and in clear weather a beautiful arch of bright red light was seen over the southern horizon. Besides this, the aurora borealis frequently lighted up the sky with its brilliant hues, like some magnificent firework on a grand scale. I watched a very beautiful aurora one night in the south-west, which extended its glowing radiance as far as the zenith.

Fancy a bright arch suddenly bursting forth in the dark-blue sky, sending up streamers of many hues—orange, crimson, and purple—while bright coruscations were emitted from it, completely obscuring the stars in the neighbourhood! Two bright nebulae afterwards appeared beneath it: and about two o’clock it broke up into fragments, the coruscations becoming more frequent and irregular till it vanished entirely.

Even during the coldest weather, provided there was no wind, we could enjoy ourselves in the open air; but the slightest wind made us feel a smarting sensation all over the face, with a considerable pain in the forehead. We could not touch our guns in the open air without our mittens; and when by accident one of us put his hand to anything iron, it felt as if it was red-hot, and took off the flesh exactly in the same manner.

We were very comfortable in our house, but we had to make some alterations. We found it better to stop up the chimney of our stove, and to use the same sort of lamp as the natives, which we were able to do, as we were well supplied with seals and walrus. The Esquimaux used to hunt the walrus throughout the winter, and would frequently venture out to sea on floating masses of ice to attack them, trusting to the wind to bring them back again with their prize.

When a walrus is struck near the edge of a floe, the hunter fastens the line of his harpoon round his body and places his feet firmly against a hummock of ice, in which position he can withstand the very heavy strain of the struggling animal.

Seals are taken in a less dangerous way, but one which requires very great perseverance. As seals require to breathe, they have to make holes in the ice for this purpose, and the Esquimaux watch for them as they are thus employed. Immediately that a man discovers by listening that a seal is working beneath the ice, he builds a snow-wall about four feet in height to shelter him from the wind, and seating himself under the lee of it, deposits his spear-lines and other implements upon several little forked sticks inserted into the snow, to prevent the slightest noise being made in moving them when wanted. He also ties his own knees together with a thong, to prevent any rustling of his clothes.

To ascertain if the seal is still at work, he pierces through the ice with a slender rod of bone with a knob at the end of it. If this is moved, he knows that the animal is at work; if it remains quiet, he knows that he has deserted the spot.

When the hole is nearly completed, the hunter lifts his spear with its line attached; and as soon as the blowing of the seal is distinctly heard, and the ice consequently very thin, he drives it into him with the force of both arms, and then cuts away the remaining crust of ice to enable him to repeat the wounds and to get him out. A man will thus watch for hours together, with a temperature of 30 degrees below zero.

We were able to kill a good many with our guns at a distance as they lay on the ice, when no one could have approached near them. Our sporting, on the whole, was tolerably successful, for we killed a quantity of ptarmigan, grouse, and other birds, besides several white hares. We also killed several foxes and a quantity of wolves which came prowling round our house, and would, I doubt not, have carried off any of our dogs or provisions they could have got at.

Thus the winter passed away without any adventures particularly worth recording. The sun was below the horizon for about six weeks; and though only for a short period at a time, we gladly once more welcomed the sight of his beams.

Our Esquimaux friends continued on very good terms with us; and with our assistance they were always well supplied with food. Andrew took great precautions about our health, and advised us to take daily some of the pickles and preserved fruits we had discovered, to assist in keeping off the scurvy,—as also a daily supply of fresh meat, whether of fish or flesh; and we very soon got over any objection we might have had to seal’s blubber dressed in Esquimaux fashion.

During calm weather we paid numerous visits to the ship, to bring away things we might require; and we were able to afford our friends what was to them an almost inexhaustible supply of wood. Without the aid of our saws and hatchets they could not cut away the stout timbers and planks; and as we had removed the bulkheads and lining of the ship, with the remaining spars, their honesty was not as much tempted as it otherwise might have been.

Our time did not hang on our hands nearly as heavily as might be supposed. We in the first place employed ourselves in manufacturing the skins of the animals we killed into garments of all sorts,—mittens, hoots, jackets, and caps,—so that we were all of us clothed from head to foot very much in the fashion of the Esquimaux.

We took some trouble to trim our jackets and caps with fur of different colours as they do, and the effect produced was very good. We also made models of sledges and canoes, and of all the articles used by our friends, which seemed to please them very much, though I confess they were not more neatly made than theirs, in spite of our superior tools.

When tired of work we used to sit round our lamp at night, and narrate our past adventures, or invent stories, some of which were very ingenious and amusing, and were well worth writing down; indeed, I regret that my space will not allow me to give some which I remember very well, for I took pains to impress them on my memory, thinking them worth preserving. If my young friends express any wish to hear them, I shall be very glad at some future time to write them down for their amusement.

But the subject which naturally occupied our chief attention was the means we should take to regain our native land. We could not hope that any whalers would visit the coast till August at the soonest, and even then it was not certain that they would come at all. David, who was our authority on such matters, said that he had known some years when the ships could not pass the middle ice through Baffin’s Bay to Pond’s Bay; and that, consequently, we might have to pass another year in that place, unless we could escape through our own exertions.

On this the idea was started of building a vessel, and attempting to reach Newfoundland in her, or to try and fall in with some whaler at the entrance of Davis’ Straits.

I cannot say that I very much approved of this plan. I had great confidence in Andrew’s discretion, and I knew both him and David to be experienced seamen, but neither of them knew anything about navigation—indeed David could neither read nor write; and though we might possibly be able to find our way through the ice, when once we got clear we might lose it, and be wrecked on a worse coast than the one we were desirous of quitting. How also could such a vessel as we had the means of building be expected to withstand the slightest pressure of the ice? and, from the experience we had had, I did not think it likely we should be able to get to the south without encountering some of those fearful contests in which we had seen other vessels destroyed.

However, day after day we talked about it; and at least it served to beguile the time, though nothing definite was determined on. We had unfortunately no books, for those we found in the ship we could not read. I had, however, a small note-book in my pocket, and with my pencil, which I used very carefully, I kept a sort of journal across the leaves of the foreign books, thus turning them to some account.

Had it not been for Andrew, I am afraid that few of us would have shown any attention to our religious duties; but he by degrees drew the minds even of the most thoughtless to the subject of religion, till all acknowledged its importance and beauty. He explained to us, to the best of his power, the truths of Christianity, of which most of us had before a very slight and imperfect knowledge. He also proposed that we should unitedly offer up our prayers to Heaven every morning and evening; and from that time we never failed in that important duty.

As I think over the prayers used by that good man, although the words and sentences might have been somewhat unpolished, I feel that the sentiments could not have been surpassed by the most highly educated clergyman—for this reason, that they came from an enlightened mind with an earnest spirit. No words, indeed, could be more appropriate to our condition than those he used.

Early in February the sun again made his appearance, and the day, including twilight, might be said to last from eight o’clock to four, so that we had not a very much shorter day than people in London. The weather, however, was colder than ever, and we were less able to be exposed to the air for any length of time than during the dark months.

About the middle of March there were slight signs of a thaw, the snow being glazed over in the evening, as if the sun had had some effect on it. We also felt a sensible improvement in the temperature, and were soon able not only to wash our clothes, but to dry them in the open air, an operation which rather astonished our Esquimaux friends.

Early in May there was a perceptible twilight at midnight, so that we felt the summer had once more begun.

A little later, ptarmigan, grouse, and other birds made their appearance, and the Esquimaux reported that they had seen the tracks of deer and musk-oxen. Still, far out to sea there was the same dreary flat expanse of ice, covered with a sheet of snow.

I ought to have mentioned that for the sake of being nearer the edge of the ice, where seals could be caught, some of our friends had built for themselves snow-huts on the ice. For this purpose they completely swept away the snow, leaving a flooring of clear ice, which was of the richest and most splendid blue that nature affords. I thought to myself, with these simple materials what a magnificent palace might be built, far surpassing any other style of edifice!

The increasing warmth of the weather now enabling us to work out of doors for several hours together, it was once more seriously proposed that we should begin to build a boat, or, as some insisted on calling her, a vessel, to carry us home. I asked Andrew what he thought on the subject, for he had not expressed any very strong opinion either one way or the other. He replied that he thought there could be no harm in trying to build a small vessel; that we had an abundance of materials and tools, with provisions; and that if we could contrive to make her seaworthy, we might manage to reach one of the places to the south constantly visited by whalers; but if not, we must be content to wait till some ship might pass in the autumn.

He owned that he, for one, should not be inclined to venture out of sight of land; and that, provided we took a good supply of provisions with us, our firearms and powder, our harpoons and lances, after the experience we had had, we could not come to much harm, even if we were compelled to weather out another winter in the arctic regions.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Having determined to build a vessel, we set to work with great energy; and we hoped by ingenuity and perseverance to make amends for our want of skill and knowledge.

Our first task was to break up the wreck, and to convey it piecemeal to the bay; and in this work we were ably assisted by the Esquimaux, who understood that whatever portion we did not require was to be their perquisite. They also shrewdly suspected that we should leave them, if we went away, many of the other treasures we had in our possession. I believe, however, that they really had formed a sincere regard for us, and were sorry to find that we were about to depart; at the same time that they consoled themselves, as more civilised people are apt to do under similar circumstances, with the reflection that we should leave something behind us.

We first had to carry to our store the remainder of the salted provisions; which, had they been left a single night on board after the hatches were removed, the bears would inevitably have got hold of. We then carried off such part of the deck as we required, with some of the timbers and planks.

As we could not get at the keel, we were obliged to content ourselves with the mainmast, to serve as a keel for our new vessel. We laid her down close to the beach just above high-water mark, with a carriage-sledge under her, so as to be able to launch her over the ice. Our intention was to make her a vessel of about sixteen to twenty tons, which was as large as our materials would allow, and to rig her as a schooner for the same reason, and because she would thus be more easily handled.

After much discussion as to the ways and means, we laid down the keel and set up the stem and stern. We next commenced on the ribs, which puzzled us much more to shape them, so as to make the sides of the form we wished, and one side to correspond with the other. However, there is an old saying, that “Where there’s a will there’s a way;” and though not always true, it was so in our case, though we expended six times as much labour and time as we should have done had there been a good carpenter among us to superintend our work. We were unwearied in our labours; we worked all day, and a great part of the night too, for we all felt that on getting it done in time depended our escape from those icy regions that year.

I have described our imprisonment as passed more pleasantly than we could have expected; but yet none of us desired to spend another winter in the same way, and most of us had some friends or relations whom we wished again to see, and to relieve from the anxiety they must be feeling on our account.

We should have worked on Sundays, but Andrew Thompson urged us to desist. Some of the men answered that we were working in a good cause, as we should the sooner be able to return home.

“It is the Lord’s day, and He says we shall not work on it,” answered Andrew. “Therefore it is wrong to work on it; and depend upon it He never intends us to do wrong that good may come of it. We are building a vessel, which we think may be the means of saving us; but He may have arranged differently, and after all our labour it might prove our destruction.”

Terence, Tom, and I at once said we would follow Andrew’s advice; and one or two of the others added that they were not going to work for us if we chose to be idle, so the Sabbath became a day of rest. The Esquimaux wondered when they observed this, and inquired why every seventh day we desisted from work, though so anxious to get our ship built.

Andrew then explained to them that we were commanded to do so by the God we worshipped, and that if we disobeyed His laws He would be angry with us, and that we could not expect to prosper.

Our knowledge of their language was unfortunately far too imperfect to enable us to impart any of the great tenets of Christianity to them; but I do believe that this reply, and the exhibition of obedience to the commands of a Being whom none of us saw, yet willingly obeyed, opened their minds, more than any sermon could have done, to receive those truths whenever they may be offered to them.

Many a time in their snow tents will those untutored savages, during the long night of winter, talk of the God of the Kabbinae (the Europeans), and worship Him unknowingly in His works. They are people of inquiring minds, very capable of receiving instruction; and from their habits and dispositions, I feel assured that were the great light of the gospel placed before them, they would gladly receive its truths, and be brought into Christ’s flock of true believers.

Should there be no other result from the gallant attempts making to discover a north-west passage round the continent of America, than that by those means people have become acquainted with the condition of vast tribes hitherto little known, and thereby it has been put into the hearts of some of Christ’s true soldiers to carry His gospel among them, glorious indeed it will be.

Who can say that the finger of God has not directed our brave countrymen to those regions for that very purpose, although they themselves are ignorant of the influence which impels them; and that, it having been shown how easily the rigours of an arctic winter may be withstood, ere long missionaries may be on their way to reside among the northern, as Christian men have for long resided among the southern, tribes of Esquimaux for the same holy purpose?

We got on very briskly with our vessel. She was not very sightly, certainly, but we thought she would be strong, which was of more importance. After much discussion we determined to give her a round stern, as more likely to withstand a blow from the ice. Her floors were very flat, which was very much owing to the shape of the timbers, which we could not alter; but this was not a fault, as she would better have borne being thrown on the ice.

When we came to planking her, we found great difficulty in making the planks fit the ribs, as any one conversant with shipbuilding may suppose; and we had to fill up under the planks in many places, to secure them to the timbers. We resolved that she should be very strong; so we almost filled her with beams, and double-planked her over after having caulked the first planking.

We had less difficulty in laying down the deck; but for the size of the vessel it was very thick and not very even. Provided, however, it was water-tight, we cared nothing for other defects.

We built up some strong high bulwarks, not forgetting to leave ports of good size to let the water run off should a sea break on board us. We got two spars from the lower yards of the ship which served for masts, and set them up with shrouds, though, as most of the rigging of the ship was rotten, we had some difficulty in finding a sufficient quantity.

We rigged her with a fore and aft mainsail and fore-sail, and a square topsail and a fore staysail and jib, the bowsprit steeping up very much, so that when she pitched there might be less chance of its being carried away.

It is not an easy job to cut out a sail well, though there appears to be no difficulty in it; and I must own that ours did not look very well when we first set them, but by alterations, and making several patches, we got them to stand fairly at last.

We were prudent and made two suits, besides keeping a supply of canvas among our stores.

Our yards and gaffs were somewhat heavy, as we had no proper-sized spars to make them from. We found a good supply of rope on board the ship, from which we fitted our running rigging. At last we had a vessel of some twenty to five-and-twenty tons, in all appearance ready for sea.

The last and not the least important task was to select the stores and provisions we should require, and to make the casks to hold the water tight. Had we had carpenter or blacksmith among us, much of our labour might have been spared; but it must be remembered that we had only a few tools, to the use of which none of us were accustomed, and that nearly every nail we employed we had to draw from the planks and to straighten.

By the end of August our task was accomplished, and it was with no little satisfaction that we walked round and round our vessel to survey our work.

The next thing to be done was to move her over the ice to the centre of the bay, where about two miles off there was open water. When once we could get the cradle on which she rested on the ice, we thought our task would be easy; but to set it going was the difficulty. We tried every means we could think of, but the heavy mass would not move.

An ordinary-built vessel of fifteen tons could not have weighed a third of what ours did. At last we bethought ourselves of cutting away the ground under the cradle, and of placing slips of ice for it to run on. With infinite trouble and no little risk we succeeded in doing this. We gave a shout of joy as we saw our craft moving towards the ice. She glided slowly at first, but her speed increased. She dashed on; and before she reached the ice, while yet on the beach, the cradle gave way, and with a loud crash she fell over on her side. We were in despair, and some gave vent to their feelings in expressions of bitter complaint.

We might shore her up, and afterwards cut a channel for her through the ice, if she had escaped injury; but it would be a work of time, and the season for proceeding to the south might be lost.

Most of the Esquimaux had gone away to catch salmon, and on hunting expeditions, but a few remained; and though they expressed great regret at our misfortune, they seemed glad that we had less chance of leaving them.

Andrew was the only one among us who was calm. “Come, my lads,” he said, “there’s no use looking at what’s happened without trying to set matters to rights again. If we stand here all day without putting our hand to the work, we shall not get the craft on an even keel.”

His taunting words aroused us to exertion; and it was proposed to get the vessel up by driving wedges of ice under her bilge, and since the cradle could be of no further use, to build a way for her to the water, or to where the ice might be thin enough to allow us to break it, so as to form a channel for her to float through.

We laboured away very hard; but our want of scientific knowledge made us despair of accomplishing the task. The first day we did nothing—the next we set to work again, but performed little of the proposed work.

“It’s of no use, I see,” grumbled David. “We may as well make up our minds to spend the rest of our days here.”

While he was speaking, and all hands were standing doing nothing, I happened to turn my eyes to the northward, and there I saw what appeared to me a high land, covered with towers, and houses, and church-steeples, with trees and rocks on either side. Under the land, however, appeared a thin line of water, and dividing it a broad gap, as it were the mouth of some wide river or fiord; but what most attracted my attention was an inverted ship, which appeared above it under all sail.

I at once guessed that this extraordinary appearance was caused by refraction; but the figure of the ship puzzled me. It was so perfect in every respect, that I was convinced that it could not be an ocular illusion, and that there must be some real ship, and that this was her reflection in the clouds. I pointed her out to my companions; and when they saw that all the objects were continually changing and that she remained the same, they were of the same opinion. We therefore resolved to watch, and to get the boat ready to shove off to her should a ship appear; at the same time the great uncertainty of what might really be the case prevented us from feeling any exuberance of joy. It was already late in the day, but none of us could sleep, so eager were we to keep a look-out for the strange ship.

Hour after hour passed away, and still no vessel appeared to relieve our anxiety. Some of the men at length grew weary of watching, and threw themselves on their beds to sleep.

“It was, after all, to my mind but a fancy,” exclaimed Terence, entering the hut with a discontented air. “The figure we saw in the sky was very like a ship, I own; but still I’d bet anything it was no ship at all.”

Andrew and I still held that it was a ship.

“Come, mates,” said David, who had been looking out as eagerly as any of us; “I’ve sailed these seas man and boy, thirty years and more, and so I’ve a right to have my say. Now I’ve often seen just such a sight as we saw yester-even; sometimes we fell in with the ship we saw up in the clouds like, and other times we looked for her and she never appeared, so we supposed that it must have been an iceberg in the figure of a ship which we had seen. Therefore what I say is, that what we saw may be a ship. But if she was a ship, then she ought to have been off here by this time; but if it was an iceberg, then there’s no use troubling our heads about it.”

David having thus authoritatively delivered his opinion, walked into the hut and threw himself on his bed, thereby proving that he considered the appearance we had seen merely the reflection of an iceberg.

I, however, still held to my first opinion, that a real ship alone could have created a figure so perfect in the clouds. Then it must be remembered that I had seen it first, and that the appearance may have somewhat altered before the attention of the rest was called to it. I, however, was so far biassed by David’s opinions, that I went and threw myself on my bed. I slept, but it was very lightly; and all the time I fancied that ships were gliding before me, and that their crews were beckoning me to come on board.

At last, so strong was the impression on my mind, than I got up and went to our look-out place on the top of the nearest hill. Great, alas! was my disappointment, when the same dreary expanse of ice and water met my eye, without a sail anywhere to be seen.

One thing struck me, that the whole surface of the sea was as calm and unruffled as the intervening ice, and that no breath of air was stirring in the heavens. The sun rose as I watched, gilding the pinnacles of the icebergs, which still remained fixed in the bay, casting a silvery hue over the masses of snow yet unmelted on the hills, and making stronger than ever the contrast between the pure white of the snow-covered ice, and the deep blue of the tranquil ocean.

“At all events,” I thought, “no ship can approach us from any quarter unless a breeze should spring up, and till then I may rest in peace.” So I again turned in, and slept as soundly as I had ever done in my life.

I was aroused by my companions, who summoned me to come and assist them in launching our vessel. We all set to work again with a will, and after infinite labour we got her once more shored up; but to drive her towards the element on which we intended her to float, was another affair.

At last we thought that we had succeeded. If we could but move her a few more feet she would be on the ice. Once more she glided on; but on reaching the ice the impetus she acquired was so great that the shores gave way, and with greater force than before she fell over on her side, and in spite of the stout timbers and thick planking, from the imperfection of our workmanship she was fairly bilged.

We were most of us differently affected. Some gave way to despair, and uttered imprecations on their ill-luck, as they called it—others actually wept with grief—while Andrew looked on with calm composure.

“Mates,” he said, turning to those who were loudest in their impious expressions of discontent, “I have always said that everything happens for the best; and in this case, depend upon it, we shall find it so. From the damage our vessel has suffered from the slight shock she received, it is clear she could not for a moment have withstood a common nip; and let me ask you, is it not better to remain here even for another year till a ship takes us off, than to be thrown on a sudden on a floe, with only our whale-boat to preserve us, and perhaps without time to save our clothes or provisions? Let us, rather than be discontented, believe that God, in this as in everything else, has ordered all for our good.”

The calm confident tone in which Andrew spoke had a great effect on his hearers, and not another word of complaint was uttered. While we were at work, we had not noticed that a breeze had sprung up. One by one we were retiring to our hut, when on looking seaward I observed that the whole surface of the ocean was broken into crisp waves; and glancing my eyes to the northward, there I beheld what no seaman could doubt for a moment were the topgallant-sails of a large ship.

I rushed into the hut where my companions were sitting, most of them with their heads sunk between their knees, brooding on our misfortune, except Andrew, who stood with his arms folded, meditating on our future plans, and asking assistance whence alone assistance could be given.

“A sail! a sail!” I exclaimed. My voice aroused them from their lethargy. They looked at my countenance, and seeing that I was in earnest, like madmen they rushed from the hut. Every eye was turned towards the point I indicated. There, sure enough, was the sail I had seen; and without waiting to secure any provisions, we hurried down towards the boat, but Andrew called us back.

“We should not go empty-handed, mates, among our new friends, nor quit those who have treated us so hospitably without a word of farewell,” he exclaimed. “There is yet time enough to do what we should do, and to pull out into the offing before the ship is off here.”

Ashamed by his mild reproof, we went to the tents of our Esquimaux friends, who still remained near us; and explaining that a ship, by which we hoped to return to our country, was in sight, we bade them understand that if we did not return, all the property we left behind was to be theirs. We saw tears falling from their eyes as they wrung our hands when we stepped into the boat, which they assisted us to launch over the ice.

We had loaded her with as large a supply of provisions as she could carry, and with our guns and the little ammunition which remained. Once in the boat, we gave way with a will, and pulled boldly out to sea, with our jack at the end of a spar of three times the usual length.

On came the stranger. O how our hearts beat as we saw her hull rising out of the water!

On we pulled, so as to place ourselves directly in her course, that there might not be a possibility of her missing us. Various were the conjectures as to what nation she belonged; for it was soon seen she was not English by the cut of her sails, and as she drew nearer, by her build. Some said Danish, others Dutch, and others French.

The last proved right; for, as we got within hailing distance, once more the voices of civilised men struck our ears. We could not understand the question put to us; but when we sung out that we were Englishmen, who had lost our ship, a voice in our own tongue told us to come on board. With joyful hearts we pulled alongside, and found ourselves on board the Saint Jean, whaler, belonging to the port of Bordeaux.

The cargo of our boat, as Andrew had supposed, was not unwelcome, and secured us a warmer reception than we perhaps might otherwise have experienced. The Saint Jean was nearly full, and was one of the few ships which had that year succeeded in reaching Pond’s Bay; so the second mate, who spoke English, informed us. Most of them, afraid of the early setting in of the winter, had already gone to the south, and must have passed out of sight of land. Thus, had we not seen the ship, we should probably have had to pass another winter in the arctic regions.

I will not stop to describe our voyage to the south. It was in some respects favourable for the greater part of the distance; but the crew were in a sickly state, and our services were therefore of much value.

The captain and first mate both fell ill; and I have reason to suspect that our reckoning was not kept with proper accuracy. Six weeks had passed since we had got on board, when a heavy gale sprung up from the north-west. As the night drew on it increased in fury, though, as we had got everything snug on board, we hoped to weather it out.

It was the opinion of the mates, for the master was too ill to attend to his duty, that we were well to the southward and west, and that we might keep away for our port. Instead, therefore, of laying to, we ran on before it. The weather was very thick, and we could scarcely see a hundred yards ahead.

Day was just breaking, and we Englishmen were all on deck together, from being placed in the same watch under the second mate, when Terence, who was forward, sung out with a startling voice—

“Land right ahead, land on the starboard bow!”

The Frenchmen understood the cry—all hands sprang on deck. The mate ordered the helm to be put a-port and the yards to be braced up, in the hopes of being able to beat off. It was too late; we were completely embayed. Land appeared broad on either bow.

To have beaten off with less sail than we carried would have been hopeless; but still there was more than the ship could carry. The masts went by the board. Fortunately the mizzen-mast went first, followed by the main-mast, or the ship would have broached to, and every soul of us would have been swept from her decks. Andrew sprang aft and put the helm up again, calling on me to assist him; while the rest ran forward, to look out for a clear beach to run the ship on, for by this time we saw that we were too near to attempt to anchor with any chance of saving the ship.

In moments of sudden peril the French are apt to lose command over themselves; at all events, such was the case in the present instance. And yet these men had gone through all the dangers of an arctic voyage; but then they were dangers for which they were looking out. Even now they were brave—that is to say, I do not think they turned paler than any of us; but they ran here and there, not knowing what to do nor comprehending the orders of their officers, while we were cool and did our best to save ourselves.

We kept the helm a-starboard, and steered to a spot where there appeared to be less surf; but it was a fearful choice of evils. In two or three minutes the ship struck; it must have been on a rock, for she trembled throughout, and the foremast went by the board. All hands had run aft, knowing what must occur. Again she lifted and flew forwards several yards, but it was to strike with more violence; and the following sea, before most of us could secure our hold, came rushing furiously on board, and sweeping everything before it.

I found myself lifted off my feet, and whirled round among the foaming billows. I knew nothing more till I felt my arm grasped at by some one; and when I returned to consciousness I was on the beach uninjured, with Andrew leaning over me.

I asked for our companions; he shook his head sorrowfully. Three of them were missing—poor Tom and two others. Nearly all the Frenchmen were lost. We two, Terence, David, and the two others, and six Frenchmen, were the only ones who had escaped. Before the ship struck we had instinctively thrown off our shoes and the greater part of our clothing, so that we had nothing on but our shirts and trousers; and as none of the bodies of our unfortunate shipmates nor any clothes were washed on shore, we had no means of supplying ourselves.

We suspected that we had been cast away on the west coast of Ireland; and we found, on inquiry of some people who flocked down to the shore, that we were not wrong. I am sorry to say, that so eager were they in hunting for whatever might come on shore, that they seemed little disposed to afford us any assistance. The Frenchmen were anxious at once to proceed to Dublin, where they might get relief from their consul; and Andrew and the rest wished to go there also, to cross over to England or Scotland, and Terence because he belonged to that city.

I, however, was eager to return home direct. The yearning to see my parents and brothers and sisters again was stronger than I could repress I felt sure, also, that Captain Dean and Mary, to whom I had given my father’s address, would have communicated with him, and that I should receive some news of them.

With sincere regret I parted from that excellent man, Andrew Thompson, and with not much less from Terence and the rest; but the two first promised to write to me as soon as they got to their homes.

I set off alone, and a stranger, without shoes, hat, or jacket, to beg my way across Ireland. Some disbelieved the tale I told of my disasters, and turned me from their doors; but others gave me bread and meat, and the poorest never refused me a potato and a drink of milk, for their eyes, accustomed to real misery, could discern that I spoke the truth.

At length, just after dark, I reached the well-known gate of my father’s grounds. I walked through, and with knees knocking together from over-excited feelings I approached the house. I looked up at the windows—not a light was to be seen, nor a sound heard. My heart sunk within me; I feared something must have happened—what, I dared not ask myself. I sat down on the steps, fearful of inquiring.

At length I gained courage to ring the door-bell. It was answered by a loud barking of dogs from within, but no sound of a human voice. Again I rang, and after waiting some time, in my impatience I began to knock fiercely with my fists. I stopped, for I heard a window opening, and a voice inquiring from above what I wanted. It was old Molly Finn, the housekeeper. I recognised her in a moment. I told her who I was, and entreated her to tell me where my family were gone.

“Och, ye idle spalpeen, get along with ye, with your lying tales about being Master Peter, who has been dead these two long years or more,” she exclaimed, in a voice of anger. “Get along with ye, I say, or I’ll let the dogs out on ye.”

“If you mean to let Juno and Pluto slip, you are welcome,” I answered, my anger beginning to rise. “They’ll at least know me, and that’s more than you seem inclined to do, Molly.”

“Just come nearer here, and let me ax ye a few questions, whoever ye are,” she said, in a softer tone.

“Tell me first, Molly, where are my father and mother, and brothers and sisters—are they all alive and well?” I exclaimed.

“Well, then, there’s no harm in telling ye thus much; they are all well, and gone to Dublin for Miss Fanny’s marriage there to a fine gentleman who’s worthy of her. And now, what have ye got to say?”

“Thank Heaven!” I exclaimed, and burst into tears, and sobbed till my heart was like to break. It was the giving way to affections long long pent up, like the icy ocean in winter; within my bosom.

“Och, it must be Master Peter, whether dead or alive!” exclaimed the old woman, disappearing from the window.

I had some notion that bars and bolts were being withdrawn, and in another instant a lantern was flashed in my face. It was instantly thrown down, and I found myself hugged in the dear old creature’s arms, and several of my old four-footed favourites leaping up and licking my face, she coming in for some share of the said licking, and thinking it was me all the time returning her kisses.

Tim, the stable-helper, the only other person left on the premises, was now roused up from his early slumbers, and added his congratulations to Molly’s. We went inside the house and shut the door, and I rushed round to every room before I could sit down to eat. As may be supposed, there was no great supply of delicacies in the house; but there were potatoes and buttermilk, and bacon and eggs, and what wanted I more?

Molly had actually cooked my supper, and talked of making my bed, before she discovered how badly I was clothed. As for the bed, I begged she would not trouble herself, as I assured her I should have the greatest difficulty in sleeping in one, and I at last persuaded her to let me have a mattress and a blanket on the floor. I did however, contrive to sleep, and awoke to find old Molly sitting by my side.

“Och, the dear boy, there’s no doubt of ye now, Master Peter!” she exclaimed. “Ye talked of them all in your sleep, and looked just like yourself, ye did; and I’ll stand bail that no one but ye could have done that same.”

I got a piece of soap from Molly, and going to a tank there was in the yard under the pump, by Tim’s aid I soon made myself cleaner than I had been for a long time; but we had a sad puzzle about the clothes, for my father and brother had left none. Tim had only those he wore on his back and a coarse suit; and money, I found, was scarce with Molly.

After hunting about in every direction, she routed out from an old chest some, with which she came to me in great triumph, saying they were my own; and so I found they were, but they were some I had thrown aside as being far too small before I went to sea. At last I bethought me, that as no money was to be had without much inconveniencing Molly, I would continue my journey as I had begun it; and I would present myself to my family as I was, in the character of a seaman who had known the lost Peter, and had brought some tidings of him, thus breaking gradually to my parents the fact that I was still in existence.

I proposed, however, disguising myself somewhat to prevent their recognising me. Molly liked my plan; so filling a bag with food, and borrowing ten shillings from her to help me on my way with greater speed than I could otherwise have made, I immediately started on the road to Dublin. Travelling sometimes on a car, sometimes in a waggon, where I contrived to get some sound sleep, and oftentimes on foot, in three days I reached the capital of Ireland.

Beggars in rags excite no remark in any part of Ireland; so, scantily clothed and careworn as I was, I passed through the streets unobserved. I was on my way to the house my family had taken, when I observed, walking leisurely along, a person whose figure and gait I felt certain I knew. My heart beat with eagerness. For some time I could not catch a glimpse of his face; so I ran on, and passing him, turned back to meet him. I was not mistaken—it was my kind friend Captain Dean.

My heart beating violently, I walked up to him, and said, calmly enough, “I have sailed with you, Captain Dean; but I don’t suppose you remember me, sir.”

“No, indeed I do not; though I am not apt to forget those who have been any time with me,” he replied, looking at me very hard.

“It’s a long time, sir; but perhaps you may remember a lad of the name of Peter Lefroy, to whom you were very kind,” I said, my voice faltering as I spoke, for I was longing to inquire after Mary.

“I remember him well, poor lad. He was lost with a whole ship’s company in the North Sea, upwards of a year ago. But what do you know of him?” he asked.

“Why, sir, I know that he was wonderfully preserved, and now stands before you, Captain Dean,” I exclaimed, no longer able to contain myself. “And tell me, sir, oh tell me—Mary, where is Mary, sir?” I blurted out, feeling that I could not speak again till I heard of her.

“Peter—Peter Lefroy, my good lad!” he ejaculated, seizing my hand and gazing earnestly in my face. “It is you yourself I ought to have known you at once; and Mary—she would know you—she is well, and with your own sisters, for she is to be one of Miss Fanny’s bridesmaids. But come along, this will be a day of rejoicing.”

Captain Dean, on our way to the house where my family was living, to which he was bound when I stopped him, told me that he had some time back communicated with my father; and that a month ago, having made a voyage to Liverpool, where he was obliged to have his ship repaired, he had come over to Dublin with Mary to show her something of Ireland. He had accidentally met my father, and introducing himself to him, all my family had shown him and Mary the greatest kindness; and he added that my sisters had formed a warm friendship for her.

My heart beat when I heard this; but I did not trust myself to say anything. “And now, Peter,” said Captain Dean, as we reached the door, “I will go in and break the joyful news to all hands.”

What a tumult was in my heart, as for ten minutes I walked up and down before the house, waiting to be summoned! At length Captain Dean opened the door, and beckoning to me, pulled me in. “They all suspect the truth,” he observed. “But I would not tell them till I had got you all ready to show; so now I’ll go back and tell them I have brought a lad who will let them know all about the long-lost Peter.”

They heard him speak, and guessing what was the case, they came flying down the stairs; and before I had got through the half, I was once more in the loving arms of my truest and best friends. Even my mother did not faint, though she sobbed aloud for very joy that her truant son had returned.

One sweet little girl hung back from the eager crowd. I espied her, and breaking through them, she received a not less affectionate greeting than had my sisters.

With my subsequent life I need not trouble my readers.

“Well, Peter,” said my father, after I had been washed and clothed, and had put on once more the appearance of a gentleman, “you have come back, my lad, poorer than you went away, I fear.” He made this remark with the kind intention of filling a purse my sisters and Mary had given me.

“No, father,” I answered, “I have come back infinitely richer. I have learned to fear God, to worship Him in His works, and to trust to His infinite mercy. I have also learned to know myself, and to take advice and counsel from my superiors in wisdom and goodness.”

“Then,” said my father, “I am indeed content; and I trust others may take a needful lesson from the adventures of Peter The Whaler.”

The End.

W H G Kingston

"Peter Trawl"

Chapter One.

My early days at home.

Brother Jack, a seaman’s bag over his shoulders, trudged sturdily ahead; father followed, carrying the oars, spars, sails, and other gear of the wherry, while as I toddled alongside him I held on with one hand to the skirt of his pea-jacket, and griped the boat-hook which had been given to my charge with the other.

From the front of the well-known inn, the “Keppel’s Head,” the portrait of the brave old admiral, which I always looked at with awe and admiration, thinking what a great man he must have been, gazed sternly down on us as we made our way along the Common Hard of Portsea towards the water’s edge.

Father and Jack hauled in the wherry, and having deposited their burdens in her, set to work to mop her out and to put her to rights, while I stood, still grasping the boat-hook, which I held upright with the point in the ground, watching their proceedings, till father, lifting me up in his arms, placed me in the stern-sheets.

“Sit there, Peter, and mind you don’t topple overboard, my son,” he said, in the kind tone in which he always spoke to me and Jack.

I was too small to be of much use, indeed father had hitherto only taken me with him when he was merely going across to Gosport and back or plying about the harbour.

It was a more eventful day to Jack than to me. When I saw mother packing his bag, I had a sort of idea that he was going to sea, and when the next morning she threw her arms round his neck and burst into tears, and Jack began to cry too, I understood that he would be away for a long time.

Jack had been of great use to father, who grieved as much as mother to part with him, but, as he said, he wouldn’t, if he could help it, bring him up as a long-shore lubber, and a few voyages would be the making of him.

“He can’t get none of the right sort of eddication on shore,” observed father. “He’ll learn on board a man-of-war what duty and discipline mean, and to my mind till a lad knows that he isn’t worth his salt.”

The Lapwing brig-of-war, fitted out at Sheerness, had brought up at Spithead, and her commander, Captain Rogers, with whom father had long served, meeting him on shore, and hearing that he had a son old enough to go to sea, offered to take Jack and look after him.

When Commander Rogers was a midshipman, he fell overboard, and would have been drowned had not father jumped in and saved him. He was very grateful, but had not till now had an opportunity of practically showing his gratitude. Father, therefore, gladly accepted his offer, being sure that he would do his best for Jack; and as Blue Peter was flying from the masthead of the brig, there was no time to be lost in taking him on board.

At the time I was too young, as I was saying, to understand these matters, but I learnt about them afterwards. All I then knew was that brother Jack was going for a sailor aboard of a man-of-war.

Father and Jack were just shoving off, when two persons who had come out of the “Keppel’s Head” were seen hurrying down the Hard with cases and packages in their hands and under their arms. One, as his dress and appearance showed, was a seafaring man; the other wore long toggery, as sailors call the costume of landsmen.

“If you are going out to Spithead, my man, we’ll go with you,” shouted the first.

“Ay, ay, sir! I’ll be glad enough to take you,” answered father, happy to get a fare, instead of making nothing by the trip.

“We’ll give you five shillings apiece,” said the officer, for such he seemed to be.

“Thank you, sir; that will do. What ship shall I put you aboard?” asked father.

“The Intrepid, South Sea whaler—she’s lying to the eastward of the men-of-war. We shall see her when we get abreast of Southsea Castle,” answered the officer.

“Step aboard, then, sir,” said father. “The tide will soon have done making out of the harbour, and there’s no time to lose.”

The strangers took their seats in the stern-sheets, and father and Jack, shoving off, pulled out into the stream.

The officer took the yoke-lines, and by the way he handled them, showed that he knew what he was about. Careful steering is always required where tides run strong and vessels are assembled; but especially was it at that time, when, peace having been just proclaimed, Portsmouth Harbour was crowded with men-of-war lately returned from foreign stations, and with transports and victuallers come in to be discharged; while all the way up towards Porchester Castle lay, now dismantled in vast numbers, those stout old ships with names renowned which had borne the victorious flag of England in many a fierce engagement. Dockyard lighters, man-of-war boats, wherries crowded with passengers, and other craft of various descriptions, were sailing or pulling about in all directions, so that the stranger had to keep his eyes about him to avoid being run down by, or running into, some other boat or vessel.

“We’ll step the mast, and make sail while we’re in smooth water, sir,” said father. “There’s a lop of a sea outside, when it wouldn’t be pleasant to this gentleman if we were to wait till then,” and he gave a look at the landsman, who even now did not seem altogether comfortable.

“The doctor hasn’t been used to the sea, but he’ll soon get accustomed to it. No fear of that, Cockle, eh?” said the officer, who was, he afterwards told father, second mate of the Intrepid.

“I hope I shall, Mr Griffiths, but I confess I don’t much like the thought of going through those foaming waves out there in such a cockleshell of a boat as this,” answered the doctor. “No offence to you, my friend,” he added, turning to father.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! That’s just what the boat is at present,” said the mate, laughing. “Do you twig, doctor? Do you twig? She carries you and your fortunes, and if she takes us safe alongside the Intrepid—and I see no reason why she shouldn’t—we shall be obliged to her and her owner here. What’s your name, my man?”

“Jack Trawl, sir; at your service,” answered father. “Many’s the time I’ve been out to Spithead in this here wherry when it’s been blowing great guns and small arms, and she’s ridden over the seas like a duck. The gentleman needn’t be afraid.”

The doctor, who did not seem to like the mate’s joking, or father’s remark about being afraid, sat silent for some time.

“I’ll take the helm, sir, if you please,” said father, who had stepped the mast and hauled aft the sheets. “My wherry likes me to have hold of her, and maybe she mightn’t behave as well as she should if a stranger was steering.”

“I understand,” answered Mr Griffiths, laughing. “You are wise not to trust any one but yourself. I’ll yield to you in handling this style of boat under sail, though I may have been more at sea than you have.”

“I doubt that, sir, as I went afloat not long after you were born, if not before, and for well-nigh thirty years seldom set foot on shore,” answered father. “All that time I served His Majesty—God bless him—and if there was to come another war I’d be ready to serve him again, as my boy Jack there is just going to do.”

“A fine lad he seems, but he’d better by half have joined the merchant service than submitted to the tyranny of a man-of-war,” said the mate.

“There are just two opinions, sir, as to that,” answered father, dryly. “Haul down the tack, Jack, and get a pull of the foresheet,” he sang out.

There was a fresh breeze from the south-east blowing almost up the harbour, but by keeping over on the Portsmouth side, aided by the tide, we stood clear out of it. The wherry soon began to pitch into the seas, which came rolling in round Southsea Castle in a way which made the doctor look very blue. The mate tried to cheer him up, but he evidently didn’t like it, especially when the spray came flying over the bows, and quickly wet him and most of us well-nigh through to the skin. Every now and then more than the mere spray came aboard us, and the doctor became more and more uncomfortable.

Father now called Jack aft to bale out the water, and he set to work heaving it overboard as fast as it came in. I laughed, and did not feel a bit afraid, because when I looked up at father’s face I saw that there was nothing to be afraid about. At length the mate seemed to think that we were carrying on too long.

“Doctor Cockle is not accustomed to this sort of thing,” he observed. “Hadn’t we better take in a reef or two?”

“Not if you wish to get aboard your ship, sir, before night,” answered father. “I know my boat, and I know what she’ll do. Trust me, sir, and in less than half-an-hour you’ll be safe alongside the Intrepid.”

The mate seemed satisfied, and began talking to me, amused at the way I sat bobbing, as the spray came aboard, under an old pea-jacket which father had thrown over my shoulders, and grinning when I found that I had escaped the shower by which the others got well sprinkled.

“I’ll not forget you, my little fellow,” he said, laughing. “You’ll make a prime seaman one of these days. Will you remember my name?”

“Yes, sir, I think I shall, and your face too,” I answered.

“You are a sharp chap, I see,” he observed, in the same tone as before.

“Do you intend to make a sailor of him?” he asked, turning to father.

“Not if I can find a better calling for the boy, sir,” answered father. “I’ve heard say, and believe it, that man proposes and God disposes. It mayn’t be in my power to choose for him.”

“Ay, ay, you’re right there, my friend,” said the mate. “If he had been as old as his brother I would have given him a berth aboard the Intrepid.”

It may seem curious that, young as I was, I should have remembered these remarks, but so it was, and I had reason long afterwards to do so.

Even sooner than father had said we had hooked on to the whaler, a barque of about three hundred tons, her black hull rising high out of the water, and with three boats, sharp at both ends, hoisted up to davits in a line on each side. The good-natured mate having paid the fare and given me a bright shilling in addition, helped the doctor, who wasn’t very well able to help himself, up on deck, and we then, shoving off, stood for the man-of-war brig.

Jack almost broke down as we approached her. Not that he was unwilling to go away, but that he was very sorry to part from father and me, and I know that we were very sorry to part with him.

“Jack, my son,” said father, and his voice wasn’t as firm as usual, “we may never meet again on this side the grave. You may be taken or I may be taken. What I want to say to you is this, and they may be well-nigh the last words you will ever hear me speak. Ever remember that God’s eye is upon you, and so live that you may be prepared at any moment to die. I can’t say more than that, my boy. Bless you. God bless you.”

“I will, father, I will,” answered Jack, and he passed the back of his hand across his eyes.

We were soon up to the brig. He gave me a hug and a kiss, and then, having made fast the end of the rope hove to us, he griped father’s hand, and sprang up the side of the brig. His bag was hoisted up after him by an old shipmate of father’s, who sang out, “All right, Trawl, I’ll look after your boy!”

We had at once to shove off, for the brig was rolling considerably, and there was a risk of the wherry being swamped alongside. As we stood away I looked astern. Jack had climbed into the fore-rigging and was waving to us. We soon lost sight of him. When, if ever, should we see him again?

Having the wind and tide with us, we quickly ran back into the harbour. For reasons which will appear by-and-by I ought to say a few words respecting my family, though I don’t flatter myself the world in general will be much concerned about the matter. Some people are said to be born with silver spoons in their mouths; if that means, as I suppose it does, that from their earliest days they enjoy all the luxuries of life, then I may say that when I first saw the light I must have had a very rough wooden one between my toothless gums. However, as I’ve often since thought, it isn’t so much what a man is born to which signifies, as what he becomes by his honesty, steadiness, perseverance, and above all by his earnest desire to do right in the sight of God.

My father, Jack Trawl (as he spelt his name, or, rather, as others spelt it for him, he being no great hand with a pen), was an old man-of-war’s-man. I well remember hearing him say that his father, who had been mate of a merchantman, and had been lost at sea when he himself was a boy, was a Shetlander; and in an old Testament which had belonged to his mother, and which he had treasured as the only relic of either of his parents, I found the name written Troil. The ink was very faint, but I made out the words clearly, “Margaret Troil, given to her by her husband Angus.” This confirmed me in the idea I had formed, that both my father’s parents had come from the far off island of Shetland.

My father being a sober, steady man, having saved more of his pay and prize-money than had most of his shipmates, when he left the service bought a wherry, hired and furnished a house, and married my mother, Polly Treherne, the daughter of a bumboat-woman who plied her trade in Portsmouth Harbour.

I have no cause to be ashamed of my grandmother, for every one who knew her said, and I am sure of it, that she was as worthy a woman in her line of life as ever lived. She gave good measure and charged honest prices, whether she was dealing in soft tack, fruit, vegetables, cheese, herrings, or any of the other miscellaneous articles with which she supplied the seamen of His Majesty’s ships; and her daughter Polly, who assisted her, was acknowledged by all to be as good and kind-hearted as she was pretty. No wonder, then, that she won the heart of my brave father when she visited the ship in which he had just come home, or that, knowing his worth, although she had many suitors, she consented to marry him.

For some time all went well, but what happened is a proof that honest, industrious persons may be overtaken by misfortunes as well as other people. Father had no intention that his wife should follow her mother’s calling, as he could make enough to keep the pot boiling; but after they had been married a few years, and several children had been born, all of whom died in their infancy, except my eldest brother Jack, and me and Mary, the two youngest, bad times came.

Chapter Two.

How a true friend was gained.

Just before we two entered this world of troubles, the bank in which my father had deposited his savings broke, and all were lost. The sails of his wherry were worn out, and he had been about to buy a new suit, which he now couldn’t do; the wherry herself was getting crazy, and required repairs, and he himself met with an accident which laid him up for several weeks. Grandmother also, who had lost nearly her all by the failure of the bank, though she had hitherto been hale and hearty, now began to talk of feeling the approach of old age.

One evening, while father was laid up, she looked in on us. “Polly, my girl, there’s no use trying to beat up in the teeth of a gale with a five-knot current against one,” she exclaimed, as, dropping down into out big arm-chair and undoing her bonnet-strings and the red handkerchief she wore round her neck, she threw her bonnet over the back of her head. “I’m dead beat with to-day’s work, and shall be worse to-morrow. Now, my dear, what I’ve got to say is this, I want you to help me. You know the trade as well as I do. It will be a good thing for you as well as for me; for look you, my dear, if anything should happen to your Jack, it will help you to keep the wolf from the door.”

This last argument, with her desire to help the good old lady, made mother say that if father was agreeable she would do as grandmother wished. She forthwith went upstairs, where father was lying in bed, scarcely able to move for the pain his hurt caused him. They talked the matter over, and he, knowing that something must be done for the support of the family, gave, though unwillingly, his consent. Thus it happened that my mother again took to bum-boating.

Trade, however, wasn’t like what it used to be in the war time, I heard grandmother say. Then seamen would have their pockets filled with five-pound notes and golden guineas, which they were eager to spend; now they rarely had more than a few shillings or a handful of coppers jingling in them. Still there was an honest livelihood to be made, and grandmother and mother contrived to make it. Poor grandmother, however, before long fell ill, as she said she should, and then all the work fell on mother. Father got better, and was able sometimes to go out with the wherry, but grandmother got worse and worse, and mother had to attend on her till she died.

When she and father were away from home, Mary and I were left to the care of our brother Jack. He did his best to look after us, but not being skilled as a nursemaid, while he was tending Mary, who, being a girl—she was my twin sister, I should have said—required most of his care, he could not always manage to prevent me from getting into trouble. Fortunately nothing very serious happened.

Dear, kind Jack! I was very fond of him, and generally obeyed him willingly. It would not be true to say that I always did so. He was very fond of Mary and me too, of that I am sure, and he used to show his fondness by spending for our benefit any coppers he picked up by running on errands or doing odd jobs for neighbours. As his purchases were usually brandy-balls, rock, and other sweets, it was perhaps fortunate for us that he had not many to spend. By diligently pursuing her trade, mother, in course of time, saved money enough to enable father to get the wherry repaired, and to buy a new suit of sails, and when he got plenty of employment he bade mother stay at home and look after Mary and me, while Jack went with him. As, however, it would not have been prudent to give up her business altogether, she hired a girl, Nancy Fidget, to take her place, as Jack had done, when she was from home.

I don’t remember that anything of importance happened after grandmother’s death till Jack went to sea. We missed him very much, and Mary was always asking after him, wondering when he would come back. Still, if I had gone away, she would, I think, have fretted still more. Perhaps it was because we were twins that we were so fond of each other. We were, however, not much alike. She was a fair, blue-eyed little maiden, with flaxen hair and a rosy blush on her cheeks, and I was a broad-shouldered, strongly-built chap, the hue on my cheeks and the colour of my hair soon becoming deepened by my being constantly out of doors, while my eyes were, I fancy, of a far darker tint than my sister’s.

After Jack went mother seemed to concentrate all her affections on us two. I don’t think, however, that any woman could have a warmer or larger heart than hers, although many may have a wider scope for the exercise of their feelings. She never turned a beggar away from her door without some relief even in the worst of times, and when any of the neighbours were in distress, she always did her best to help them. Often when she had been out bum-boating for the best part of the day, and had been attending to household matters for the remainder, she would sit up the whole night with a sick acquaintance who was too poor to hire a nurse, and had only thanks to give her, and perhaps of that not very liberally.

I have said that my mother had as warm and generous a heart as ever beat in woman’s bosom. I repeat it. I might give numerous instances to prove the truth of my assertion, and to show that I have reason to be proud of being her son, whatever the world may think about the matter. One will suffice. It had an important effect on my destinies, although at the time no one would have supposed that such would be the case. One evening, as my mother was returning home off the water after dark, she found a female fallen down close to our door, in what seemed to be a fit. Some of the neighbours had seen the poor creature, but had let her lie there, and gone indoors, and several persons passing showed by their remarks what they thought of her character; but mother, not stopping to consider who she was or what she was, lifting her up in her strong arms, carried her into the house, and placed her on the bed which used to be Jack’s.

Mother now saw by the light of the candle that the unhappy being she had taken charge of was still young, and once had been pretty, but the life she had led had marred her beauty and brought her to her present sad state. After mother had undressed her and given her food and a cordial in which she had great confidence, the girl slightly revived, but it became more evident than before that she was fearfully ill. She sobbed and groaned, and sometimes shrieked out in a way terrible to hear, but would give no account of herself. At length, mother, mistrusting her own skill, sent Nancy and me off to call Dr Rolt, the nearest medical man we knew of. He came at once, and shaking his head as soon as he saw the stranger, he advised that she should be removed forthwith to the hospital.

“Not to-night, doctor, surely,” said mother. “It might be the death of her, poor young creature!”

“She may rapidly grow worse, and it may be still more dangerous to move her afterwards,” remarked Dr Rolt.

“Then, please God, I’ll keep charge of her till she recovers, or He thinks fit to take her,” said mother, in her determined way.

“She will never recover, I fear,” said the doctor; “but I will do the best for her I can.”

Telling mother how to act, and promising to send some medicine, he went away. When father, who had been across to Ryde in the wherry, came home, he approved of what mother had done.

“Why, you see, Jack, what I think is this,” I heard her say; “I’ve no right to point a finger at her, for if I hadn’t had a good mother to show me right and wrong, I might have been just as she is.”

The next morning the doctor came again. He looked grave when he left the stranger’s room. “You are still resolved to let this poor outcast remain in your house, Mrs Trawl?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, my good man thinks as I do, that we ought,” answered mother, positively.

Dr Rolt returned in the afternoon, accompanied by a gentleman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a straight-cut broadcloth coat of sombre hue. He smiled pleasantly at mother as he took the seat she offered him without doffing his hat, and beckoning to Mary and me, put his hands on our heads, while he looked into our faces and smiled as he had done to mother.

“I have brought Mr Silas Gray, a member of the Society of Friends, knowing that I should have your leave, Mrs Trawl, as he desires to see the poor girl you have taken care of,” said Dr Rolt.

“Verily, sister, thou hast acted the part of the Good Samaritan towards the hapless one of whom friend Rolt has told me, and I would endeavour to minister to her spiritual necessities, the which I fear are great indeed; also with thy leave I will help thee in supplying such creature comforts as she may need,” said Mr Gray.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” answered mother. “I couldn’t say much on the matter of religion, except to tell her that God cares for her as well as He does for the richest lady in the land, and will pardon her sins if she will but turn to Him through Christ; and as to food, kickshaws fit for sick folk are not much in my way, still I’ll—”

“Thou knowest the very gist of the matter, sister,” observed Mr Gray, interrupting her; “but time is precious. I’ll go in with friend Rolt and speak to the wandering child.” Saying this, Mr Gray accompanied the doctor into the stranger’s room.

He, after this, came again and again—never empty-handed—oftener indeed than the doctor, whose skill failed, as he feared it would, to arrest the poor girl’s malady, while Mr Gray’s ministrations were successful in giving her the happy assurance that “though her sins were as scarlet, she had become white as snow,” so he assured mother.

“Praise the Lord,” was her reply.

So the young stranger died—her name, her history, unknown. Mr Gray paid the expenses of her funeral, and frequently after that came to see us, to inquire, as he said, how we were getting on.

We had not heard from brother Jack since he went aboard the Lapwing. Mother thought that he might have got some one to write for him, though he was no great hand with a pen himself. All we knew was that the brig had gone out to the East Indies, which being a long way off would have accounted for our not often getting letters from him; but just one father hoped he would have contrived to send after he had been a year away; now nearly three years had passed since then. Had the Lapwing been fitted out at Portsmouth, we should have got news of him from others, but as none of her crew hailed from our town, there was no one to whom we could go to ask about him. Father had taken lately to talk much about Jack, and sometimes regretted that he had let him go away.

“You acted for the best, and so don’t be blaming yourself,” observed mother, trying to console him. “There’s One aloft looking after him better than we can, and He’ll bring our boy back to us if He thinks fit.”

Mary and I little knew all the trials father and mother had to go through. Mother’s trade was bad, and father was often out all day without bringing a shilling home. Younger men with more gaily-painted boats—he would not acknowledge that they were better—got fares when he could not manage to pick up one. Sometimes also he was laid up with the rheumatics, and was unable to go afloat. One day, while thus suffering, mother fetched Dr Rolt to see him. Father begged the doctor to get him well as soon as he could, seeing that he wanted to be out in the wherry to gain his livelihood.

“All in good time, my man,” answered the doctor. “You’ll be about again in a few days, never fear. By-the-bye, I saw our friend Mr Gray lately, Mrs Trawl, and he was inquiring for you. He would have come to see your husband had he known that he was ill, but he went away to London yesterday, and may, I fear, be absent for some time. Many will miss him should he be long away.”

Sooner than father expected he was about again. I had gone down with father and mother to the Hard, mother to board a ship which had just come in, and father to look out for a fare, while Mary remained at home with Nancy. It was blowing pretty fresh, and there was a good deal of sea running outside, though in the harbour the water was not rough enough to prevent mother from going off. While she was waiting for old Tom Swatridge, who had been with grandmother and her for years to bring along her baskets of vegetables from the market, a gentleman came hurrying down the Hard, and seeing father getting the wherry ready, said:

“I want you to put me aboard my ship, my man. She’s lying out at Spithead; we must be off at once.”

“It’s blowing uncommon fresh, sir,” said father. “I don’t know how you’ll like it when we get outside; still there’s not a wherry in the harbour that will take you aboard drier than mine, though there’s some risk, sir, you’ll understand.”

“Will a couple of guineas tempt you?” asked the stranger, thinking that father was doubting about the payment he was to receive.

“I’ll take you, sir,” answered father. “Step aboard.”

I was already in the boat, thinking that I was to go, and was much disappointed when father said, “I am not going to take you, Peter, for your mother wants you to help her; but just run up and tell Ned Dore I want him. He’s standing by the sentry-box.”

As I always did as father bade me, I ran up and called Ned, who at once came rolling along down the Hard, glad of a job. When he heard what he was wanted for he stepped aboard.

“I hope to be back in a couple of hours, or three at furthest, Polly,” father sang out to mother, as he shoved off the wherry. “Good-bye, lass, and see that Peter makes himself useful.”

Mother waved her hand.

“Though two guineas are not to be picked up every day, I would as lief he had stayed in the harbour this blowing weather,” she said to herself more than to me, as on seeing old Tom coming we stepped into her boat.

When father first went to sea, Tom Swatridge had been his shipmate, and had done him many a kind turn which he had never forgotten. Old Tom had lost a leg at Trafalgar, of which battle he was fond of talking. He might have borne up for Greenwich, but he preferred his liberty, though he had to work for his daily bread, and, I am obliged to say, for his daily quantum of rum, which always kept his pockets empty. He had plenty of intelligence, but he could neither read nor write, and that, with his love of grog, had prevented him from getting on in life as well as his many good qualities would otherwise have enabled him to do. He was a tall gaunt man, with iron-grey hair, and a countenance wrinkled, battered, and bronzed by wind and weather.

When he first came ashore he was almost as sober a man as father, and having plenty of prize-money he managed to purchase a small dwelling for himself, which I shall have by-and-by to describe. Old Tom taking the oars, we pulled aboard the Dartmouth, forty-two gun frigate, just come in from the Mediterranean. Several of the men had been shipmates with father, and all those belonging to Portsmouth knew mother. They were very glad to see her, and she had to answer questions of all sorts about their friends on shore. It is the business of a bumboat-woman to know everything going forward, what ships are likely to be commissioned, the characters of the captains and officers, when they are to sail, and where they are going to. Among so many friends mother drove a brisker trade than usual, and when the men heard that I was Jack Trawl’s son they gave me many a bright shilling and sixpence, and kind pats on the head with their broad palms. “He’s a chip of the old block, no doubt about that, missus,” cried one. “He’ll make a smart young topman one of these days,” said another. Several gave her commissions to execute, and many sent messages to friends on shore. Altogether, when she left the frigate she was in better spirits than she had been for a long time.

Scarcely had we shoved off, however, when down came the rain in torrents, well-nigh wetting us through.

“It’s blowing plaguey hard, missus,” observed old Tom, as he tugged away at the oars, I helping him while mother steered. “I hope as how we shall find your good man safe ashore when we gets in.”

On reaching the Hard the wherry was not to be seen. After old Tom had made fast the boat, wet as she was mother waited and waited in the hopes that father would come in. Old Tom remained also. He seemed more than usually anxious. We all stood with our hands shielding our eyes as we looked down the harbour to try and make out the wherry, but the driving rain greatly limited our view.

“Hast seen anything of Jack Trawl’s wherry?” asked old Tom over and over again of the men in the different boats, as they came in under their mizens and foresails. The same answer was returned by all.

“Maybe he got a fare at Spithead for Gosport and will be coming across soon, or he’s gone ashore at the Point with some one’s luggage,” observed old Tom, trying to keep up mother’s spirits; but that was a hard matter to do, for the wind blew stronger and stronger. A few vessels could be seen, under close-reefed canvas, running up the harbour for shelter, but we could nowhere perceive a single boat under sail. Still old Tom continued to suggest all sorts of reasons why father had not come back. Perhaps he had been detained on board the ship at Spithead to which he took the gentleman, and seeing the heavy weather coming on would remain till it moderated. Mother clung to this notion when hour after hour went by and she had given up all expectation of seeing father that evening. Still she could not tear herself from the Hard. Suddenly she remembered me.

“You must be getting wet, Peter,” she said. “Run home, my child, and tell Nancy to give you your tea and then to get supper ready. Father and I will be coming soon, I hope.”

I lingered, unwilling to leave her.

“Won’t you come yourself, mother?” I asked.

“I’ll wait a bit longer,” she answered. “Go, Peter, go; do as I bid you.”

“You’d better go home with Peter, missus,” said old Tom. “You’ll be getting the rheumatics, I’m afraid. I’ll stay and look out for your good man.”

I had never seen mother look as she did then, when she turned her face for a moment to reply to the old man. She was as pale as death; her voice sounded hoarse and hollow.

“I can’t go just yet, Tom,” she said.

I did not hear more, as, according to her bidding, I set off to run home. I found Mary and Nancy wondering what had kept mother so long.

“Can anything have happened to father?” exclaimed Mary, when I told her that mother was waiting for him.

“He has been a long time coming back from Spithead, and it’s blowing fearfully hard,” I answered.

I saw Nancy clasp her hands and look upwards with an expression of alarm on her countenance which frightened me. Her father and brother had been lost some years before, crossing in a wherry from Ryde, and her widowed mother had found it a hard matter to keep herself and her children out of the workhouse. She said nothing, however, to Mary and me, but I heard her sighing and whispering to herself, “What will poor missus do? What will poor missus do?” She gave Mary and me our suppers, and then persuaded us to go to bed. I was glad to do so to get off my wet clothes, which she hung up to dry, but I could not go to sleep for thinking what had happened to father.

At length mother came in alone. She sat down on a chair without speaking, and her hands dropped by her side. I could watch her as I looked out from the small closet in which my bunk was placed. Even since I had left her her countenance had become fearfully pale and haggard. She shivered all over several times, but did not move from her seat.

“Won’t you get those wet duds of yours off, missus, and have some hot tea and supper?” asked Nancy, who had been preparing it.

Mother made no reply.

“Don’t take on so, missus,” said Nancy, coming up to her and putting her hand affectionately on her shoulder.

“Bless me, you’re as wet as muck. I’ve put Peter and Mary to bed, and you must just go too, or you’ll be having the rheumatics and I don’t know what. Do go, missus, now do go.”

In vain Nancy pleaded, and was still endeavouring to persuade mother to take off her wet garments, when I at last fell asleep. When I awoke in the morning I saw Nancy alone bustling about the room. I soon jumped into my clothes. My first question was for father.

“He’s not yet come back, Peter,” she answered. “But maybe he will before long, for the wind has fallen, and if he put into Ryde he’d have waited till now to come across.”

“Where’s mother?” I next asked, not seeing her.

“Hush, Peter, don’t speak loud,” she said in a low tone. “She’s been in a sad taking all night, but she’s quiet now, and we mustn’t waken her.”

On hearing this I crept about as silent as a mouse till Mary got up, and then we sat looking at each other without speaking a word, wondering what was going to happen, while Nancy lit the fire and got breakfast ready. At last we heard mother call to Nancy to come to her, not knowing that Mary and I were on foot.

“I must get up and go and look after my good man,” she cried out, in a voice strangely unlike her own. “Just help me, Nancy, will you? What can have come over me? I feel very curious.”

She tried to rise, but could not, and after making several attempts, sank back on her bed with a groan. Mary and I now ran into her room.

“What’s the matter, mother dear?” asked Mary, in a tone of alarm.

She gazed at us strangely, and groaned again.

“Missus is, I fear, taken very bad,” said Nancy. “I must run for a doctor, or she’ll be getting worse. I’m sure I don’t know what to do; I wish I did. Oh dear! Oh dear!”

“Let me go,” I said, eagerly. “I know where he lives and you stay and take care of mother. I can run faster than you can in and out among the people in the streets.”

Nancy agreed, and I set off.

Chapter Three.

A sad chapter in my life.

As I ran for the doctor I felt that I was engaged in a matter of life and death, for I had never seen mother ill before. In my anxiety for her I almost forgot all about father. On I rushed, dodging in and out among the workmen going to their daily toil—there were not many other persons out at that early hour. Two or three times I heard the cry of “Stop thief!” uttered by some small urchins for mischiefs sake, and once an old watchman, who had overslept himself in his box, suddenly starting out attempted to seize hold of me, fancying that he was about to capture a burglar, but I slipped away, leaving him sprawling in the dust and attempting to spring his rattle, and I ran on at redoubled speed, soon getting out of his sight round a corner. At last I reached Dr Rolt’s house and rang the surgery bell as hard as I could pull. It was some time before the door was opened by a sleepy maid-servant, who had evidently just hurried on her clothes.

“Mother wants the doctor very badly,” I exclaimed. “Ask him, please, to come at once.”

“The doctor can’t come. He’s away from home, in London,” answered the girl. “You’d better run on to Dr Hunt’s. Maybe he’ll attend on your mother.”

I asked where Dr Hunt lived. She told me. His house was some way off, but I found it at last. Again I had to wait for the door to be opened, when, greatly to my disappointment, the maid told me that Dr Hunt had been out all night and might not be at home for an hour or more.

“Oh dear! Oh dear! Who then can I get to see poor mother?” I cried out, bursting into tears.

“There’s Mr Jones, the apothecary, at the end of the next street. He’ll go to your mother, no doubt,” said the maid. “Don’t cry, my boy. Run on now; the first turning to the left. You’ll see the red and green globes in his window.”

Without stopping to hear more, off I set again. Mr Jones was in his dispensary, giving directions to his assistant. I told him my errand.

“I’ll go presently,” he answered. “What’s the number?”

Our house had no number, and I could not manage to explain its position clearly enough for his comprehension.

“Then I’ll stay, sir, and show you the way,” I said.

“Wait a bit, and I’ll be ready,” he replied.

He kept me waiting, however, a cruel long time, it seemed to me. At last he appeared with his silver-mounted cane in hand, and bade me go on.

“Stop! Stop, boy. I can’t move at that rate,” he cried out, before we had got far. He was a short stout man, with a bald head and grey hair. I had to restrain my eagerness, and walked slower till we reached our house. Nancy was looking out at the door for me, wondering I had not returned.

“How is mother?” I asked.

“Very bad, Peter; very bad indeed, I’m afeard,” she answered, almost ready to cry. Then seeing Mr Jones stop with me, she continued, “Come in, doctor, come in. You’ll try and cure missus, won’t you?”

“I’ll certainly do my best when I know what is the matter with her,” answered Mr Jones, as he followed Nancy into the house.

Mary was with mother. I stole in after the doctor, anxious to hear what he would say about her. He made no remark in her presence, however, but when he came out of the room he observed in a low voice to Nancy, “You must keep her quiet. Let there be nothing done to agitate her, tell her husband when he comes in. I’ll send some medicine, and pay her another visit in the afternoon.”

“But it’s about her husband that she’s grieving, sir,” said Nancy. “He went away to Spithead yesterday morning and has never come back.”

“Ah, that’s bad,” replied Mr Jones. “However, perhaps he will appear before long. If he doesn’t, it can’t be helped. You must give her the medicines, at all events. I’ll write the directions clearly for you.”

Poor Nancy had to confess that she could not read. The doctor then tried to impress upon her how and when she was to give the physic.

“You’ll remember, and there can be no mistake,” he added, as he hurried off.

I fancied that everything now depended on the arrival of the apothecary’s stuff, and kept running to the door looking out for the boy who was to bring it. He seemed very long coming. I had gone half-a-dozen times when I caught sight, as I turned my eyes the other way thinking he might have passed by, of Tom Swatridge stumping slowly up the street. He stopped when he saw me, and beckoned. He looked very downcast. I observed that he had a straw hat in his hand, and I knew that it was father’s.

“How is mother?” he asked, when I got up to him.

“Very bad,” I answered, looking at the hat, but afraid to ask questions.

“The news I bring will make her worse, I’m afeard,” he said, in a husky voice, as he took my hand. “Peter, you had as good a father as ever lived, but you haven’t got one now. A cutter just come in picked up this hat off Saint Helen’s, and afterwards an oar and a sprit which both belonged to the wherry. I went out the first thing this morning to the ship your father was to put the gentleman aboard. He had got alongside all right, for I saw the gentleman himself, and he told me that he had watched the wherry after she shoved off till he lost sight of her in a heavy squall of rain. When it cleared off she was nowhere to be seen. So, Peter, my poor boy, there’s no hope, I’m afeard, and we shall never see my old messmate or Ned Dore again.”

“Oh, Tom! Tom! You don’t mean to say that father’s gone!” I cried out.

“I’d sooner have lost another leg than have to say it,” answered the old man. “But it must be said notwithstanding, and now how are we to tell mother?”

I could not answer, but kept repeating to myself, “Gone! Gone! Father gone!” as Tom led me on to the house. We met the boy with the physic at the door.

“Let Nancy give her the stuff first,” said the old man, thoughtfully; “maybe it will give her strength, and help her to bear the bad news.”

Nancy took in the bottles, while Tom and I remained outside. After some time she came out and told Tom that mother wanted to see him. He went in, shaking all over so much that I thought he would have fallen. I followed, when, seeing Mary, I threw my arms round her neck and burst into tears. She guessed what had happened even before I told her. We sat down, holding each other’s hands and crying together, while Tom went in to see mother. What he said I do not know, though I am sure he tried to break the news to her as gently as he could. When she saw the hat, which he still held in his hand, she knew that father was lost. She did not go off into fits, as Tom afterwards told me he thought she would, but remained terribly calm, and just bade him describe to her all that he knew.

“I mustn’t give in,” she said at length, “I have the children to look after, for if I was to go what would become of them?”

“While I’m able to work they shan’t want, missus,” answered Tom, firmly.

“I know what you’d wish to do, Tom; but there’s one thing won’t let you: that thing is liquor,” said mother.

“Then I’ll never touch another drop as long as I live, missus!” exclaimed Tom. “May God help me!”

“He will help you, Tom, if you ask Him,” said mother; “and I hope that, whether I live or die, you’ll keep to that resolution.”

I believe that conversation with Tom did mother much good; it took her off from thinking of father. She was still, however, very ill, and had to keep her bed. The doctor came again and again; generally twice a day. He of course had to be paid, and a good deal too. There was nothing coming in, and poor mother became more and more anxious to get out and attend to her business. The doctor warned her that she would go at great risk—indeed, that she was not fit to leave her bed. “She had no money left to pay for food and rent and the doctor’s bill,” she answered, and go she must. Though she had no money, she had, however, ample credit to stock her bumboat.

Very unwillingly Nancy assisted her to, dress. Out she would go, taking me with her to lay in a stock of the articles she required. People remarked on her changed looks, and some did not even know her. She acknowledged that she was very tired when we got home, but declared that she should be the better for going on the water.

The next morning old Tom had his boat ready. “I do wish, missus, that you’d stayed at home a few days longer,” he remarked, looking at her. “Howsomedever, as you’ve come, I hopes you’ll just take what I say kindly, and not be from home longer than you can help. There’s dirty weather coming up from the south-west.”

Tom was right. We had two ships to visit. Before we got alongside the second down came the rain. But mother would go on, and consequently got wet through. Tom was very unhappy, but she said that she had done a good trade, and that no harm would come of it. Unhappily she was mistaken; that night she was taken very ill—worse than before. I fetched the doctor; he shook his head and said he wouldn’t answer for what might happen. Faithful Nancy was half distracted. Poor mother got worse and worse. At last one day she beckoned with her pale hand to Mary and me to come to her bedside.

“I know that I am going to be taken from you, my dears,” she said, in a low voice, for she could not speak loud. “I want you to promise me to be true to each other, to do your duty in God’s sight, and always to ask Him to help you.”

“I do, mother—I do promise,” said Mary, the tears dropping from her eyes.

She could scarcely speak for sobbing.

“I promise, too, mother, that I do!” I exclaimed, in a firmer voice; and I sincerely intended to fulfil my promise.

Mother was holding our hands in hers. She said much more to us, anxious to give us all the advice in her power. Nancy came in with her medicine, after which she rallied, and bade us go to bed.

I was awakened early in the morning by hearing Nancy cry out, “Run for the doctor, Peter! Run for the doctor! Missus is taken worse.”

I slipped into my clothes, and was off like a shot, without asking a question, or even looking into mother’s room.

I rang the night-bell, for no one was up. At last the servant opened the door, and said she would call her master.

Mr Jones soon appeared. He had been paid regularly, and when he saw me he was the more ready to come. Eager as I was to get back, I did not like to run ahead of him; and, to do him justice, he exerted himself to walk as fast as his breath would allow him.

He asked me several questions; then I told him that mother had been again out bum-boating.

“Bad—very bad. I told her not to go. A relapse is a serious matter,” he remarked, panting and puffing between his sentences. “However, we must try what can be done.”

Mary met us at the door.

“Mother has been breathing very hard since you went, Peter,” she said, “but she is quite quiet now.”

The doctor’s face looked very serious when he heard this. He hurried into the room.

“I thought so,” I heard him remark to Nancy. “I could have done nothing if you had sent for me hours ago. The woman is dead.”

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do?” cried Nancy, sobbing bitterly.

“The sooner you let any friends the children may have know what has happened the better, and then send for the undertaker,” answered Mr Jones. “The boy is sharp—he’ll run your errands. I can do no more than certify the cause of death.”

He hurried away without bestowing a look at Mary and me, as we stood holding each other’s hands, unable as yet to realise the fact that we were orphans. He had so many poor patients that he could not afford, I suppose, to exercise his compassionate feelings. Even when Nancy afterwards took us in to see mother’s body, I would scarcely believe that she herself had been taken from us.

I will not stop to speak of Mary’s and my grief.

At last Nancy, her eyes red with crying, sat down, with her hands pressed against her head, to consider what was to be done.

“Why, I ought to have sent for him at once!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Peter, run and find Tom Swatridge, and tell him that poor missus has gone.”

I needed no second bidding, and, thankful to have something to do, I started away.

On reaching the Hard, where I expected to find old Tom, I heard from some of the watermen that he had gone off with a fare to Gosport, so I had to wait for his return. Many of the men standing about asked me after mother, and seemed very sorry to hear of her death. I saw them talking earnestly together while I waited for Tom. Others joined them, and then went away, so that the news soon spread about our part of the town. I had to wait a long time, till old Tom came back with several persons in his boat. He pocketed their fares, touching his hat to each before he took any notice of me.

“What cheer, Peter? How’s the missus?” he asked, stepping on shore and dropping the kedge to make fast his boat. “I feared she wouldn’t be up to bum-boating to-day.”

“Mother’s dead,” I answered.

“Dead! The missus dead!” he exclaimed, clapping his hand to his brow, and looking fixedly at me. “The Lord have mercy on us!”

“Nancy wants you, Tom,” I said.

“I’m coming, Peter, I’m coming. I said I’d be a father to you and Mary, and I will, please God,” he replied, recovering himself.

He took my hand, and stumped away towards our house.

“Dick Porter, look after my boat, will ye, till I comes back?” he said to one of the men on the Hard as we hurried by.

“Ay, ay,” was the cheerful answer—for Dick knew where old Tom was going.

Not a word did the old man speak all the way. When we got to the house, what was my astonishment to find a number of people in the sitting-room, one of whom, with note-book in hand, was making an inventory of the furniture! Mary was sitting in a corner crying, and Nancy was looking as if she had a mind to try and turn them all out. As soon as Mary saw me she jumped up and took my hand.

“What’s all this about?” exclaimed old Tom, in an indignant tone. “You might have stopped, whatever right you may have here, till the dead woman was carried to her grave, I’m thinking.”

“And others had carried off the goods,” answered the man with the note-book. “We are only acting according to law. Mrs Trawl has run into debt on all sides, and when the goods are sold there won’t be five shillings in the pound to pay them, that I can see, so her children must take the consequences. There’s the workhouse for them.”

“The work’us, do ye say? Mrs Trawl’s children sent to the work’us!” exclaimed old Tom, and he rapped out an expression which I need not repeat. “Not while this here hand can pull an oar and I’ve a shiner in my pocket. If you’ve got the law on your side, do as the law lets you. But all I can say is, that it’s got no bowels of compassion in it, to allow the orphans to be turned out of house and home, and the breath scarce out of their mother’s body. Nancy, do you pack up the children’s clothes, and any school-books or play-things you can find, and then come along to my house. The law can’t touch them, I suppose.”

“What is that drunken old Swatridge talking about?” said one of the broker’s men.

Tom heard him.

“Such I may have been, but I’ll be no longer ‘drunken old Swatridge’ while I have these children to look after,” he exclaimed; and giving one hand to Mary and the other to me, he led us out of the house.

Chapter Four.

A fearful catastrophe.

Leaving Nancy, who could well hold her own, to battle with the broker’s men, Tom, holding Mary by the hand, and I walked on till we came to his house, which I knew well, having often been there to call him. It consisted of two small rooms—a parlour, and little inner bedchamber, and was better furnished than might have been expected; yet old Tom had at one time made a good deal of money, and had expended a portion of it in fitting up his dwelling. Had he always been sober he would now have been comfortably off.

“Stay here, my dears, while I go out for a bit,” he said, bidding us sit down on an old sea-chest on one side of the fireplace. “I haven’t got much to amuse you, but here’s the little craft I cut out for you, Peter, and you can go on rigging her as I’ve been doing. No matter if you don’t do it all ship-shape. And here, Mary, is the stuff for the sails; I’ve shaped them, you see, and if you will hem them you’ll help us finely to get the craft ready for sea.”

Mary gladly undertook the task allotted to her, and even smiled as Tom handed out a huge housewife full of needles and thread and buttons, and odds and ends of all sorts.

“My thimble won’t suit your finger, I’ve a notion, my little maid,” he observed; “but I dare say you’ve got one of your own in your pocket. Feel for it, will you?”

Mary produced a thimble, six of which would have fitted into Tom’s.

“Ay, I thought so,” he said, and seeing us both busily employed, he hurried out of the house. He soon, however, returned, bringing a couple of plum buns for Mary, and some bread and cheese for me, with a small jug of milk. “There, my dears, that’ll stay your hunger till Nancy comes to cook some supper for you, and to put things to rights,” he said, as he placed them before us. “Good-bye. I’ll be back again as soon as I can,” and off he went once more.

Mary and I, having eaten the provisions he brought in, worked away diligently, thankful to have some employment to occupy our attention. But she stopped every now and then, when her eyes were too full of tears to allow her to see her needle, and sobbed as if her dear heart would break. Then on she went again, sewing as fast as she could, anxious to please old Tom by showing him how much she had done. At length Nancy arrived with a big bundle on her back. “I’ve brought away all I could,” she said, as she deposited her load on the floor. “I’d a hard job to get them, and shouldn’t at all, if Tom Swatridge and two other men hadn’t come in and said they’d be answerable if everything wasn’t all square. He and they were ordering all about the funeral, and I’ve got two women to stay with the missus till she’s put all comfortable into her coffin. Alack! Alack! That I should have to talk about her coffin!” Nancy’s feelings overcame her. On recovering, she, without loss of time, began to busy herself with household duties—lighted the fire, put the kettle on to boil, and made up old Tom’s bed with some fresh sheets which she had brought. “You and I are to sleep here, Mary,” she said, “and Peter is to have a shakedown in the sitting-room.”

“And where is Tom going to put up himself?” I asked.

“That’s what he didn’t say but I fancy he’s going to stay at night with an old chum who has a room near here. He said his place isn’t big enough for us all, and so he’d made up his mind to turn out.”

Such I found to be the case. Nothing would persuade our friend to sleep in his own house, for fear of crowding us. He and several other watermen, old shipmates, and friends of father’s, had agreed to defray the expenses of mother’s funeral, for otherwise she would have been carried to a pauper’s grave. Her furniture and all the property she had possessed were not sufficient to pay her debts contracted during her illness, in spite of all her exertions. We, too, had not Tom taken charge of us, should have been sent to the workhouse, and Nancy would have been turned out into the world to seek her fortune, for her mother was dead, and she had no other relatives. She did talk of trying to get into service, which meant becoming a drudge in a small tradesman’s family, that she might help us with her wages; but she could not bring herself to leave Mary; and Tom, indeed, said she must stay to look after her. As father had had no funeral, his old friends wished to show all the respect in their power to his widow, and a score or more attended, some carrying the coffin, and others walking two and two behind, with bits of black crêpe round their hats and arms, while Mary and I, and Nancy and Tom, followed as chief mourners all the way to Kingston Cemetery. Nancy, with the help of a friend, a poor seamstress, had managed to make a black frock for Mary and a dress for herself, out of mother’s gown, I suspect. They were not very scientifically cut, but she had sat up all night stitching at them, which showed her affection and her desire to do what she considered proper.

Some weeks had passed since mother’s death, and we were getting accustomed to our mode of life. Tom sent Mary to a school near at hand every morning, and she used to impart the knowledge she obtained to me in the evening, including sometimes even sewing.

During the time Mary was at school Nancy went out charing, or tending the neighbours’ children, or doing any other odd jobs of which she was capable, thus gaining enough to support herself, for she declared that she could not be beholden to the old man for her daily food. I always went out with Tom in his boat, and I was now big enough to make myself very useful. He used to make me take the helm when we were sailing, and by patiently explaining how the wind acted on the canvas, and showing me the reason of every manoeuvre, soon taught me to manage a boat as well as any man could do, so that when the wind was light I could go out by myself without the slightest fear.

“You’ll do, Peter; you’ll do,” said the old man, approvingly, when one day I had taken the boat out to Spithead alongside a vessel and back, he sitting on a thwart with his arms folded, and not touching a rope, though he occasionally peered under the foot of the foresail to see that I was steering right, and used the boat-hook when we were going alongside the vessel, and shoving off, which I should have had to do if he had been steering. “You’ll now be able to gain your living, boy, and support Mary till she’s old enough to go out to service, if I’m taken from you, and that’s what I’ve been aiming at.”

Often when going along the Hard a friend would ask him to step into one of the many publics facing it to take a glass of spirits or beer. “No thank ye, mate,” he would reply; “if I get the taste of one I shall be wanting another, and I shouldn’t be happy if I didn’t treat you in return, and I’ve got something else to do with my money instead of spending it on liquor.”

I never saw him angry except when hard pressed by an ill-judging friend to step into a public-house.

“Would you like to see Jack Trawl’s son in a ragged shirt, without shoes to his feet, and his daughter a beggar-girl, or something worse? Then don’t be asking me, mate, to take a drop of the poisonous stuff. I know what I used to be, and I know what I should be again if I was to listen to you!” he exclaimed. “Stand out of my way, now! Stand out of my way! Come along, Peter,” and, grasping my hand with a grip which made my fingers crack, he stumped along the Hard as fast as he could move his timber toe.

It was a pleasure on getting home to find Mary looking bright and cheerful, with her work or books before her, and Nancy busy preparing supper. The old man and I always took our dinner with us—generally a loaf of bread, with a piece of cheese or bacon or fried fish, and sometimes Irish stew in a basin, done up in a cloth, and a stone bottle of water. I remember saying that I was born with a wooden spoon in my mouth, but when I come to reflect what excellent parents I had, and what true friends I found in Tom Swatridge and Nancy, I may say that, after all, it must have been of silver, though perhaps not quite so polished as those found in the mouths of some infants.

Another change in my life was about to occur. We had taken off a gentleman from Gosport. From his way of speaking, we found that he was a foreigner, and he told us that he wanted to be put on board a foreign ship lying at Spithead.

“Is dere any danger?” he asked, looking out across the Channel, and thinking what a long distance he had to go.

“Not a bit, sir,” answered Tom, for the water was as smooth as a mill-pond. There was a light air from the southward, and there was not a cloud in the sky. “We might cross the Channel to France for that matter, with weather like this.”

“Oh no, no! I only want to get to dat sheep out dere!” cried the foreigner, fancying that we might carry him across against his will.

“Certainly, mounseer; we’ll put you aboard in a jiffy as soon as we gets a breeze to help us along,” said Tom.

We pulled round Blockhouse Point, along shore, till we came off Fort Monkton, when opening Stokes Bay, the wind hauling a little to the westward, we made sail and stood for Spithead. A number of vessels were brought up there, and at the Mother-bank, off Ryde, among them a few men-of-war, but mostly merchantmen, outward bound, or lately come in waiting for orders. It was difficult as yet to distinguish the craft the foreigner wanted to be put aboard.

“It won’t matter if we have to dodge about a little to find her, mounseer, for one thing’s certain: we couldn’t have a finer day for a sail,” observed old Tom, as we glided smoothly over the blue water, shining brightly in the rays of the unclouded sun.

He gave me the helm while he looked out for the foreign ship.

“That’s her, I’ve a notion,” he said at length, pointing to a deep-waisted craft with a raised poop and forecastle, and with much greater beam than our own wall-sided merchantmen. “Keep her away a bit, Peter. Steady! That will do.”

The tide was running to the westward, so that we were some time getting up to the ship.

“You’ll be aboard presently, if that is your ship, as I suppose, mounseer,” said Tom.

“Yes, yes; dat is my sheep,” answered the foreigner, fumbling in his pockets, I fancied, for his purse.

He uttered an exclamation of annoyance. “Ma monie gone! Some villain take it, no doubte. You come aboard de sheep, and I vill give it you, my friend,” he said. “One half guinea is de charge, eh? I have also letter to write; you take it and I vill give two shillings more.”

“All right, mounseer, I will wait your pleasure, and promise to post your letter,” answered Tom.

As there were several boats alongside, he told me to keep under weigh till he should hail me to come for him, and as he was as active as any man, in spite of his wooden leg, taking the foreigner by the hand, he helped him up on deck. I then hauled the tacks aboard and stood off to a little distance. I waited and waited, watching the ship, and wondering why Tom was so long on board.

The wind at last began to drop, and afraid of being carried to leeward, I was on the point of running up alongside when I heard a fearful roaring thundering sound. A cloud of black smoke rose above the ship, followed by lurid names, which burst out at all her ports; her tall masts were shot into the air, her deck was cast upwards, her sides were rent asunder; and shattered fragments of planks, and of timbers and spars, and blocks, and all sorts of articles from the hold, came flying round me. I instinctively steered away from the danger, and though huge pieces of burning wreck fell hissing into the water on either side, and far beyond where I was, none of any size touched the wherry. For a minute or more I was so confounded by the awful occurrence that I did not think of my old friend. I scarcely knew where I was or what I was doing. The moment I recovered my presence of mind I put the boat about, getting out an oar to help her along, and stood back towards the burning wreck, which appeared for a moment like a vast pyramid of flame rising above the surface, and then suddenly disappeared as the waters closed over the shattered hull.

I stood up, eagerly gazing towards the spot to ascertain if any human beings had survived the dreadful catastrophe, though it seemed to me impossible that a single person could have escaped. One boat alone was afloat with some people in her, but they were sitting on the thwarts or lying at the bottom, not attempting to exert themselves, all more or less injured. The other boats had been dragged down, as the ship sank. All about were shattered spars and pieces of the deck, and some way off the masts with the yards still fast to them. Here and there was a body floating with the head or a limb torn off. One man was swimming, and I saw another in the distance clinging to a spar, but the former before I could get up to him sank without a cry, and I then steered for the man on the spar, hoping against hope that he might be old Tom. I shouted to him that he might know help was coming, but he did not answer. Meantime boats from the various ships lying around were approaching. I plied my oar with all my might, fearing that the man I have spoken of might let go his hold and be lost like the other before I could reach him. The nearer I got the more I feared that he was not Tom. His face was blackened, his clothes burnt and torn. Then I saw that he had two legs, and knew for certain that he was not my old friend. Still, of course, I continued on till I got up to the spar, when I tried to help the poor man into my boat, for he was too much hurt to get on board by himself. But my strength was insufficient for the purpose, and I was afraid of letting go lest he should sink and be lost. There was no small risk also of my being dragged overboard. Still, I did my best, but could get him no higher than the gunwale.

“Well done, youngster! Hold fast, and we’ll help you,” I heard a voice sing out, and presently a man-of-war’s boat dashing up, two of her crew springing into the wherry quickly hauled the man on board.

“We must take him to our ship, lads, to let the surgeon attend to him,” said the officer, a master’s mate in charge of the man-of-war’s boat.

The man was accordingly lifted into her. It appeared to me, from his sad condition, that the surgeon would be unable to do him any good.

“What, did you come out here all by yourself, youngster?” asked the officer.

“No, sir, I came out with old Tom Swatridge, who went on board the ship which blew up,” I answered.

“Then I fear he must have been blown up with her, my lad,” said the officer.

“I hope not, sir, I hope not,” I cried out, my heart ready to break as I began to realise that such might be the case.

Chapter Five.

A friend lost and a friend gained.

It seemed but a moment since the ship blew up. I could not believe that old Tom had perished.

“Some people have been picked up out there, sir, I think,” observed the coxswain to the officer, pointing as he spoke to several boats surrounding the one I had before remarked with the injured men in her. “Maybe the old man the lad speaks of is among them.”

“Make the wherry fast astern, and we’ll pull on and ascertain,” said the officer.

“If he is not found, or if found is badly hurt, I’ll get leave for a couple of hands to help you back with your boat to Portsmouth.”

“I can take her back easily enough by myself if the wind holds as it does now; thank you all the same, sir,” I answered.

I felt, indeed, that if my faithful friend really was lost, which I could scarcely yet believe, I would rather be alone; and I had no fear about managing the wherry single-handed.

As may be supposed, my anxiety became intense as we approached the boat. “Is old Tom Swatridge saved?” I shouted out.

No answer came.

“Tom! Tell me, Tom, if you are there!” I again shouted.

“Step aboard the boat and see if your friend is among the injured men,” said the good-natured officer, assisting me to get alongside.

I eagerly scanned the blackened faces of the men sitting up, all of whom had been more or less scorched or burnt. A surgeon who had come off from one of the ships was attending to them. They were strangers to me. Two others lay dead in the bottom of the boat, but neither of them was old Tom. He was gone, of that I could no longer have a doubt.

With a sad heart I returned to the wherry. The other boats had not succeeded in saving any of the hapless crew. The ship had been loaded with arms and gunpowder, bound for South America, I heard some one say.

“Cheer up, my lad!” said the officer; “you must come aboard the Lapwing, and we’ll then send you into Portsmouth, as we must have this poor fellow looked to by our surgeon before he is taken to the hospital.”

The name of the Lapwing aroused me; she was the brig in which my brother Jack had gone to sea. For a moment I forgot my heavy loss with the thoughts that I might presently see dear Jack again. But it was only for a moment. As I sat steering the wherry towed by the man-of-war’s boat my eyes filled with tears. What sad news I had to give to Jack! What would become of Mary and Nancy? For myself I did not care, as I knew that I could obtain employment at home, or could go to sea; but then I could not hope for a long time to come to make enough to support them. My chief feeling, however, was grief at the loss of my true-hearted old friend.

Soon after we got alongside the brig of war the master’s mate told me to come up on deck, while one of the men took charge of the wherry. He at once led me aft to the commander, who questioned me as to how I came to be in the wherry by myself. I described to him all that had happened.

“You acted a brave part in trying to save the man from the ship which blew up. Indeed, had you not held on to him he would have been lost,” he observed. “I must see that you are rewarded. What is your name?”

“Peter Trawl, sir,” I answered, and, eager to see Jack, for whom I had been looking out since I got out of the boat, thinking that we should know each other, I added, “I have a brother, sir, who went to sea aboard this brig, and we have been looking out for him ever so long to come home. Please, sir, can I go and find him?”

The commander’s countenance assumed a look of concern. “Poor fellow! I wish that he was on board for his sake and yours, my lad,” he answered. “I cannot say positively that he is dead, but I have too much reason to believe that he is. While we were cruising among the islands of the East Indian Archipelago he formed one of a boat’s crew which was, while at a distance from the ship, attacked by a large body of Malay pirates. When we got up we found only on man, mortally wounded, in the bottom of the boat, who before he died said that, to the best of his belief, the officer in charge and the rest of the men had been killed, as he had seen several dragged on board the proas, and then hacked to pieces and hove overboard.

“We chased and sank some of the pirate fleet, and made every possible search for the missing men, in case any of them should have escaped on shore, to which they were close at the time of the attack, but no traces of them could be discovered. I left an account of the occurrence with the vessel which relieved me on the station, and should any of the poor fellows have been found I should have been informed of it. It was my intention, as soon as I was paid off the Lapwing, to come down to Portsmouth to break the news to his father. Say this from me, and that I yet hope to see him shortly.”

Commander Rogers seemed very sorry when I told him that father and mother were both dead. He asked me where I lived. I told him, as well as I could describe the house, forgetting that, too probably, Mary and I and Nancy would not be long allowed to remain there.

“When I commission another ship, would you like to go with me, my lad?” he asked.

“Very much, sir,” I answered. “But I have a sister, and I couldn’t go away with no one to take care of her; so I must not think of it now Tom Swatridge has gone. All the same, I thank you kindly, sir.”

“Well, well, my lad; we will see what can be done,” he said, and just then a midshipman came up to report that the boat was ready to carry the rescued man, with the surgeon, to the shore.

I found that the master’s mate, Mr Harvey, and one of the men were going in my boat, and of course I did not like to say that I could get into the harbour very well without them. I touched my hat to the commander, who gave me a kind nod—it would not have done for him, I suppose, to shake hands with a poor boy on his quarter-deck even if he had been so disposed—and then I hurried down the side.

I made sail, and took the helm just as if I had been by myself, Mr Harvey sitting by my side, while the seaman had merely to rig out the mainsail with the boat-hook, as we were directly before the wind.

“You are in luck, youngster,” observed Mr Harvey; “though you have lost one friend you’ve gained another, for our commander always means what he says, and, depend on it, he’ll not lose sight of you.”

He seemed a very free-and-easy gentleman, and made me tell him all about myself, and how we had lost father and mother, and how Tom Swatridge had taken charge of Mary and me. His cheerful way of talking made me dwell less on my grief than I should have done had I sailed into the harbour all alone.

“I should like to go and see your little sister and the faithful Nancy,” he said, “but I must return to the brig as soon as that poor man has been carried to the hospital, and I have several things to do on shore. Land me at the Point, you can find your way to the Hard by yourself, I’ve no doubt.”

“The boat would find her way alone, sir, she’s so accustomed to it,” I answered.

We ran in among a number of wherries with people embarking from the Point or landing at it. The Point, it should be understood by those who do not know Portsmouth, is a hard shingly beach on the east side, at the mouth of the harbour, and there was at that time close to it an old round stone tower, from which an iron chain formerly extended across to Blockhouse Fort, on the Gosport side, to prevent vessels from coming in without leave.

“Here, my lad, is my fare,” said Mr Harvey, slipping half a guinea into my hand as he stepped on shore, followed by the seaman; “it will help to keep Nancy’s pot boiling till you can look about you and find friends. They will appear, depend on it.”

Before I could thank him he was away among the motley crowd of persons thronging the Point. I was thankful that no one asked me for old Tom, and, shoving out from among the other boats, I quickly ran on to the Hard.

When I landed the trial came. A waterman had gained an inkling of what had occurred from one of the crew of the Lapwings boat, and I was soon surrounded by people asking questions of how it happened.

“I can’t tell you more,” I answered, at length breaking from them. “Tom’s gone, and brother Jack’s gone, and I must go and look after poor Mary.”

It was late by the time I reached home. Nancy had got supper ready on the table, and Mary had placed old Tom’s chair for him in a snug corner by the fire. They saw that something was the matter, for I couldn’t speak for a minute or more, not knowing how to break the news to them. At last I said, with a choking voice, pointing to the chair, “He’ll never sit there more!”

Dear me, I thought Mary’s and Nancy’s hearts would break outright when they understood what had happened. It was evident how much they loved the rough old man—I loved him too, but in a different way, I suppose, for I could not ease my heart by crying; indeed I was thinking about what Mary and Nancy would do, and of brother Jack’s loss. I did not like to tell Mary of that at first, but it had to come out, and, strange as it may seem, it made her think for the time less about what was to us by far the greater loss. Supper remained long untasted, but at last I felt that I must eat, and so I fell to, and after a time Nancy followed my example and made Mary take something.

Nancy then began to talk of what we must do to gain our living, and we sat up till late at night discussing our plans. There was the wherry, and I must get a mate, and I should do very well; then we had the house, for we never dreamed that we should not go on living in it, as we were sure Tom would have wished us to do. Nancy was very sanguine as to how she could manage. Her plain, pock-marked face beamed as she spoke of getting three times as much work as before. Short and awkward as was her figure, Nancy had an heroic soul. Mary must continue to attend school, and in time would be able to do something to help also.

We talked on till we almost fell asleep on our seats. The next morning we were up betimes. Nancy got out some black stuff we had worn for mother, a piece of which she fastened round my arm to show respect to old Tom’s memory, and after breakfast I hurried out to try and find a mate, that I might lose no time in doing what I could with the wherry. I had thought of Jim Pulley, a stout strong lad, a year or two older than myself, who, though not very bright, was steady and honest, and I knew that I could trust him; his strength would supply my want of it for certain work we had to do. Jim was the first person I met on the Hard. I made my offer to him; he at once accepted it.

“To tell the truth, Peter, I was a-coming to say, that if thou hadst not got any one to go in the place of Tom Swatridge, I would help thee till thou art suited for nothing, or if thou wilt find me in bread and cheese I’ll be thankful.”

In a few minutes after this Jim and I were plying for hire in the harbour, and we had not long to wait before we got a fare. The first day we did very well, and I gave Jim a quarter of what we took, with which he was perfectly content.

“I wouldn’t ask for more, Peter,” he said, “for thou hast three mouths to feed, and I have only one.”

The next few days we were equally successful; indeed I went home every evening in good spirits as to my prospects. I made enough for all expenses, and could lay by something for the repairs of the wherry.

Though Jim and I were mere boys, while the weather was fine people took our boat as willingly as they did those of grown men. Sometimes we got parties to go off to the Victory, at others across to the Victualling Yard, and occasionally up the harbour to Porchester Castle.

We worked early and late, and Jim or I was always on the look-out for a fare.

When I got home at night I had generally a good account to give of the day’s proceedings. Now and then I asked Jim in to take a cup of tea, and many a hearty laugh we had at what the ladies and gentlemen we had taken out had said and done. Seeing that we were but boys they fancied that they could talk before us in a way they wouldn’t have thought of doing if we had been grown men.

It must not be supposed that we were able to save much, but still I put by something every week for the repairs of the boat I had got enough to give her a fresh coat of paint, which she much wanted, and we agreed that we would haul her up on Saturday afternoon for the purpose, so that she would be ready for Monday.

We carried out our intentions, though it took every shilling I had put by, and we lost more than one fare by so doing. But the wherry looked so fresh and gay, that we hoped to make up for it the next week. Jim went to chapel on the Sunday with Mary and Nancy and me, and spent most of the day with us. He was so quiet and unassuming that we all liked him much. As we had put plenty of dryers in the paint, and the sun was hot on Sunday, by Monday forenoon we were able to ply as usual. We had taken a fare across to Gosport, when a person, whom we supposed to be a gentleman from his gay waistcoat and chains, and his top-boots, and hat stuck on one side, came down to the beach and told us to take him over to Portsea. We soon guessed by the way he talked that, in spite of his fine clothes, he was not a gentleman.

“I say, you fellow, do you happen to know whereabouts an old chap, one Tom Swatridge, lives?” he asked of Jim.

“He doesn’t live anywhere; he’s dead,” answered Jim.

“Dead! Dead, do you say?” he exclaimed. “Who’s got his property?”

“He had no property that I knows on,” answered Jim; “except, maybe—”

“Oh yes, he had; and if the old fellow had lived he would have been the possessor of a good round sum; but, as I am his nephew, that will be mine, and everything else he left behind him, the lawyer, Master Six-and-eightpence, as I call him, tells me.”

All this time I had not liked to say anything, but the last remark made me feel very uncomfortable. The speaker presently took a letter out of his pocket, and, reading it, said, “Ah! I see Mr Gull is the man I’ve got to go to. Can you show me where Mr Gull, the attorney, lives?” he asked of Jim; “he’ll settle up this matter.”

Jim made no answer, for we were getting near the shore, and had to keep out of the way of two craft coming up the harbour. We soon ran up to the Hard, when the man, stepping out, offered Jim a sixpence.

“A shilling’s the fare, sir,” said Jim, keeping back his hand.

“No, no, you young rascal! I know better; but I’ll give you another sixpence if you will show me the way to Mr Gull’s.”

“You may find it by yourself,” answered Jim, indignantly, as he picked up the sixpence thrown to him by our fare, who walked off.

“Half a loaf is better than no bread, Peter, so it’s as well not to lose the sixpence,” said Jim, laughing. “But no gentleman would have offered less than a shilling. I wonder whether he really is old Tom’s nephew?”

Chapter Six.

Turned out of house and home.

We had just landed the gaily-dressed individual who had announced himself the nephew of old Tom Swatridge. Thinking that he might possibly be the person he said he was, and not knowing what tricks he might play, I was intending to row home, when a gentleman, with two young ladies and a boy, who I knew by their dress to be Quakers, came down, wishing to take a row round the harbour, and afterwards to visit the Victualling Yard.

After we had pulled off some way, I asked if they would like to go aboard the Victory.

“No, thank thee, young friend, we take no pleasure in visiting scenes, afloat or on shore, where the blood of our fellow-creatures has been shed,” answered the gentleman.

As he spoke I thought by his look and the tone of his voice that he must be Mr Silas Gray, who had come to our house when the poor girl mother took in was dying, but I did not like to ask him. The young people called him father. At last he began to ask Jim and me questions, and how, young as we were, we came to have a boat by ourselves.

“I suppose thy father is ill on shore?” he said.

Then I told him how he was lost at Spithead, and mother had died, and old Tom had been blown up, and I had taken his wherry, seeing there was no one else to own her; and how Mary and Nancy and I lived on in his house.

“And art thou and this other lad brothers?” he inquired.

“No, sir; but Jim Pulley and I feel very much as if we were,” I answered. “My name is Peter Trawl.”

“And was thy mother a bumboat-woman, a true, honest soul, one of the excellent of the earth?” he asked.

“Ay, ay, sir! That was my mother,” I said, my heart beating with pleasure to hear her so spoken of.

Then he told me that he was Mr Silas Gray, and asked if I remembered the visits he used to pay to our house. Of course I did. The young ladies and his son joined in the conversation, and very pleasant it was to hear them talk.

We were out the whole afternoon, and it was quite late when we got back to Portsea. Mr Gray said that he was going away the next morning with his family to London, but that when he returned he would pay Mary a visit, and hoped before the summer was over to take some more trips in my wherry. He paid us liberally, and he and the young people gave us kind smiles and nods as they stepped on shore.

While we were out I had not thought much about the fare we had brought across from Gosport in the morning, but now, recollecting what he had said, I hurried home, anxious to hear if he had found out the house. I had not to ask, for directly I appeared Nancy told me that while Mary was at school an impudent fellow had walked in and asked if old Tom Swatridge had once lived there, and when she said “Yes,” had taken a note of everything, and then sat down and lighted his pipe, and told her to run out and bring him a jug of ale.

“‘A likely thing, indeed!’ I answered him,” said Nancy; “‘what! When I come back to find whatever is worth taking carried off, or maybe the door locked and I unable to get in!’ The fellow laughed when I said this—a nasty sort of a laugh it was—and said, ‘Ay! Just so.’ I didn’t know exactly what he meant, but presently he sang out, ‘What! Are you not gone yet, gal?’ ‘No, and I shan’t,’ I answered; ‘and when Peter and Jim come in you’ll pretty quickly find who has to go.’ On this he thundered out, trying to frighten me, ‘Do you know that I am old Tom Swatridge’s nephew and heir-at-law,’ (I think that’s what he called himself), ‘and that this house and everything in it is mine, and the wherry, and any money the old chap left behind him? I’ll soon prove that you and your brother are swindlers, and you’ll be sent off to prison, let me tell you.’ He took me for Mary, do you see, Peter; and I was not going to undeceive him? I felt somewhat nonplussed when he said this, but without answering I walked to the window, working with my needle as I was doing when he came in, and looked out as if I was expecting you and Jim to be coming. I would give him no food, nor even a drink of water; so at last he grew tired, and, saying I should see him again soon, swinging his cane and whistling, he walked away.”

“What do you think, Peter? Can he really be old Tom’s nephew?” asked Mary, when Nancy ceased speaking.

“One thing is certain, that if he proves himself to be so we shall be bound to turn out of this house, and to give up the wherry,” I answered.

“Oh, Peter! What shall we do, then?” exclaimed Mary.

“The best we can, my sister,” I said. “Perhaps the man may not be able to prove that he is what he calls himself. I have heard of impostors playing all sorts of tricks. We’ll hope for the best. And now, Nancy, let us have some supper.”

Though I tried to keep up the spirits of Mary and Nancy, I felt very anxious, and could scarcely sleep for thinking on the subject. Whatever might happen for myself I did not care, but I was greatly troubled about what Mary and Nancy would do. I naturally thought of Commander Rogers, from whom all this time I had heard nothing, though he had promised to come and see after Mary and me. Mr Gray had said that he was going away again, so that I could not obtain advice from him. “I have God to trust to, that’s a comfort,” I thought, and I soon dropped off to sleep.

The next morning I remained at home to a later hour than usual. Just as I was going out a man came to the door, who said he was sent by Lawyer Gull, and put a paper into my hand, which he told me was a something I could not exactly make out, to quit the house within twenty-four hours. “His client, the owner of the property, wishes not to act harshly, so refrains from taking stronger measures at present,” said the clerk, who, having performed his task, went away. I stopped a few minutes to talk with Mary and Nancy. Mary said quietly that if we must go we must, and that we had better look out for cheap lodgings at once. Nancy was very indignant, and declared that we had no business to turn out for such a scamp as that. Old Tom had never spoken of having a nephew; she did not believe the fellow was his nephew, and certainly, if he was, Tom would not have left his property to him. She advised me, however, to go out and try to get advice from some one who knew more about the law than she did. I accordingly set off for the Hard, where I was sure to find several friends among the watermen. I had not got far when I met Jim Pulley, looking very disconsolate.

“What is the matter, Jim,” I asked.

“We’ve lost the wherry!” he exclaimed, nearly blubbering. “Two big fellows came down, and, asking what boat she was, told me to step ashore: and when I said I wouldn’t for them, or for any one but you, they took me, crop and heels, and trundled me out of her.”

“That is only what I feared,” I said. “I was coming down to find some one to advise us what to do.”

“Then you couldn’t ask any better man than Bob Fox, he’s been in prison half a score of times for smuggling and such like, so he must know a mighty deal about law,” he answered.

We soon found Bob Fox, who was considered an oracle on the Hard, and a number of men gathered round while he expressed his opinion.

“Why, you see, mates, it’s just this,” he said, extending one of his hands to enforce his remarks; “you must either give in or go to prison when they brings anything agen you, and that, maybe, is the cheapest in the end; or, as there’s always a lawyer on t’other side, you must set another lawyer on to fight him, and that’s what I’d advise to be done in this here case. Now I knows a chap, one Lawyer Chalk, who’s as sharp as a needle, and if any man can help young Peter and his sister to keep what is their own he’ll do it. I’m ready to come down with some shiners to pay him, for, you see, these lawyer folk don’t argify for nothing, and I’m sure some on you who loves justice will help Jack and Polly Trawl’s children; so round goes the hat.”

Suiting the action to the word, Bob, taking off his tarpaulin, threw a handful of silver into it, and his example being followed by a number of other men, he grasped me by the hand, and set off forthwith to consult Lawyer Chalk.

We quickly reached his office. Mr Chalk, a quiet-looking little man, with easy familiar manners, which won the confidence of his illiterate constituents, knowing Bob Fox well, received us graciously. His eyes glittered as he heard the money chink in Bob’s pocket.

“It’s all as clear as a pikestaff,” he observed, when he heard what I had got to say. “They must prove first that this fellow who has turned up is Tom Swatridge’s nephew; then that he is his heir-at-law, and finally that the house and boat belonged to the deceased. Now possession is nine-tenths of the law; you’ve got them, and you must hold them till the law turns you out.”

“I couldn’t, sir, if another has a better right to them than I have,” I answered. “I lived on in the house and used the wherry because I was sure that old Tom would have wished me to do so, but then I didn’t know that he had any relation to claim them.”

“And you don’t know that he has any relation now,” said Mr Chalk; “that has to be proved, my lad. The law requires proof; that’s the beauty of the law. The man may swear till he’s black in the face that he is the deceased’s nephew, but if he has no proof he’ll not gain his cause.”

Bob Fox was highly delighted with our visit to the lawyer.

“I told you so, lad; I told you so!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands; “t’other chap will find he has met his match. Bless you! Old Chalk’s as keen as a razor.”

As I could not use the wherry, I went home feeling in much better spirits than before about our prospects. I was able even to cheer up Mary and Nancy. I told them that, by Lawyer Chalk’s advice, we were not to quit the house, and that he would manage everything. No one appeared during the day. The next morning we had breakfast as usual, and as the time went by I was beginning to hope that we should be unmolested, when two rough-looking men came to the door, and, though Nancy sprang up to bar them out, in they walked. One of them then thrust a paper out to her, but she drew back her hand as if it had been a hot iron. The man again attempted to make her take it. “One of you must have it,” he growled out.

“No, no! I couldn’t make head or tail of it if I did,” answered Nancy, still drawing back.

“Let me have it,” I said, wishing to know what the men really came for.

“The sum total is, that you and the rest of you are to move away from this, and if you don’t go sharp we’re to turn you out!” exclaimed the bailiff, losing patience at the time I took to read the document. “It’s an order of ejectment, you’ll understand.”

“Don’t you mind what it is, Peter!” exclaimed Nancy; “Mr Chalk said we was to stay here, and stay we will for all the scraps of paper in the world!” And Nancy, seating herself in a chair, folded her arms, and cast defiant looks at the officers of the law.

They were, however, up to the emergency. Before either she or I were aware of what they were about to do, they had secured her arms to the back of the chair, and then, lifting it and her up, carried her out of the house and deposited her in the street, in spite of the incautious attempt I made to effect a rescue. The moment I got outside the house one of the bailiffs, turning round, seized me in a vice-like grasp, and the other then entering, led out Mary, who saw that resistance was hopeless. He next walked back, took the key from the door, and, having locked it, released Nancy and re-entered the house with the chair. Before Nancy could follow him he had shut himself in, while his companion, letting me go with a shove which sent me staggering across the street, walked off, I concluded to tell the lawyer who sent him and his mate that they had got possession of the house.

Nancy was standing, with her fists clenched, too much astonished at the way she had been treated to speak. Mary was in tears, trembling all over.

“Oh, Peter, what are we to do?” she asked.

“I’ll go to Lawyer Chalk and hear what he says,” I answered. “If the house and boat ought to be ours, he’ll get them back; if not, I can’t say just now what we must do. Meantime do you and Nancy go to Widow Simmons’s, and wait there. She was always a friend of mother’s, and will be glad to help you.”

Mary agreed, but Nancy, who at length found her tongue, declared that she wasn’t going to lose sight of the house, and that she would stay where she was and watch and tell the folks who passed how we had been treated. As nothing I could say would induce her to move, I accompanied Mary to the widow’s, where I left her, and hastened on to Mr Chalk’s. The lawyer made a long face when I told him how we had been treated.

“I told you that ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law,’ my lad, and now they are in and you are out,” he answered. “It’s a bad job—but we’ll see what can be done. We must obtain at all events your clothes, and any other private property you may possess. Now go, my lad, and call upon me in a week or two; I shall see Bob Fox in the meantime.”

Soon after leaving the lawyer’s I met Jim Pulley. Having seen Nancy, he was fuming with indignation at our having been turned out of our home, and proposed trying to break into the house to regain possession, but I had sense enough to know that we must abide by the law, whichever way that decided I found Nancy still keeping watch before the door, and vehemently appealing to all who would stop to listen to her. It was with some difficulty that I at length persuaded her to go with me to Mrs Simmons’s. The kind widow was willing to give us shelter, and as Mary had fortunately my savings in her pocket, we had sufficient to pay for our food for some days. The next morning Mary went as usual to school; Nancy left the house, saying that she was going to look for work, and I set out, hoping to find employment in a wherry with one of the men who knew me.

Chapter Seven.

Help comes when least expected.

I found it more difficult to obtain employment with wages sufficient to support Mary and me, not to speak of Nancy, than I had expected. Jim and I tried to hire a boat, but we could not obtain one to suit us for any sum we could hope to pay. Ours, for so we still called her, had been carried off, and locked up in a shed at Portsmouth. He and I picked up a sixpence or a shilling now and then, but some days we got nothing. There was a great risk of our becoming what my father had so strongly objected to “long-shore loafers.” I would not desert Jim, who had served me so faithfully, and so we tried, as far as we could, to work together. Sometimes he talked of going off to sea, but as I could not leave Mary his heart failed him at the thought of going without me. At the time appointed I called on Lawyer Chalk.

“Sorry to say we are beaten, my lad,” were the words with which he greeted me. “I fought hard, but there’s no doubt that Mr Gull’s client is the nephew of Tom Swatridge, who died intestate, consequently his nephew is his heir. Had the old man wisely come to me I would have drawn up a will for him, securing his property to you or any one he might have desired. I am very sorry for you, but law is law, and it can’t be helped. I hope that you will find employment somewhere soon. Good-day to you.” And he waved me out of his office.

In consequence of his failure in my cause, Lawyer Chalk sank considerably in the estimation of Bob Fox and his friends, who declared that the next time they wanted legal advice they would try what Lawyer Gull could do for them. I should have said that a day or two before he had sent a clerk armed with due authority to accompany Nancy and Mary, who brought away our clothing and all the articles which we had purchased with our own money. Curiously enough, I did not again set eyes on Mr Eben Swatridge, who was, I understood, the son of a younger brother of old Tom, who had gone into business in London and made money. Some property having been left to the two brothers, or to the survivor of either, Eben had been compelled to make inquiries respecting his long unrecognised uncle, and had thus been induced to pay the visit to Portsea which had produced such disastrous results to Mary and me.

The house and furniture and wherry were sold, and directly afterwards he disappeared from Portsmouth. Perhaps he thought it wise to keep out of the way of Bob Fox and the other sturdy old salts who supported me. Not that one of them would have laid a finger on him, and Mary and I agreed that, far from having any ill-feeling, we should have been ready, for his uncle’s sake, to have been friends if he had explained to us at the first who he was and his just rights in a quiet way. We had now a hard struggle to make the two ends meet. Mrs Simmons fell ill, and Mary, who could no longer go to school, had to attend on her, and I had to find food and, as it turned out, to pay her rent, she being no longer able to work for her own support. I did not grumble at this, for I was grateful to her for her kindness to us; but though we stinted ourselves to the utmost, we often had not a sixpence in the house to buy fit nourishment for the poor old lady. Nancy was ready to slave from morning to night, but was often unsuccessful in obtaining work, so that she made scarcely enough to support herself; she might have got a situation, but she would not leave Mary. Whenever honest Jim Pulley could save a shilling he brought it, as he said, for the widow, though I knew that besides his wish to help her he was much influenced by his regard for us. I often thought when the winter came what he and I should do then. I did not say anything to Mary about the future, but tried to keep up her spirits, for I saw that her cheek was becoming pale, and she was growing thinner and thinner every day. At last one morning, when I had got up just at daylight, and having taken a crust of bread and a drink of water for breakfast, was about to go out in search of work, Nancy came into the room, and said—

“I don’t know what has come over Mary, but she has been talking and talking ever so strangely all night, and her cheek is as hot as a live cinder.”

I hurried into the little back room Mary and Nancy occupied next to the widow’s. A glance told me that my dear little sister was in a high fever. My heart was ready to burst, for she did not know me Mrs Simmons was too ill to get up and say what she thought of its nature.

“I must run for the doctor, Nancy,” I exclaimed; “there’s not a moment to lose;” and snatching up my hat I rushed out of the house, assured that Nancy would do her best in the meantime.

I had caught sight of Dr Rolt passing along the street on the previous day, so I knew that he was at home, and I felt more inclined to go to him than to Mr Jones. I ran as I had not run for a long time, and no one ventured to stop me now. The doctor was on foot, early as was the hour. He remembered mother and Mary and me the moment I mentioned my name.

“I’ll come to see your little sister directly,” he said.

I waited for him, fearing that he might not find the house. He was soon ready, and, considering his age, I was surprised how well he kept up with me. I eagerly ushered him into the house. He had not been long with Mary before he sent me off to the chemist to get some medicine, for which I had fortunately enough in my pocket to pay. When I came back he gave it to her himself, and said that he would send some more in the evening; but he would not tell me what he thought of her.

I will not dwell on this unhappy time. The doctor came twice every day and sometimes oftener, but Mary seemed to be getting no better. I had to go out to get work, but all I could make was not sufficient for our expenses, and I had to run into debt, besides which the widow’s rent was due, and she could not pay it.

One day Jim brought me a few shillings, which he said the watermen had given him, but times were bad with most of them, and they could do but little. This enabled me to get some things absolutely necessary for Mary and food for the rest of us. The landlord called two or three times for rent, and at last said that he must put in a distress if it was not paid. The thought of what the consequence of this would be to Mary made me tremble with fear. Ill as she and Mrs Simmons were, their beds might, notwithstanding, be taken from beneath them. The widow might be carried off to the workhouse, and we should be turned into the street I begged hard for delay, and promised that I would do all I could to raise the money. The landlord replied that he would give us two days more, but would not listen to anything further I had to say. The doctor had just before called, so that I could not then tell him of our difficulty. He had not yet given me any assurance that he thought Mary would recover. Nancy could not leave the house, as she was required every moment to attend on her and Mrs Simmons. I was not likely to find Dr Rolt till the evening, so I determined to consult Jim and Bob Fox. I soon met Jim; he was ready to cry when I told him. He scratched his head and rubbed his brow, in vain trying to suggest something.

“Bob can’t help us either,” he said, at length. “He’s got into trouble. Went away three days ago over to France in a smuggling lugger, the Smiling Lass, and she was catched last night with tubs aboard, so he’s sure to want all the money he can get to pay Lawyer Chalk to keep him out of prison, if that’s to be done, but I’m afeared even old Chalk will be nonplussed this time.”

“I wonder whether Lawyer Chalk would lend me the money,” I said.

“Might as well expect to get a hen’s egg out of a block of granite,” answered Jim.

On inquiry I found that all my friends from whom I had the slightest hope of assistance were away over at Ryde, Cowes, or Southampton.

“I tell you, Peter, as I knowed how much you wanted money, I’d a great mind to go aboard the Smiling Lass t’other day, when Bob axed me. It’s a good job I didn’t, isn’t it?”

“I am very glad you didn’t, not only because you would have been taken, but because you would have broken the law,” I answered. “Father always set his face against smuggling.”

“Yes, maybe he did,” said Jim, who did not see that smuggling was wrong as clearly as I did. “But now what’s to be done?”

“We’ll go down to the Hard, and try to pick up a job,” I answered. “A few pence will be better than nothing.”

We each got a job in different boats. The one I was in took some passengers over to Ryde, and thence some others to Spithead and back, so that it was late when I got home with a shilling and a few pence in my pocket. Mary was no better. The doctor had been, and Nancy had told him of the landlord’s threats, but he had made no remark.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Nancy,” I said; “I’ll offer the landlord this shilling when he comes to-morrow to show that I am in earnest, and perhaps he will let us off for another day or two.”

“Better hear what the doctor thinks when he comes in the morning. I don’t think that he’ll allow Mary and Widow Simmons to have their beds taken from under them. Cheer up, Peter! Cheer up!”

I did cheer up a little when Jim came in and brought another shilling, his day’s earnings, declaring that he’d had a good dinner, and had still some coppers in his pocket to pay for the next day’s breakfast. He, however, could not resist eating some bread and cheese which Nancy pressed on him before he went away.

I could scarcely close my eyes for thinking of what the morrow might bring forth. About midnight Nancy came in and told me that Mary was sleeping more calmly than she had done since she was taken ill. Hoping that this was a good sign my mind became less disquieted, and I fell asleep. The next morning the usual hour for the doctor’s coming passed and he did not appear. We waited and waited, anxious to know whether Mary really was better. At last there came a knocking at the door, and in walked the landlord, with a couple of men at his heels.

“Have you the rent ready, good people?” he asked, in a gruff tone.

“No, sir; but I have two shillings, and I promise to pay as much as I can every day till you’ve got what you demand,” I said, as fast as I could speak.

The men laughed as I said this.

“Two shillings! That won’t go no way, my lad,” cried the landlord. “Let me see, why this old pot and kettle and the cups and plates, and table and chairs, and everything in this room won’t sell for more than half my demands, so we must have the bedsteads and bedding and a chest of drawers or so; and as the old woman in there won’t ever be able to pay me more rent, she and all of you must turn out with what remains! So now, Crouch and Scroggins, do your duty.”

The moment he had entered the house Nancy, passing behind me, had locked Mary’s and Mrs Simmons’s doors, and having put the keys in her pocket, had slipped into the scullery or little back kitchen, where we often cooked in summer. One of the men was in the act of placing one chair upon another, and his companion was approaching Mary’s room, when suddenly Nancy rushed out of the back kitchen with a red-hot poker in her hand, and placing herself before it, exclaimed—

“Step an inch nearer if ye dare, ye cowards! Out on ye, Mr Grimes, to come and disturb a fever-sick girl and an old dying woman for the sake of a few filthy shillings! Peter here has offered you some, and has promised to pay you more when he can get them, and I promise too; and now let me see if one of you dare to lay a finger on any of Missus Simmons’s things! Get out of this house! Get out of this house, I say!”

And she began flourishing her poker and advancing towards the intruders in a way which made them beat a rapid retreat towards the door, Mr Grimes scrambling off the first, and shouting out—

“Assault and battery! I’ll make you pay for this, you young vixen!”

“I don’t mind your salt and butter, nor what you call me either,” cried Nancy; and she was just slamming the door behind them, when two persons appeared as if about to enter, one of whom exclaimed, in a voice which I recognised as that of Dr Rolt—

“Why, my good girl, what is all this about?”

“They said that they was a-going to take Mary’s and the widow’s beds and all the things away, sir, and I wouldn’t let them,” she answered, panting and still grasping the hot poker.

“Verily, daughter, thou hast taken a very effectual way of preventing them,” said the other person, who I now saw to my great joy was Mr Silas Gray. He and the doctor at once entered the house.

“Now listen to me, damsel,” he continued. “Thou hast been prompted by affectionate zeal to defend thy friends, I doubt not, but nevertheless thou hast acted illegally, and the consequences to thyself may be serious; however, I will say no more on the subject at present. Put back thy weapon into the fireplace and attend on friend Rolt, who desires to see his patients.”

I saw Mr Gray and the doctor exchange smiles as Nancy, producing the keys from her pocket, unlocked the doors. He now, observing me, said—

“Tell me, my lad, how all this happened. I thought that thou wast doing well with thy wherry.”

So while the doctor was seeing Mary and Mrs Simmons, I gave him an exact account of all that had happened since the day he and his family were out with Jim and me on the water. I had just finished, when the doctor came into the room.

“I can give you a favourable account of your young sister, my lad,” said Dr Rolt. “Her patience and obedience, aided by Nancy’s care, have been much in her favour, and she will, I trust, shortly recover. As soon as she has gained sufficient strength our friend Mr Gray wishes her to be removed to his house, and Nancy can remain here to look after the poor widow, whose days on earth are numbered.”

“Oh, thank you, gentlemen; thank you!” I exclaimed, my heart swelling so that I could scarcely utter the words.

“And what about yourself, my son?” asked Mr Gray.

“Oh, Jim and I will try to rub on together, and I’ll try to pay the widow’s rent as I promised, if you’ll speak a word, sir, to Mr Grimes and get him not to press for payment,” I answered.

“Set thy mind at rest on that point. I will satisfy the demands of the widow’s landlord,” said Mr Gray; and he then added, “Come to my house to-morrow, and I will meantime consider what can be done to put you in the way of gaining your daily bread. I desire to show thee that I am pleased with thy conduct, but it were small kindness were I to enable thee to live in idleness.”

Again thanking Mr Gray from the bottom of my heart, I said, “What I want, sir, is work. Help me to get that, and it will be all I ask.”

Before going away Mr Gray saw Mary for a short time, and paid a long visit to poor Mrs Simmons, which she said did her heart good.

I had never felt so happy in my life, and could not resist going out to tell Jim Pulley.

“Ask him to set thee up with a wherry and we’ll go out together again as we used to do. That will be fine, and we’ll be as merry as two crickets!” he exclaimed.

“I think I ought to leave it with him,” I answered. “A wherry costs a lot of money, and he has already been very generous, though I should like him to do as you propose, and I promise you, Jim, whatever he proposes, to stick by you.”

“That’s all I care for,” answered my friend.

He accompanied me to the door, but would not come in for fear of disturbing Mary.

The next day I went to see Mr Gray, who lived in a pretty house some way out of Portsmouth. He and his daughters received me very kindly. He had, he said, been considering what he could do for me. He would obtain a wherry for me, but he considered that the life of a waterman was not suited to a lad like me, and he then said that he was a shipowner, and was about to despatch a brig in a few days to the coast of Norway for timber, and that, if I pleased, he would send me on board her as an apprentice. Also, as he considered that I was already a seaman, he would give me a trifle of pay. Remembering what my father used to say about not wishing Jack “to become a long-shore lubber,” I at once replied that I would thankfully have accepted his offer, but that I could not desert Jim Pulley, who would well-nigh break his heart, if I were to go away without him.

“Nor need thee do that, my son,” he answered. “I will provide a berth also for thy friend on board the Good Intent, and he and thou need not be parted. I approve of thy constancy to him and of his faithfulness to thee. A long-shore life, such as thou wouldst lead if thou wast owner of a wherry, would be dangerous if not demoralising, albeit thou might live comfortably enough.”

“But, sir, what will my sister do without me when she recovers and leaves you, and where will Nancy go when the widow dies?”

“I will be chargeable for both of them. Set thy mind at rest on that point. Should I be called away—and no man knows how long he has to live—I will direct my daughters to watch over them. Thou and thy friend Jim can, in the meantime, follow thy vocation of watermen, so that thou mayest eat the fruit of thy labours, which is sweeter far to brave hearts like thine than food, bestowed in charity.”

I did my best to thank Mr Gray as I ought, and hastened back to tell Mary and Nancy and Jim.

“I’d have gone with thee, Peter, even if it had been to Botany Bay, or any of them outlandish parts,” exclaimed Jim, when I told him what Mr Gray had promised. “I am glad; yes, I am glad!”

We both tried at once to get employment, and did very well that afternoon and on the two following days.

When I got home on the evening of the last I found that a message had been left by Mr Gray when he visited the widow and Mary, directing Jim and me to go the next morning at nine o’clock on board the Good Intent, which had just come into the Commercial Dock. I hastened off to tell Jim at once. As may be supposed, we were up betimes, and as we got to the dock before the hour appointed we were able to examine the Good Intent at our leisure. She was a fair enough looking craft, but as she was deep in the water, having only just begun to discharge a cargo of coals brought from the north, and had a dingy appearance, from the black dust flying about, we could not judge of her properly.

As the bells of Saint Thomas’s Church began to strike nine we stepped on board, and directly afterwards Mr Gray, followed by a short, broad, oldish man, who had not a bit the look of a skipper, though such I guessed he was, came out of the cabin.

“Right! Punctuality saves precious hours,” said Mr Gray, with an approving nod. “These are the lads I desire to commit to thy care, Captain Finlay. Instruct them in their duties, so that they may become able seamen, and they will repay thy teaching.”

“I’ll act justly by the laddies, Mr Gray, but there’s an auld saying that ‘ye canna make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’ If they dinna keep their wits awake, or if they ha’ na wits to keep awake, all the teaching in the world will na make them sailors.”

“They are fair sailors already, and thou wilt find them handy enough, I hope,” observed Mr Gray.

After putting a few questions, Captain Finlay told us to come aboard the next day but one with our bags, by which time the cargo would be discharged. We set off home greatly pleased, though puzzled to know how we should obtain a decent kit. With Nancy’s help, I might be pretty well off, but poor Jim had scarcely a rag to his back besides the clothes he stood in. In the evening, however, a note came from Mr Gray with an order on an outfitter to give us each a complete kit suited to a cold climate. We were not slow to avail ourselves of it. The next day Dr Rolt considered Mary sufficiently well to be removed, and Mr Gray sent a closed carriage to convey her to his house. The doctor told me to be ready to accompany her, and kindly came himself. It was the first time I had ever been in a coach, and the rolling and pitching made me feel very queer. The young ladies received us as if we had been one of themselves, and Mary was carried up into a pretty, neat room, with white dimity curtains to the bed, and the fresh air blowing in at the open window.

“I’ll leave her to you, now, Miss Hannah,” said the doctor. “This is all she requires, with your watchful care.”

After I had had a short talk with Mary alone I took my leave, and Miss Hannah told me to be sure to come back and see them before the Good Intent sailed. It was not likely I should forget to do that.

Jim and I now went to live on board the brig. We had plenty of work, cleaning out the hold and getting rid of the coal-dust, and then we scrubbed the deck, and blacked down the rigging, and painted the bulwarks and masts, till the change in the appearance of the dingy collier was like that of a scullery-maid when she puts on her Sunday best. We did not mind the hard work, though it was a good deal harder than any we had been accustomed to, but the master and the rest of the crew set us a good example. There was little grumbling, and what surprised me, no swearing, such as I had been accustomed to hear on the Hard. Captain Finlay would not allow it, and the mate supported him in checking any wrong expressions which some of the men had been in the habit of uttering.

I got leave to run up and see Mary and to bid Nancy and Mrs Simmons good-bye. Miss Hannah and her sisters seemed to be making a great deal of Mary. It was evident they liked her much, and I was not surprised at that. The widow I never expected to see again. Nancy would scarcely let me go.

“Oh, Peter, Peter! What should us do if anything was to happen to ye out on the cruel sea!” she cried, as she held my hand and rubbed her eyes with her apron.

The next day the Good Intent went out of harbour, and I began in earnest the seafaring life I was destined to lead.

Chapter Eight.

My first voyage.

Wind south-south-west. The North Foreland had been rounded; the countless craft, of all sizes and rigs, generally to be found off the mouth of the Thames, had been cleared, and the Good Intent, with studding-sails alow and aloft, was standing across the German Ocean.

Jim and I soon found our sea-legs, and were as well able to go aloft to reef topsails as the older hands. We were already well up to the ordinary duties of seamen, and could take our place at the helm with any of them.

“Mr Gray was not mistaken about thee, laddie,” said the captain to me one day as I came aft to the wheel. “Go on as thou hast begun; obey God, and thou wilt prosper.”

I was much pleased with this praise, for the old man was not given to throwing words away. While I steered he stood by telling me not only what to do then, but how to act under various circumstances. At other times he made me come into the cabin and gave me lessons in navigation to fit me to become a mate and master. Jim, being unable to read, and showing no aptitude for learning, had not the same advantages. We both of us lived forward with the men, some of whom were a little jealous of the favour I received, and not only played me tricks, ordered me to do all sorts of disagreeable jobs, and gave me a taste of the rope’s-end on the sly, but tried hard to set Jim against me. They soon, however, found out that they were not likely to succeed, for though Jim did not mind how they treated him, he was always ready to stick up for me.

The forecastle of the Good Intent was thus not a paradise to either of us. The greater number of the men were, however, well-disposed, and it was only when they were on deck that the others dared to behave as I have described, while, as we would not complain, the mate knew nothing of what was going forward below. I remember thinking to myself, “If these sort of things can be done on board a ship, with a well-disciplined crew and a good captain and mate, how hard must be the lot of the unhappy boys serving in a craft where the captain, officers, and men are alike brutal!” Jim was always ready to oblige, and I did my best to win over my enemies by trying to show that I did not mind how they treated me, and I soon succeeded.

We were, I should have said, bound out to Bergen, on the coast of Norway, for a cargo of hides, tallow, salt fish, and spars, which we were to carry to London. The weather had hitherto been fine, a great advantage to Jim and me, as we had time to learn our duties and to get accustomed to going aloft before our nerves and muscles were put to any severe test.

But though the sea was smooth, the breeze, which had at first carried us briskly along, shifted to the northward, so that we made but slow progress. Now we stood on one tack, now on the other, the wind each time heading us. At last the grumblers began to declare that we should never make our port.

“The old craft has got a run of ill-luck, there’s something worse a-going to happen,” said Sam Norris, one of my chief persecutors, as during his watch below he sat with his arms folded on his chest in the fore-peak. “I seed a black cat come aboard the night afore we left the docks, and no one knows that she ever went ashore again.”

Some of the men looked uncomfortable at Sam’s statement, but others laughed.

“What harm could the black cat do, if she did come aboard?” I inquired. “Probably she came to look for rats, and having killed all she could find, slipped ashore again unseen by any one.”

“I didn’t say a she-cat. It looked like a big tom-cat; but who knows that it was really a cat at all?” said Sam.

“If it wasn’t a tom-cat, what was it?” asked Bob Stout, a chum of Sam’s.

“Just what neither you nor I would like to meet if we had to go down into the hold alone,” said Sam, in a mysterious tone.

Just then the watch below was summoned on deck to shorten sail. Not a bit too soon either, and we were quickly swarming aloft and out on the yards.

To reef sails in smooth water is easy enough, but when the ship is pitching into the fast-rising seas and heeling over to the gale, with the wind whistling through the rigging, blocks rattling, ropes lashing about, the hard canvas trying to escape from one’s grip, and blatters of rain and sleet and hail in one’s face, it is no pleasant matter. We had taken two reefs in the topsails, and even then the brig had as much canvas on her as she could stand up to, and we had all come down on deck, with the exception of Jim, who had been on the foreyard, when the mate, seeing a rope foul, ordered him to clear it. Jim performed his duty, but instead of coming down as he ought to have done, remained seated on the foreyard, holding on by the lift to get accustomed to the violent motion, in which he seemed to take a pleasure. The mate, not observing this, came aft to speak to the captain, who shortly afterwards, finding that the brig was falling off from the wind, which had before been baffling, having shifted ahead, ordered her to be put about.

“Down with the helm,” cried the captain.

I saw the men hauling at the braces, when, looking up, I caught sight of Jim at the yardarm. I shrieked out with terror, expecting that the next instant, as the yardarm swung round, he would be dashed to pieces on the deck, or hove off into the raging sea. The kind-hearted mate, recollecting him, came rushing forward, also believing that his destruction was certain, unless he could be caught as he fell. My heart beat, and my eyes were fixed on my friend as if they would start out of my head I wildly stretched out my hands, yet I felt that I could do nothing to save him, when he made a desperate spring, and catching hold of the backstay, came gliding down by it on deck as if nothing particular had happened, scarcely conscious, indeed, of the fearful danger he had escaped. The mate rated him in stronger language than he generally used for his carelessness, winding up by asking:

“Where do you think you would have been, boy, if you hadn’t have jumped when you did or had missed your aim?”

“Praise God for His great mercy to thee, laddie, and may thou never forget it all the days of thy life,” said the old captain, who had beckoned Jim aft to speak to him.

Jim, touching his hat, answered, “Ay, ay, sir!” but he was, perhaps, less aware of the danger he had been in than any one on board.

The gale increased; several heavy seas struck the old brig, making her quiver from stem to stern, and at last one heavier than the rest breaking on board, carried the starboard bulwarks forward clean away. Some of the men were below; Jim and I and others were aft, and the rest, though half-drowned, managed to secure themselves. To avoid the risk of another sea striking her in the same fashion, the brig was hove-to under a close-reefed fore-topsail. As we had plenty of sea room, and the brig was tight as a bottle, so the mate affirmed, there was no danger; still, I for one heartily wished that the weather would moderate. I had gone aft, being sent by the cook to obtain the ingredients of a plum-pudding for the cabin dinner. Not thinking of danger, on my return I ran along on the lee side of the deck, but before I reached the caboose I saw a mountain sea rolling up with a terrific roar, and I heard a voice from aft shout, “Hold on for your lives!” Letting go the basin and dish I had in my hands, I grasped frantically at the nearest object I could meet with. It was a handspike sticking in the windlass, but it proved a treacherous holdfast, for, to my horror, out it came at the instant that the foaming sea broke on board, and away I was carried amid the whirl of waters right out through the shattered bulwarks. All hope of escape abandoned me. In that dreadful moment it seemed that every incident in my life came back to my memory; but Mary was the chief object of my thoughts. I knew that I was being carried off into the hungry ocean, and, as I supposed, there was no human aid at hand to save me, when the brig gave a violent lee lurch, and before I was borne away from her side I felt myself seized by the collar of my jacket, and dragged by a powerful arm, breathless and stunned with the roar of waters in my ears, into the galley.

The cook, who had retreated within it when the sea struck the brig, had caught sight of me, and at the risk of his life had darted out, as a cat springs on her prey, and saved me. I quickly recovered my senses, but was not prepared for the torrent of abuse which my preserver, Bob Fritters, poured out on me for having come along on the lee instead of the weather side of the deck.

Two or three of the watch who had been aft and fancied that I had been carried overboard, when they found that I was safe, instead of expressing any satisfaction, joined the cook in rating me for my folly. Feeling as I suppose a half-drowned rat might do, I was glad to make my escape below, where, with the assistance of Jim, I shifted into dry clothes, while he hurried on deck to obtain a fresh supply of materials for the captain’s pudding. Shortly after this the gale abated, and the brig was again put on her course.

I had been sent aloft one morning soon after daybreak to loose the fore-royal, when I saw right ahead a range of blue mountains, rising above the mist which still hung over the ocean. I knew that it must be the coast of Norway, for which we were bound.

“Land! Land!” I shouted, pointing in the direction I saw the mountains, which I guessed were not visible from the deck.

The mate soon came aloft to judge for himself. “You are right, Peter,” he said. “We have made a good landfall, for if I mistake not we are just abreast of the entrance to the Bay of Jeltefiord, at the farther end of which stands Bergen, the town we are bound for.”

The mate was right. The breeze freshening we stood on, and in the course of the morning we ran between lofty and rugged rocks for several miles, through the narrow Straits of Carmesundt into the bay—or fiord rather—till we came to an anchor off the picturesque old town of Bergen. It was a thriving, bustling place; the inhabitants, people from all the northern nations of Europe, mostly engaged in mercantile pursuits.

We soon discharged our cargo and began taking on board a very miscellaneous one, including a considerable quantity of spars to form the masts and yards of small vessels. The day seemed to me wonderfully long, indeed there was scarcely any night. Of course, we had plenty of hard work, as we were engaged for a large part of the twenty-four hours in hoisting in cargo. I should have thought all hands would have been too tired to think of carrying on any tricks, but it seemed that two or three of them had conceived a spite against Jim because he would not turn against me.

One of our best men, Ned Andrews, who did duty as second mate, had brought for his own use a small cask of sugar, as only molasses and pea-coffee were served out forward. One morning, as I was employed aft under the captain’s directions, Andrews came up and complained that on opening his cask he found it stuffed full of dirty clouts and the sugar gone. I never saw the captain so indignant.

“A thief on board my brig!” he exclaimed; “verily, I’ll make an example of him, whoever he is.”

Calling the mate, he ordered him forthwith to examine all the men’s chests, supposing that the thief must have stowed the sugar in his own.

“Go, Peter, and help him,” he added, “for I am sure that thou, my son, art not the guilty one.”

I followed the mate into the fore-peak. Having first demanded the keys from the owners of those which were locked, he examined chest after chest, making me hold up the lids while he turned out the contents or plunged his hands to the bottom. No sugar was found in any of them. He then came to my chest, which I knew was not locked, and the idea came into my head that the stolen property would be there. I showed some anxiety, I suspect, as I lifted up the lid. The mate put in his hands with a careless air, as if he had no idea of the sort. Greatly to my relief he found nothing. There was but one chest to be examined. It was Jim’s.

Scarcely had I opened it when the mate, throwing off a jacket spread over the top, uttered an exclamation of surprise. There exposed to view was a large wooden bowl, procured the day before by the steward for washing up glasses and cups, and supposed to have fallen overboard, cram full of sugar.

“Bring it along aft,” cried the mate. “I did not think that of Pulley.”

“And I don’t think it now, sir,” I answered, in a confident tone, as I obeyed his order.

“What’s this? Where was it found?” inquired the captain, as we reached the quarter-deck.

The mate told him.

“I’ll swear Jim never put it there, sir; not he!” I exclaimed.

“Swear not at all, my son, albeit thou mayest be right,” said the captain. “Send James Pulley aft.”

Jim quickly came.

“Hast thou, James Pulley, been guilty of stealing thy shipmate’s sugar?” asked the captain.

“No, sir, please you, I never took it, and never put it where they say it was found,” answered Jim, boldly.

“Appearances are sadly against thee, James Pulley,” observed the captain, with more sorrow than anger in his tone. “This matter must be investigated.”

“I am sure that Jim speaks the truth, sir,” I exclaimed, unable to contain myself. “Somebody else stole the sugar and put it in his chest.”

The crew had gathered aft, and two or three looked thunder-clouds at me as I spoke.

“Thine assertion needs proof,” observed the captain. “Was thy cask of sugar open, Andrews?”

“No, sir, tightly headed up,” answered Andrews.

“Then it must have been forced open by some iron instrument,” said the captain. “Bring it aft here.”

The empty keg was brought.

“I thought so,” remarked the captain. “An axe was used to prise it open. Did any one see an axe in the hands of James Pulley?”

There was no reply for some time. At last, Ben Grimes, one of the men who had always been most hostile to Jim and me, said, “I thinks I seed Jim Pulley going along the deck with what looked mighty like the handle of an axe sticking out from under his jacket.”

“The evidence is much against thee, James Pulley,” said the captain. “I must, as in duty bound, report this affair to Mr Gray on our return, and it will, of course, prevent him from bestowing any further favours on you.”

“I didn’t do it. I’d sooner have had my right hand cut off than have done it,” cried Jim. “Let me go ashore, sir, and I’ll try to gain my daily bread as I best can. I can’t bear to stay aboard here to be called a thief; though Peter Trawl knows I didn’t take the sugar; he’d never believe that of me; and the mate doesn’t, and Andrews himself doesn’t.”

“I am sorry for thee, lad. Thou must prove thine innocence,” said the captain, turning away.

Poor Jim was very unhappy. Though both he and I were convinced that one of the men for spite had put the sugar in his chest, we could not fix on the guilty person. I did my best to comfort him. He talked of running from the ship, but I persuaded him not to think more of doing so foolish a thing.

“Stay, and your innocence will appear in due time,” I said.

As we went about the deck we heard Grimes and others whispering, “Birds of a feather flock together.”

They bullied Jim and me worse than ever, and took every occasion to call him a young thief, and other bad names besides. They saw how it vexed him, and that made them abuse him worse than before. The day after this we sailed. Poor Jim declared that if he could not clear himself he would never show his face in Portsmouth. I was sure that Andrews and the other good men did not believe him to be guilty, but they could not prove his innocence; and, as he said, the others would take care to blabber about him, and, worst of all, Mr Gray would think him a thief.

An easterly breeze carried us clear of the harbour, but the wind then shifted to the southward, and then to the south-west, being very light, so that after three days we had not lost sight of the coast of Norway. There seemed every probability of our having a long passage. Some of the men said it was all owing to the black cat, and Grimes declared that we must expect ill-luck with such a psalm-singing Methodist old skipper as we had. Even Andrews prognosticated evil, but his idea was that it would be brought about by an old woman he had seen on shore, said by everyone to be a powerful witch. As, however, according to Andrews, she had the power of raising storms, and we had only to complain of calms and baffling winds, I could not see that she had had any influence over us.

At last we got so far to the westward that we lost sight of the coast of Norway, but had not made good a mile to the southward—we had rather indeed drifted to the northward. Meantime, the captain hearing from the mate how the men were grumbling, called all hands aft.

“Lads, I want ye to listen to me,” he said. “Some of ye fancy that we are having these calms and baffling winds on one account, and some on another, but this I know, that He who rules the seas does not allow any other beings to interfere with His plans. Ye have heard, maybe, however, of the prophet Jonah. Once upon a time, Jonah, when ordered by God to go to a certain place and perform a certain duty, disobeyed his Master, and trying to escape from Him took passage on board a ship, fancying that he could get out of God’s sight. Did he succeed? No! God had His eye on Jonah, and caused a hurricane which well-nigh sent the ship to the bottom. Not till Jonah was hove overboard did the tempest cease. Now, lads, just understand there are some aboard this brig who are disobeying Him and offending Him just as much as Jonah did, and it’s not for me to say that He does not allow these calms, so unusual in this latitude, to prevail in consequence. That’s all I’ve got to say, lads, but ye’ll just think over it; and now go forward.”

Whether or not the men did think over it, or exactly understood what the old man meant, I cannot say, but the next morning the carpenter came aft to the captain and said that he had had a dream which made him remember that the evening before Andrews’s sugar was found to have been stolen, Ben Grimes had borrowed an axe from him, on examining which afterwards he discovered that a small piece had been broken off on one side, and that Grimes acknowledged he had done it by striking a nail in a piece of wood he was chopping up. On hearing this the captain again summoned all hands aft, and ordered Andrews to bring his sugar cask. There in the head was found a piece of iron which exactly fitted the notch in the axe which the carpenter produced.

“Now, lads, say who stole Andrews’s sugar and concealed it in Pulley’s chest?” asked the skipper.

“Grimes! Grimes! No doubt about it!” shouted all the men, with the exception of the individual mentioned and one other.

“You are right, lads, and Pulley is innocent,” said the skipper.

“As the babe unborn,” answered the men, and they all, except Grimes and his chum, following my example, gave Jim a hearty shake of the hand.

I thought that he would have blubbered outright with pleasure. Though I was sure that Jim had never touched the sugar, I was thankful that the captain and the rest were convinced of his innocence.

Before noon that day a dark bank of clouds was seen coming up from the southward. In a short time several black masses broke away from the main body, and came careering across the sky.

“Away aloft and shorten sail,” cried the skipper. “Be smart, lads!”

We hurried up the rigging, for there was no time to be lost.

“Two reefs in the fore-topsail! Furl the main-topsail! Let fly topgallant sheets!”

These orders came in quick succession. The captain, aided by the mate, was meantime lowering the mainsail. He at first, I believe, intended to heave the brig to, but, before the canvas was reduced the gale struck her—over she heeled—the topgallant sails, with their masts, were carried away just as Jim and I were about mounting the rigging, he the fore and I the main, to furl them; the mainsail, only half lowered, flying out, nearly knocked the mate overboard. I had got down on the weather side of the main-topsail yard to assist the hands on it, when the straining canvas broke loose from our grasp, and at the same instant the topgallant rigging, striking the two men on the lee yardarm, hurled them off into the foaming ocean.

To lower a boat was impossible; we had not strength sufficient as it was to clear away the topgallant masts, and to hand the topsails. A grating and some spars were hove to them by the mate, who then, axe in hand, sprang aloft to assist us. None too soon, for we could do nothing but cling on to the yard till the topgallant rigging was cleared away. The men on the foreyard were more successful, and I saw Jim gallantly using his knife in a fashion which at length cleared away the wreck and enabled them to secure the sail. The mate succeeded also in his object, and we were expecting them to assist us in attempting to furl the main-topsail, when the captain, seeing that we were not likely to succeed, calling us down, ordered the helm to be put up and the yards squared away, and off we ran before the fast-increasing gale, leaving, we feared, our two shipmates, the carpenter and Grimes, to perish miserably.

Chapter Nine.

I experience the perils of the sea.

The Good Intent ran on before the increasing gale. The fast-rising seas came rolling up astern, threatening every instant to poop her, for, having a full cargo, she was much deeper in the water than when we sailed from Portsmouth. We quickly lost sight of the grating and spars thrown to our hapless shipmates, and they themselves had before then disappeared.

The first thing now to be done was to get the main-topsail stowed, for, flying wildly in the wind, it seemed as if about to carry away the main-topmast. The mate, Andrews, and two other men were on the point of going aloft to try and haul it in, in spite of the danger they ran in so doing, when a report like that of thunder was heard, and the sail, split into ribbons, was torn from the bolt-ropes. The fragments, after streaming out wildly in the wind, lashed themselves round and round the yard, thus saving us the hazardous task of attempting to furl the sail.

The brig flew on, now plunging into the roaring and foaming seas, now rolling from side to side so that it was difficult to keep our feet. The fore-staysail and jib had been stowed in time, and the flying jib had been blown away, so that the fore-topsail was the only sail set.

Thus hour after hour passed. Had we been running in the opposite direction we should have been making good progress, but we were now going farther and farther from our destination, to be driven into even worse weather, and perhaps to have to make our way south round the Irish coast. To avoid this, the captain was anxious to heave the brig to, and I saw him and the mate consulting how it could be done. It was a dangerous operation, they both knew, for should she not quickly come up to the wind, a sea might strike her on the broadside and sweep over her deck, or throw her on her beam-ends.

“If we get a lull it must be done,” said the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the mate; and he ordered the men to stand ready to brace round the fore-topsail-yard as the brig came up to the wind.

Still we watched in vain for the wished-for lull. In spite of the roaring seas I felt wonderfully sleepy, and could scarcely keep my eyes open as I held on to a stanchion at the after-part of the deck. Jim was much in the same condition, for we had both been on foot since the morning watch had been called, and we had had no food all day.

The kind captain, observing the state we were in, instead of abusing us, as some skippers would have done, ordered us to go below to find something to eat and to lie down till we were wanted. We were making our way forward when he shouted out—

“Go into the cabin, laddies. There is some bread and cheese in the pantry, and ye’ll be ready at hand when I call ye.”

We quickly slipped below, and he again closed the companion-hatch which he had opened to let us descend. The other hatches had been battened down, for at any moment a sea might break on board, and if they had not been secured, might fill the vessel.

Not a ray of light came below, but Jim and I, groping about, found the bread and cheese we were in search of and soon satisfied our hunger. We then, thankful to get some rest, lay down on the deck of the cabin—which landsmen would call the floor—for we should have considered it presumptuous to stretch ourselves in one of the berths or even on the locker; and in spite of the rolling and pitching of the brig we were quickly fast asleep.

I seldom dreamed in those days, but, though tired as I was, my slumbers were troubled. Now I fancied that the brig was sinking, but that, somehow or other, I came to the surface, and was striking out amid the raging billows for the land; then I thought that I was again on board, and that the brig, after rushing rapidly on, struck upon a huge reef of black rocks, when, in an instant, her timbers split asunder, and we were all hurled into the seething waters. Suddenly I was awoke by the thundering, crashing sound of a tremendous blow on the side of the vessel, and I found myself hove right across the cabin, clutching fast hold of Jim, who shouted out, “Hillo, Peter, what is the matter? Are we all going to be drowned?”

Before I could answer him there came from above us—indeed, it had begun while he was speaking—a deafening mingling of terrific noises, of rending planks, of falling spars, the rush and swirl and roar of waters, amid which could be heard the faint cries of human voices.

The brig had been thrown on her beam-ends; of that there could be no doubt, for when we attempted to get on our feet we found the deck of the cabin almost perpendicular.

“Do you think the brig will go down?” shouted Jim.

The hubbub was so great that it was impossible to hear each other unless we spoke at the very top of our voices.

“We must, at all events, get on deck as soon as we can, and do our best to save ourselves,” I answered.

Though I said this, I had very little hope of escaping, as I thought that the vessel might at any moment founder. Even to get on deck was no easy matter, for everything in the cabin was upside down—boxes and bales, and casks and articles of all sorts, thrown out of the lockers, mixed with the furniture which had broken adrift, were knocking about, while all the time we were in complete darkness. The dead-lights had fortunately been closed at the commencement of the gale, and the companion-hatch remained secure, so that, as yet, no water came below.

Getting on our feet we were endeavouring to grope our way to the companion-ladder when we heard two loud crashes in quick succession, and directly afterwards, the brig righting with a violent jerk, we were thrown half across the cabin, bruised and almost stunned, among the numberless things knocking violently about. After a time, on recovering our senses, we picked ourselves up and made another attempt to get on deck. I now began to hope that the brig would not go down as soon as I had expected, but still I knew that she was in a fearfully perilous condition. I was sure from the crashing sounds we had heard that both her masts were gone: that very probably also she had sprung a leak, while we were far to the northward of the usual track of vessels.

At last we found our way to the cabin door, but groped about in vain for the companion-ladder, till Jim suggested that it had been unshipped when the vessel went over. After some time we found it, but had great difficulty, in consequence of the way the brig was rolling, to get it replaced. As soon as it was so I mounted and shouted as loud as I could to some one to come and lift off the hatch.

No voice replied. Again and again I shouted, fancying that the people might have gone forward for some reason or other and had forgotten us.

“What can have happened?” cried Jim, in a tone of alarm.

I dared not answer him, for I feared the worst.

Feeling about, I discovered an axe slung just inside the companion-hatch, on which I began hammering away with all my might—but still no one came.

“Jim, I’m afraid they must all be gone,” I cried out at last.

“Gone!” he exclaimed. “What, the old captain, and mate, and Andrews, and the rest?”

“I am afraid so,” I answered.

Again I shouted and knocked. Still no one came.

“We must break open the hatch,” I said, and I attempted to force up the top with the axe, but did not succeed.

“Let me try,” cried Jim; “my arm is stronger than yours.”

I got down the ladder and gave him the axe. He took my place and began working away at the part where the hatch was placed. I could hear him giving stroke after stroke, but could see nothing, for the hatch fitted so closely that not a gleam of light came through it.

Presently I heard him sing out, “I’ve done it,” and I knew by the rush of cold damp air which came down below that he had got off the hatch.

Still all was dark, but looking up I could distinguish the cloudy sky. Not till then did I know that it was night. We had gone to sleep in broad daylight, and I had no idea of the number of hours which had passed by since then. I sprang up the companion-ladder after Jim, who had stepped out on deck.

The spectacle which met my eyes was appalling. The masts were gone, carried away a few feet from the deck—only the stumps were standing—everything had been swept clear away, the caboose, the boats, the bulwark; the brig was a complete wreck; the dark foam-topped seas were rising up high above the deck, threatening to engulf her.

The masts were still alongside hanging on by the rigging, their butt ends every now and then striking against her with so terrific a force that I feared they must before long drive a hole through the planking. As far as I could make out through the thick gloom, some spars which had apparently fallen before the masts gave way lay about the deck, kept from being washed away by the rigging attached to them having become entangled in the stanchions and the remaining portions of the shattered bulwarks.

Not one of our shipmates could we see. Again we shouted, in the faint hope that some of them might be lying concealed forward. No one answered.

“Maybe that they have gone down into the fore-peak,” said Jim; “I’ll go and knock on the hatch. They can’t hear our shouts from where we are.”

I tried to persuade Jim not to make the attempt till daylight, for a sea might break on board and wash him away.

“But do you see, Peter, we must try and get help to cut away the lower rigging, which keeps the masts battering against the sides?” he answered.

“Then I’ll go with you,” I said. “We’ll share the same fate, whatever that may be.”

“No, no, Peter! You stay by the companion-hatch; see, there are plenty of spars for me to catch hold of, and I’ll take good care not to get washed away,” answered Jim, beginning his journey forward.

Notwithstanding what he said, I was following him when I fancied that I heard a faint groan. I stopped to listen. It might be only the sound produced by the rubbing of two spars together or the working of the timbers. Again I heard the groan. I was now sure that it was uttered by one of our shipmates. It came from a part of the deck covered by a mass of broken spars and sails and rigging. Though I could not see as far, I knew that Jim had reached the fore-hatchway by hearing him shouting and knocking with the back of the axe.

“Are any of them there?” I cried out.

“No! Not one, I’m afeared,” he answered.

“Then come and help me to see if there is any person under these spars here,” I said.

Of course we had to bawl out to each other at the top of our voices on account of the clashing of the seas, the groaning and creaking of the timbers and bulk-heads, and the thundering of the masts against the sides.

Jim soon joined me. We had to be very cautious how we moved about, for besides the risk there was at any moment of a sea sweeping across the deck, we might on account of the darkness have stepped overboard. We lost no time in crawling to the spot whence I heard the groans proceeding.

On feeling about we soon discovered a man, his body pressed down on the deck by a heavy spar, and partly concealed by the canvas.

“Who are you?” cried Jim. “Speak to us,—do.”

A groan was the only answer.

“Do you try and lift the spar, Jim, and I’ll drag him out,” I said.

Jim tried to do as I told him, but though he exerted all his strength he could not succeed in raising the spar.

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The poor fellow will die if we cannot get him free soon,” I exclaimed, in despair.

“This will do it,” cried Jim, who had been searching about, and now came with the broken end of a topgallant-yard to serve as a handspike. By its means he prised up the spar, while I as gently as I could dragged out the man by the shoulders. No sooner did I feel his jacket than I was almost sure that he was no other than our good old skipper. He was breathing heavily, and had apparently been rendered unconscious by a blow on the head. I at length got him out from under the spar.

“We must carry him below before another sea breaks on board,” I said. “Come, help me, Jim.”

Together we lifted the old man, and staggering along the slippery deck, reached the companion-hatch in safety. To get him down without injury was more difficult. I going first and taking his legs, and Jim holding him by the shoulders, we succeeded at last. While Jim supported him at the bottom of the ladder, I hunted about till I found a tinder-box and matches and lighted the cabin lamp. It showed us, as I had supposed, that the person I had rescued was our captain. He was pale as death, and bleeding from a wound in the head. The light also exhibited the utter confusion into which the cabin had been thrown. I managed, however, to clear a way to the state cabin, to which we carried the captain, and then getting off his wet clothes placed him between the blankets in his berth. Fortunately, there was a cask of water in the pantry, which enabled us to wash and bind up his head, so as to staunch the blood flowing from it. The operation was performed but roughly, as all the time the sound of the masts thundering like battering-rams against the side of the vessel warned us that, we must try to cut them adrift without delay. I feared that already they had done some serious damage. Even before we left the captain he seemed to have somewhat recovered his consciousness, for I heard him mutter, “Be smart, lads. Tell mate—cut away wreck.”

Of course we did not let him know that besides himself we alone of all the crew were left alive. In the cabin I found another axe, and Jim and I, going on deck, began the difficult and dangerous task we had undertaken.

The lower rigging, on what had been the weather side, had entirely given way, so that we had only to cut that on the opposite side, but in leaning over to reach the shrouds at the chains we ran a fearful risk of being carried off by the sea as the vessel rolled from side to side.

We first tried to clear the mainmast. We had cut two of the shrouds, when a sea, having driven the butt end against the side with fearful force, lifted it just as the brig rolled over, and it came sweeping along the deck, nearly taking Jim and me off our legs. With the greatest difficulty we escaped.

“It shan’t do that again,” cried Jim; and dashing forward with axe uplifted he cut the last shroud, and the mast was carried away by the next sea.

We had still to get rid of the foremast and bowsprit, which were doing as much damage as the mainmast had done, by every now and then ramming away at the bows with a force sufficient, it seemed, to knock a hole through them at any moment. I felt anxious to return to the cabin to attend to our old captain, but the safety of the vessel required us not to delay a moment longer than could be helped in cutting away the remaining masts and bowsprit.

I observed soon after the mainmast had gone that the wind had fallen, and that there was somewhat less sea running, and in a short time the light began to increase. I do not think that otherwise we should have accomplished our task. Jim sprang forward with his axe, taking always the post of danger, and hacking away at rope after rope as he could manage to reach them.

I followed his example. Often we had to hold on for our lives as the seas washed over us. At length the work was accomplished. We gave a shout of satisfaction as, the last rope severed, we saw the mass of wreck drop clear of the brig. But our work was not done. There we were in the midst of the North Sea, without masts or canvas or boats, our bulwarks gone, the brig sorely battered, and only our two selves and our poor old captain to navigate her. To preserve his life our constant attention was required.

“We’ll go below and see how the old man gets on,” I said. “There’s nothing more for us to do on deck that I can see at present.”

“Not so sure of that, Peter,” answered Jim. “You go and look after the skipper, and I’ll just see how matters are forward and down in the hold.”

As I felt sure that the captain ought not to be left longer alone, I hurried into the cabin. He was conscious, but still scarcely able to speak. I told him that we had cleared away the wreck of the masts, and that the weather was moderating.

“Thank God!” he murmured. Then, getting some more water, I again dressed his wounded head, and afterwards proposed lighting the cabin fire and trying to make him some broth.

“Water! I only want water,” he said, in the same low voice as before.

I procured some in a mug. He drank it, and then said, “Get up jury-masts and steer west,” not understanding as yet, I suppose, that the crew were lost.

“Ay, ay, sir,” I answered, being unwilling to undeceive him, though I wondered how Jim and I could alone obey his orders; yet, if we were ever to reach a port, jury-masts must be got up.

As I could do nothing more just then for the captain, I was going on deck, when I met Jim at the companion-hatch, his face wearing an expression of the greatest alarm.

“Things are very bad, Peter,” he exclaimed. “The water is coming in through a big hole in the bows like a mill-sluice, and I’m much afeared that before long the old craft will carry us and the captain to the bottom.”

“Not if we keep our wits awake, Jim,” I answered. “We must try to stop the hole. Come along.”

Hurrying forward, we dived down into the fore-peak. We could now venture to leave the hatch off, so as to give light below. Sure enough the water was coming in terribly fast, but not quite so fast as Jim described, though already the men’s chests and other articles were afloat.

The largest hole was, I saw, in the very centre of a bunk, so that we could easily get at it. Dragging out all the blankets from the other bunks, I rammed them into the hole.

“Hand me a board or the top of a chest—knock it off quick!” I sang out.

Jim, leaping on a chest, wrenched off the lid and gave it me.

“Now that handspike.”

There was one close to him. By pressing the board against the blankets, and jamming the handspike down between it and the outer corner of the bunk, the gush of water was stopped.

“Here’s another hole still more forward, I can see the water bubbling in,” cried Jim, holding a lantern, which he had lit that he might look round, to the place.

We stopped it as we had the first.

“It will be a mercy if there are no other holes in the side under the cargo,” he said. “We’ll try the well.”

We returned on deck, and Jim sounded the well.

“Six feet of water or more,” he said, in a mournful tone, as he examined the rod.

“Then we must rig the pumps and try to clear her!” I exclaimed. “It will be a hard job, but it may be done, and we must not think of letting the old craft sink under our feet.”

We set to work, and pumped and pumped away, the water coming up in a clear stream, till our backs and arms ached, and we felt every moment ready to drop, but we cheered each other on, resolved not to give in as long as we could stand on our legs.

Chapter Ten.

Alone on the ocean.

“Are we gaining on the leaks, think you, Jim?” I at length gasped out, for I felt that if our efforts were producing some effect we should be encouraged to continue them, but that if not it would be wise before we were thoroughly exhausted to try and build a raft on which we might have a chance of saving our lives.

My companion made no reply, but giving a look of doubt, still pumped on, the perspiration streaming down his face and neck showing the desperate exertions he was making. I was much in the same condition, though, like Jim, I had on only my shirt and trousers. I was the first to give in, and, utterly unable to move my arms, I sank down on the deck. Jim, still not uttering a word, doggedly worked on, bringing up a stream of water which flowed out through the scuppers.

It seemed wonderful that he could go on, but after some time he also stopped, and staggered to where he had left the rod.

“I’ll try,” he said.

I gazed at him with intense anxiety.

“Three inches less. We’re gaining on the leaks!” he exclaimed.

I sprang to my feet and seized the brake. Jim struck out with his arms “to take the turns out of the muscles,” as he said, while he sat for a minute on the deck, and again went at it.

All this time the wind was falling and the sea going down. As we laboured at the pumps we looked out anxiously for the appearance of a vessel which might afford us assistance, but not a sail appeared above the horizon. We must depend on our own exertions for preserving our lives. Though a calm would enable us the better to free the brig of water and to get up jury-masts, it would lessen our chance of obtaining help. Yet while the brig was rolling and tumbling about we could do nothing but pump, and pump we did till our strength failed us, and we both sank down on the deck.

My eyes closed, and I felt that I was dropping off to sleep. How long I thus lay I could not tell, when I heard Jim sing out—

“Hurrah! We’ve gained six inches on the leak,” and clank, clank, clank, went his pump.

I cannot say that I sprang up, but I got, somehow or other, on my feet, and, seizing the brake, laboured away more like a person in his sleep than one awake.

I saw the water flowing freely, so I knew that I was not pumping uselessly. Presently I heard Jim cry out—

“Hillo! Look there!”

Turning my eyes aft, I saw the captain holding on by the companion-hatch, and gazing in utter astonishment along the deck. His head bound up in a white cloth, a blanket over his shoulders, his face pale as death, he looked more like a ghost than a living man.

“Where are they, lads?” he exclaimed at length, in a hollow voice.

“All gone overboard, sir,” answered Jim, thinking he ought to speak.

The old man, on hearing this, fell flat on the deck.

We ran and lifted him up. At first I thought he was dead, but he soon opened his eyes and whispered—

“It was a passing weakness, and I’ll be better soon. Trust in God, laddies; go on pumping, and He’ll save your lives,” he said.

“We’ll take you below first, sir. You’ll be better in your berth than here,” I answered.

“No, no! I’ll stay on deck; the fresh air will do me good,” he said; but scarcely had he uttered the words than he fell back senseless.

“We must get him below, or he’ll die here,” I said; so Jim and I carried him down as before, and got him into his bed.

“He wants looking after,” said Jim; “so, Peter, do you tend him, and I’ll go back to the pumps.”

Thinking that he wanted food more than anything else, I lighted the cabin fire, and collecting some materials from the pantry for broth in a saucepan, put it on to boil.

Though I had been actively engaged, I felt able once more to work the pumps. Jim said that he was certain the water in the hold was decreasing, while, as the brig was steadier, less was coming in. This increased our hopes of keeping her afloat, but we should want rest and sleep, and when we knocked off the water might once more gain on us.

We did not forget, however, what the captain had said. When I could pump no longer I ran below, freshly dressed the old man’s head, and gave him some broth, which was by this time ready. It evidently did him good. Then, taking a basin of it myself, I ran up on deck with another for Jim.

“That puts life into one,” he said, as, seated on the deck with his legs stretched out, he swallowed it nearly scalding hot. A draught of water which he told me to bring, however, cooled his throat, and he again set to, I following his example.

By this time the day was far advanced, and even Jim confessed that he must soon give in, while I could scarcely stand.

The wind had continued to go down, but the sea still rolled the vessel about too much to enable us to get up jury-masts, even if we had had strength to move, before dark.

“It’s no use trying to hold out longer, I must get a snooze,” sighed Jim.

He looked as if he were half asleep already.

“We had better go and lie down in the cabin, so that we may be ready to help the captain,” I answered; “but I’ll tell you what, we’ll take a look into the fore-peak first, to see how the leaks are going on there.”

“Oh, they are all right,” said Jim. “We shouldn’t have lessened the water so much if anything had given way.”

Still I persisted in going forward, and Jim followed me. Just then the vessel gave a pitch, which nearly sent me head first down the fore-hatchway. As we got below I heard the sound of a rush of water. The handspike which secured the chief leak had worked out of its place, and the blankets and boards were forced inwards. It required all our remaining strength to put them back. Had we been asleep aft the brig would have filled in a few minutes. Jim wanted to remain forward, but I persuaded him to come aft, being sure that he would sleep too soundly to hear the water coming in should the leaks break out afresh, and might be drowned before he awoke. Having done all we could to secure the handspikes, we crawled rather than walked to the cabin.

We were thankful to find that the captain was asleep, so, without loss of time, Jim crept into one of the side berths, and I lay down on the after locker. In half a minute I had forgotten what had happened and where I was. As the old captain and we two lads lay fast asleep on board the demasted brig out there in the wild North Sea, a kind Providence watched over us. We might have been run down, or, the leaks breaking out afresh, the vessel might have foundered before we awoke.

A voice which I supposed to be that of the captain aroused me. The sun was shining down through the cabin sky-light. The vessel was floating motionless. Not a sound did I hear except Jim’s snoring. I tried to jump up, but found my limbs terribly stiff, every joint aching. I made my way, however, to the old man’s berth.

“How are you, Captain Finlay?” I asked.

He did not reply. I stepped nearer. His eyes were closed. I thought he was dead; yet I heard his voice, I was certain of that. I stood looking at him, afraid to ascertain if what I feared was the case. A feeling of awe crept over me. I did not like to call out to Jim, yet I wanted him to come to me. At last I staggered over to the berth in which Jim was sleeping. “Jim! Jim!” I said, “I am afraid the captain is taken very bad.”

Jim did not awake, so I shook him several times till he sat up, still half asleep and rubbing his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Oh—ay, I know. We’ll turn to at the pumps, Peter.”

I repeated what I had said. He was on his feet in a moment. He moved at first with as much difficulty as I had done. “Come along,” I said, and together we went over to the state cabin. We looked at the old man without speaking. After some time Jim mustered courage to touch his hand. To my great relief the captain opened his eyes.

“Praise God, who has preserved us during the night, my lads!” were the first words he spoke, and while we stood by his side he offered up a short prayer.

He then told us to go on deck and learn the state of the weather.

We hurried up. The sun was shining brightly; the sea was smooth as glass, unbroken by a single ripple. Jim did not forget the leak; he sounded the well.

“We must turn to at the pumps, Peter,” he exclaimed. “She’s made a good deal of water during the night, and it will take us not a few hours to get it out of her, but we’ll not give in.”

“I should think not, indeed,” I answered. “But I’ll go down and hear what the captain wants us to do.”

Before I had got half way down the companion-ladder I heard the clank of the pump. Jim had lost no time in setting to work.

I hastened to the state-room. I was startled by the changed appearance of the captain’s countenance during the short time I had been on deck. His eyes were turned towards me with a fixed look. I spoke, but he did not answer; I leant over him, no breath proceeded from his lips; I touched his brow, then I knew that the good old man was dead. Presently I closed his eyes, and with a sad heart returned on deck.

“He’s gone, Jim,” I cried.

“Gone! The captain gone! Then I am sorry,” answered Jim, as he stopped pumping for a moment, though he still held the brake in his hands. “Then, Peter, you and I must just do our best to take the brig into port by ourselves.”

“I was thinking the same, Jim,” I said. “He told us to get up jury-masts and steer west, and that’s just what we must do if the wind will let us.”

The death of our good captain made us feel very sad, for we had learned to look upon him as our true friend. It caused us also to become more anxious even than before about ourselves. With his assistance we had had little doubt, should the weather remain fine, of reaching a port, but as we were neither of us accustomed to the use of charts, and did not know how to take an observation, we could not tell to what port we should steer our course.

We had both, however, dauntless spirits, and had been accustomed from our childhood to trust to our own resources. Our grand idea was to steer west, if we could manage to get sail on the brig, but before this could be attempted we must pump her free of water.

There was no time to mourn for our old captain, so without delay we turned to at the pumps. My arms and legs and every part of my body felt very stiff. Jim saw that I should not be able to continue long at it.

“Peter, do you go below and look out for some spars to serve as jury-masts,” he said; “I’ll meantime keep on. We shall soon get the water under; it’s only a wonder more hasn’t come in.”

Jim and I never thought who was captain; if I told him to do a thing he did it, or if he gave an order I did not stop to consider whether or not he had the right to command. We worked together as if we had but one will.

It was “a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull both together.”

There were plenty of spars below, and I soon selected some which I thought would serve for the masts and yards we required. I had to call Jim to help me get them up on deck.

“There’ll be no use for these till we can find some canvas to spread on them,” I observed.

“Nor till we get a breeze to fill the sails,” said Jim. “However, we’ll get them set while the calm lasts, and no doubt you’ll find as many as we can carry in the sail-room.”

This was right aft, down a small hatchway. While Jim went again to his pump, I hunted about and hauled out two topgallantsails and royals, a fore-staysail, a second jib, and a main-trysail. If we could set all these we should do well, supposing we got a fair breeze. It would be no easy job, however, I knew, to get up the masts. We had one advantage. The proper masts had been carried away some six or seven feet from the deck, so that we might lash the spars to them. Before setting to work I again went below to hunt for rope. I got more than I expected from different parts of the vessel, and we had also saved some of the rigging, which had been entangled in the bulwarks.

“We shall want every scrap of rope we can find!” cried Jim, panting and still pumping away.

“I’ll take a spell with you,” I said. “Then we’ll turn to and rig the ship.”

I pumped till I could pump no longer, and then, after a short rest, we commenced in earnest. We first lashed a short spar, with a tackle secured to its head, to the stump of the foremast, and then, having fitted two shrouds on a side, with a forestay and backstays, and blocks for the halliards, to the spar we had chosen for a foremast, we swayed it up my means of the short spar and tackle. We could not possibly in any other way have accomplished our object. We next lashed the spar to the stump of the mast. No time was lost in setting up the standing rigging. Our foremast being thus fixed, we surveyed it with infinite satisfaction, and then turned to and fitted the brig with a mainmast in the same fashion. This we made somewhat stronger, as we intended it to carry a mainsail should we have to haul on a wind. Our work, as may be supposed, was not especially neat—indeed, we had to knot most of the shrouds, as it was necessary to keep all the longer lengths of rope for halliards, and we had none to spare.

I cannot stop to explain how we accomplished all this; we could not have done it without employing tackles, which we brought to the windlass, and thus gained twenty times as much power as we by ourselves possessed.

We were now pretty well tired and hungry, for, except some bread and cheese and a jug of cold water, we had taken nothing all day.

It was with a feeling of awe that we went down into the cabin where the old captain lay. Jim, however, closed the door of the state-room, so that we could not see him. We then lighted the fire and cooked some dinner—or rather supper, for evening was drawing on. Anxious to be again at work, we hurried over the meal.

“I say, Peter, don’t you think we ought to bury the skipper?” asked Jim, after a long silence.

“Not for some days to come,” I answered; “I hope that we may get into port first, so as to lay him in a grave on shore.”

“I don’t think it will make much odds to him; and, to say the truth, now he’s dead, I’d rather he were out of the ship,” said Jim; “they say it’s unlucky to have a dead man on board.”

I had some difficulty in persuading Jim of the folly of such a notion, but we finally agreed that we would try to carry the captain’s body to land.

Before bending sails we took a look down forward to see the condition of the leaks. The handspikes were in their places, and, except a slight moisture round the holes, we could not discover that any water was getting in. Still there was a great deal too much in the brig for safety, so we took another spell at the pumps before going on with the rigging.

Darkness found us hard at work. We were too tired and sleepy to attempt keeping a look-out, but I bethought me of hoisting a lantern at each masthead, which would save us from being run down should a breeze spring up during the night Jim thought the idea capital, and promised to get up and trim the lamps.

Fortunately, the nights were short, so that there was not much necessity for that. Our chief wish now was that the calm would continue for a few hours during the next day, that we might get the brig to rights.

“One spell more at the pumps!” cried Jim.

We seized the brakes, worked till we could work no longer, then went below, ate some food from the pantry, and lying down in the two larboard berths in the cabin, were fast asleep in a few seconds.

People talk of sleeping like tops. A hard-worked ship-boy will beat any top in the world at sleeping soundly.

For a second night the brig lay becalmed. I doubt that if even a fierce gale had sprung up it would have awakened us. The sun was shining when I opened my eyes. It might have been shining for hours for what I could tell.

I roused up Jim, and we sprang on deck, vexed at having, as we supposed, lost so much precious time. By the height of the sun above the horizon, however, we judged that it was not so late as we had at first fancied. The clock in the cabin had been unshipped when the brig went over, and the captain’s watch had stopped, so that we had otherwise no means of knowing how the hours passed by. It was still perfectly calm. We looked round in all directions. Not a sail was in sight.

“We must get ready for the breeze, Jim, when it does spring up,” I said. “It will come before many hours are over, I’ve a notion.”

I had observed some light clouds just under the sun.

“May be; but we must take a spell at the pumps first,” he answered—his first thought was always of them.

We turned to as before, till our arms ached, and then we ran down and got some breakfast. We knew the value of time, but we couldn’t get on without eating, any more than other people.

On returning to the deck we lowered the lanterns, which had long since gone out, finished bending the sails, fitting braces, tacks, sheets, and bowlines, and were then ready to hoist away. We at once set all the sails we had ready, to see how they stood. To our satisfaction, they appeared to greater advantage than we had expected.

“They’ll do!” cried Jim, as we surveyed them; “only let us get a breeze from the right quarter, and we’ll soon make the land.”

Fortunately, the rudder had been uninjured when the brig went over, and the wheel was in order. I stood at the helm, longing for the time when I should see the brig moving through the water. I may say, once for all, that at very frequent intervals Jim and I went to the pumps, but he stood longer at the work than I did. There was urgent necessity for our doing so, as, notwithstanding all our exertions, we had but slightly diminished the water in the hold.

When not thus occupied we did various things that were necessary about the brig; among others we got life-lines round the shattered bulwarks, so that should a heavy sea get up, we might run less risk of being washed overboard. We also went to the store-room, and brought to the cabin various descriptions of provisions, that we might have them at hand when wanted. We knew that when once we got a wind we should have no time to do anything besides navigating the vessel.

I had gone below to get dinner ready, the only hot meal we took in the day, leaving Jim pumping, when I heard him sing out down the companion-hatchway—

“Here it comes, and a rattling breeze, too.”

I sprang on deck and went to the helm, while Jim stood ready to trim sails. Looking astern I could see a line of white foam sweeping along towards us over the surface of the ocean. Before it was up to us the sails bulged out, the brig gathered way, and presently she was gliding at the rate of three or four knots through the water.

Jim and I shouted with exultation—we forgot the past—we thought not of the future. We believed that we were about to reap the fruit of our labours.

For several hours we ran on with the wind right aft, steering due west. I steered for most of the time, but Jim occasionally relieved me. So eager were we that we forgot all about eating, till he cried out—

“I must have some food, Peter, or I shall drop.”

I was running below to get it, feeling just as hungry as he did, when the wind hauled more to the southward. We took a pull at the starboard braces, and I then hurried below to bring up what we wanted. Just as I was cutting some meat which had been boiling till the fire went out, I heard a crash. I sprang up on deck. The brig was again dismasted, and Jim was struggling in the waves astern.

Chapter Eleven.

Dangers multiply.

For a moment I could not believe my senses. I fell like a person in a dreadful dream. What, Jim gone! The brig again dismasted, and I left alone on board her with the body of our dead captain! I was recalled to myself by hearing a faint shout, and looking over the stern I saw my old friend struggling amidst the waves some distance off.

My first impulse was to leap into the sea and swim to his rescue, but then the thought happily came to me that if I did we should be unable to regain the vessel; so, instead, crying out, “Keep up, Jim—keep up, I’ll help you!” I did what was far more likely to prove effectual—I unrove the peak-halliards, cutting them clear with my knife, and fastened one end to the wooden grating over the cabin sky-light. This I threw overboard, and as I feared that the halliards would not prove long enough, I bent on another rope to them. The grating appeared to be dropping astern very fast; and yet Jim, who was swimming strongly, seemed to be nearing it very slowly, by which I knew that the brig must still, urged on by the impetus she had before received, be moving through the water. Securing the line, I therefore put down the helm, and completely stopped her way. All was done faster than I have described it.

Springing back to the taffrail, with straining eyes I watched Jim, for more I could not do to help him, except to give an occasional shout to cheer him up. The dreadful thought came that there might be sharks about, or that his strength might fail him before he could reach the grating. I did more than cheer, though—I prayed to God with all my soul that Jim might be saved. Often he seemed scarcely to be moving through the water—now he threw himself on his back to rest—then he once more struck bravely out, replying as he did so to my cheer. At length he got near the grating. My heart gave a bound of joy as I saw him seize it, when he gradually drew himself up and lay flat on its surface, the best way for making it afford him support.

With a shout to Jim to hold on, I began to haul in the raft till I brought it under the quarter.

“Wait a minute, Jim, while I get a tackle ready to haul you on board,” I cried out.

This did not take me the time I said, and forming a bowline I lowered it to him. He seemed so exhausted that I was afraid lest in trying to pass it over his shoulders he might slide off the grating; and I was about to go down to assist him, when, seeing the rope, he slipped his arms through it and exclaimed, “Haul away, Peter.”

I was not long in obeying him, it may be supposed, and I almost cried with joy as I had him at length safe on deck. I knew that the first thing now to be done was to get off his wet clothes, and to give him a restorative, but I had a hard job to carry him below, as he could not help himself.

“Never mind, Peter,” he said, faintly; “I shall soon be all to rights again.” But I was not going to leave him in the cold air on deck, so going first, I let him slip gradually down the companion-ladder, and then stripping off his clothes, in a short time had him snug between the blankets. I then quickly relighted the fire and warmed up the broth I had before cooked, while I hung up Jim’s clothes to dry.

The hot broth seemed greatly to restore him, but as he was pretty well worn out before he had gone overboard, it is no wonder that as soon as the basin was emptied he fell fast asleep. I had not stopped to ask him how the accident had occurred, but I suspected, as I afterwards found was the case, that as the masts fell a rope had somehow or other caught his legs and whisked him overboard. He was, however, never very clear how it happened.

Having performed my duties below, and taken some food, which I greatly needed, I went on deck. It was still blowing fresh, but there was not much sea on, and the brig lay like a log on the water. To my great relief I found that none of the spars or sails had been lost, all of them having fallen inboard, so I set to work to secure them as well as I could, knowing that till Jim was strong enough to help me I could do nothing towards getting up the masts again.

I did not for a moment contemplate giving up the struggle. I next went down into the fore-peak to see if our arrangements for keeping out the water were secure. Nothing had moved. Still, as I knew that the water must be coming in and might gain upon us dangerously, I took a spell at pumping. This pretty well exhausted all my remaining strength, yet before turning in to get some rest there was another thing to be done. We might be in the track of some vessel or other, and should the night prove dark might be run down and sent to the bottom while we were asleep. I therefore trimmed the lamp in one of the lanterns, and with great labour having lashed a spar to the stump of the foremast, hoisted the lantern to the top of it. This done I could do no more, and crawling into my cabin was soon fast asleep in my berth.

I slept tranquilly, knowing that He who had hitherto preserved us was watching over us still. I was awakened by the clanking sound of the pump. It was broad daylight; Jim was not in his berth, and on springing on deck there I saw him in his shirt and trowsers hard at work, forcing up the water at a great rate.

“I’m all to rights, Peter,” he said, in a cheerful tone, “and as I guessed that you had been up long after I went to sleep, I thought as how I would take a spell at the pump before rousing you up.”

Thanking him for his thoughtfulness, I seized the other brake and pumped till my arms ached.

“Now, Peter, we must see about getting up the masts again,” he said, when he saw me knock off.

“You want some breakfast first, and so do I,” I answered. “We’ll then set to work with a will.”

We took some food, which rested and refreshed us, and then commenced the task we had undertaken.

The wind had again fallen. What there was of it was fair, and the sea was almost as smooth as a mill-pond. Had it been rough we could scarcely have attempted the work. We had first to unreeve all the ropes, and unbend all the sails. We then selected two much stouter spars than before for fresh masts, got the standing rigging over their heads, and by means of tackles got them set up to the stumps of the fore and main masts, next securing them much more effectually we hoped than the former jury-masts had been, with light spars of different lengths lashed round them, and additional backstays.

We made such good progress that by night we were almost ready to hoist the sails, having all the time rested only for a few minutes to obtain some food and then going on again.

Nature, however, at last gave way, and if we stopped for a moment we went fast asleep with a rope or marlinespike in our hands.

“It’s no use trying to keep awake, Jim,” I said.

He, in a sleepy voice, agreed, and having again hoisted the lantern we went below to get the rest we so much needed.

The next morning I heard as before the pump going. It was still dark, but Jim had awoke, and this was always his first thought. I joined him, and we laboured on till there was light enough to enable us to bend sails. The wind being fair we soon had them hoisted, and I went to the helm, Jim pulling and hauling to trim them as required.

It must be understood that everything was done in a rough-and-ready fashion, but it was the best we could do.

Once more the brig glided on towards the west at the rate, as we supposed, of three or four knots an hour. Jim, having done all that was required, took my place at the helm while I went below to get some food for breakfast. As I was unwilling to be off the deck a moment longer than was necessary, without stopping to light the fire I brought up a supply of provisions and water to last us for some time, as also some cloaks and blankets. We agreed that we must content ourselves with cold water, and ham, and cheese, and bread, and be thankful, remembering how many poor fellows had been much worse off than we were.

We ate a hearty meal, I feeding Jim while he steered. He did not appear to have suffered from his long swim, except that he complained of being very sleepy. I therefore advised him to lie down on the coats and blankets I had brought on deck to get some rest, while I took his place at the helm, promising to call him should the breeze freshen and it become necessary to shorten sail. He agreed and I steered on, now looking at the compass, now at the canvas, and now all around on the chance of a vessel appearing from which we might learn our position. I own that I should have been very unwilling for any one to have come on board to take the brig into harbour, for we both thought how proud we should feel if we could carry her in ourselves without help. Still, for the sake of the owners we could not, we had agreed, refuse assistance should it be offered us. At last my eyes began to close, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I could keep them open, or prevent myself from sinking down on the deck. I was, therefore, very thankful when I saw Jim begin to move. I uttered his name. He was on his feet in an instant.

“I’ll take a spell at the pump first,” he said, rubbing his eyes and looking round, especially ahead; “then I’ll come to the helm.”

Talking to him aroused me a little, and I was able to hold on till he relieved me. I was almost asleep before I sank down on the blanket, only just hearing him say, “We must keep a bright look-out ahead, for we ought soon to be making the land.”

That sleep did me a great deal of good. We agreed that we would both take as much as we could during the day, that we might be more wide-awake at night. I had observed that there was something on Jim’s mind, and while we were at supper, soon after sunset, I asked him what it was.

“Why, you see, as I said afore, I wish that our old skipper was, somehow or other, out of the ship. Now if you are willing, Peter, I’ll sew him up all comfortable like in an old sail, with a pig of iron at the feet; and as you are a better scholar than I am, you can say the prayers over him while we lower him overboard, and to my mind he’ll be just as well off as he would be ashore.”

I reminded Jim that he had before consented to our keeping the body as long as we could, but knowing that his superstitious ideas induced him to make the proposal, and that he was really uncomfortable, I agreed to bury our skipper at the end of three days if we did not by that time sight the land.

The night and another day went by, the wind still holding fair. I pointed out to Jim how thankful we should be for this, as I was certain that in the latitude where we were there was seldom so long a continuance of fine weather. He, however, was far from easy in his mind. He was sure, he said, that we ought to have seen the land before this, and was continually, when not working the pump, going forward to look out for it.

“I knows that England is an island, as the song says, ‘Our right little, tight little island;’ and don’t you think that somehow we may have passed to the nor’ard of it, and be going away into the Atlantic?”

“I hope not,” I answered; “for if so we shall not get into port till we have run right across it; but I am sure the captain never intended us to do that when he told us to steer west; I think rather that we have not been going as fast as we supposed. I’ll heave the log and try, though it will be a difficult job to do so.”

I got out the reel and glass. The latter I gave to Jim to hold with one hand, while he steered with the other. The handle of the reel I managed to put into a hole in the shattered bulwarks, so that it could run round easily. I then took the log-ship in my right hand and hove it.

“Turn!” I cried.

“Turn!” said Jim.

The line ran slowly out.

“Stop!” cried Jim.

I examined the line.

Two knots and a half was all it showed. Jim thought we were going four. I was thus certain that we had run a much shorter distance than he supposed, but he was not convinced that I was right.

Day and night, between the intervals of pumping, he went forward to look out. Another day went by. It was again night Jim had been a long time pumping when he said that he would go forward and look out till it was his turn to take the helm. I advised him rather to lie down, as I was sure that he must be tired, but he would not, and away he went into the darkness towards the bows.

I every now and then hailed him and he answered. I had not hailed for some time when I felt the breeze freshen. The main-topsail and mainsail bulged out, straining at the sheets, and the masts began to complain.

“Jim! Jim!” I shouted, “shorten sail, be smart about it.”

But Jim did not answer. I dared not leave the helm lest the brig should broach to and our masts again be carried overboard.

Once more I shouted, “Jim! Jim!” Still he did not come, and the dreadful idea arose in my mind that he had fallen overboard.

At last I could withstand the desire no longer of rushing forward to ascertain what had become of him. What mattered it, if he were lost, what else might happen? I made a dash forward, keeping my eye on the stars. I had got as far as the mainmast when I saw that the brig’s head was moving round, so I sprang back to right the helm.

Again and again I shrieked out my companion’s name at the top of my voice, springing forward, but had only got a little farther than before when I had to return.

The wind continued to get up. The masts would go, I saw, if sail were not shortened. I let go the main-topsail, and throat and peak-halliards. The sails flapped loudly in the wind, but as the brig now kept more steadily before it, I thought that I should be able to reach the forecastle, though I had very little hope of finding Jim.

I was still shouting his name, when what was my joy to hear him cry out, “Hillo! What’s the matter?” and I saw his head rise from just before the windlass. I never in my life felt more inclined to abuse him for the fright he had given me, thankful as I was that no harm had happened to him. I did not even tell him how much I had been alarmed, but merely cried out, “Come, be smart, Jim, we must stow the canvas.” We were beginning to do so, when the wind fell, and instead we again hoisted the fore-topsail. Jim owned that while he fancied he was looking out his legs gave way and that he had sunk down on the deck.

“Take care that the same doesn’t happen when you are steering, or worse consequences may follow,” I remarked.

He now let me take my nap, and when I awoke he said that we had had a famous run; but towards noon the wind dropped, and it became towards evening a stark calm. This lasted all night and far into the next day.

“Peter, do you know if there’s a prayer-book aboard?” asked Jim.

The question surprised me. I was nearly certain that there was not.

“Well then, you can say some prayers without one,” he continued. “For, Peter, there’s no use talking longer about it; we must bury the skipper.”

Reluctantly I agreed. Jim got a piece of canvas, a sail-maker’s needle, and some twine, with a pig of iron ballast which had been used in one of the boats. As there was no sign of a breeze, with these he went below, and for the first time since his death opened the captain’s state-room. We brought the corpse into the main cabin, and placing it on the canvas, without loss of time Jim began sewing it up. The old man’s kind face had scarcely changed. We took one respectful last look at it, and then Jim, drawing the canvas over it, shut it out from sight.

We had now to get the body on deck, but without a tackle this we could not have done. At last we managed to haul it up the companion-ladder. When Jim went below for more canvas and twine to fasten on the pig of iron to the feet, we had been longer about our task than we had supposed. Looking astern, I saw that the sky was darkened by heavy masses of clouds, while a line of foam came hissing over the surface of the deep towards us.

“Quick! Quick! Jim,” I shouted; “shorten sail, or the masts will be over the side!”

I ran as I spoke to the halliards; he followed; we had to be smart about it, and even thus the gale was on us before we could get the canvas stowed. That was not to be done in a hurry. First one sail got loose, then another, and we had to hurry to secure them. The sea rose with unusual suddenness, and the brig was soon tossing about in a way which made us fear that another leak would be sprung, or the old ones break out. We managed at length to set the fore-topsail, closely reefed, and I going to the helm, we ran before the gale.

If Jim was before anxious about our being near the land, he was more so now. His eyes were nearly always turned ahead, but I began to think more about the leaks. I asked him what he thought.

“We’ll try the well,” he answered.

No sooner had he examined the rod than he exclaimed—

“We must turn to at the pumps, Peter, if we don’t want to go to the bottom.”

We no longer thought of burying the captain, or doing anything but keeping the brig afloat. The night began; Jim worked away as hard as his failing strength would allow. I shouted to him to let me take a spell.

“No, no; you keep at the helm, Peter,” he answered; “I’ll work till I drop.”

He only stopped now and then to take a look-out ahead.

The gale seemed to be increasing; the brig pitched and rolled more and more. Suddenly there came a loud clap. The foresail had given way. Jim ran forward, and lowered it on deck.

As I could no longer be of use at the helm, I ran to his help, and we tried to set it again, but all our efforts were in vain. Every moment, too, the seas now raging round the vessel threatened to break on board.

“Peter, the water is coming in as fast as we get it out, and if we don’t keep pumping it will gain upon us,” said Jim.

For fear of being carried away, we made ourselves fast to some stanchions near the pumps, so that we could reach the brakes, and worked away till we were both ready to drop. Now and then we had to stop to draw breath and regain our strength. The hard battered brig pitched and rolled and tumbled, the seas dancing up wildly on every side of her. Again we had stopped, when Jim exclaimed, “Hark! I hear the breakers.”

I listened. The dreaded sound reached my ears. The brig was driving rapidly towards them.

Chapter Twelve.

Port reached in an unexpected manner.

The sound of the breakers grew louder and louder. Every instant we expected to find the brig sent crashing on the rocks, and to have the furious seas breaking over us.

“There’s no use pumping any longer, Peter,” said Jim. “We must cling to whatever we can get hold of, and hope for the chance of being hove up on the beach, if there is one.”

“A poor chance that,” I could not help answering. “Perhaps the brig may be driven in between some rocks, and will hold together till the morning; if not we must be prepared to die.”

And I spoke to him as I think my mother would have spoken to me. Clinging to the shattered bulwarks, we waited for the dreadful event with all the resignation we could muster. Still the crash did not come, though the vessel appeared to be tossed about even more violently than before.

“Peter, the breakers don’t sound so loud as they did just now,” exclaimed Jim, after some time.

“Let’s look at the compass,” I said, casting off the rope round my waist.

“I’ll go too,” cried Jim, doing the same. “What happens to you shall happen to both.”

Together we made our way to the binnacle, in which the lamp was still burning. As we eagerly examined the compass we found that the wind had shifted to the south-west, and if there was land, as we supposed, to the westward, was blowing partly off shore. We must have drifted past a headland, on which we had heard the seas breaking. Had the foresail stood we should have run on it, and we had cause, therefore, to be thankful that it had given way. Now, however, as it was important to keep off the land, we attempted to secure the clew and tack, and hauling together succeeded in again hoisting it. I then ran to the helm, and found that I could steer east by north or thereabouts. Though the brig moved very slowly, still I believed that we were getting away from the dreaded shore. We ran on for some time, when once more the wind shifted to the eastward of south, and blew with greater fury than before.

“It’s drawing more and more to the east,” said Jim, looking at the compass.

We hauled down the foresail, as it would only, we believed, drive us the faster to destruction. The brig tumbled and rolled and pitched about in a way that made it difficult for us to keep our feet, and every now and then the seas, washing over the deck, would have swept us off had we not again lashed ourselves to the stanchions near the pumps. These we worked as vigorously as our failing strength would allow. We had resolved not to give in while the brig remained afloat. How we longed for daylight, that we might see where we were, and judge how we could best try to save ourselves!

That we were again driving towards the terrible rocks we knew too well, and several times Jim stopped pumping to listen for the sound of the breakers. At length he exclaimed, “I hear them, Peter! In less than ten minutes the brig will be in pieces! Good-bye, if the sea gets us; but we’ll have a fight for it; so the moment she strikes we’ll cast ourselves off from the stanchions.”

We were shaking hands while he spoke. I was not quite certain that I did hear the breakers, the noises on board the tumbling vessel making it difficult to distinguish sounds. Shortly after this there came a lull, but we thought it only the prelude to another squall.

The wind fell more and more.

“I see day breaking!” cried Jim, looking eastward.

Faint yellow and red streaks were visible in that direction under the dark mass of clouds. The light increased, and to the westward, fringed by a line of rugged black rocks, a green island gradually rose before our sight. There were grassy slopes, and cliffs, and high, steep, round-topped hills, with clear streams running between them, forming lakelets near the beach, glittering in the rays of the rising sun, now bursting through the dissolving clouds. Far as our eyes could reach not a tree was visible, nor could we discover a single cottage or other habitation of man. As the light increased we found that we were about half a mile away from the entrance of a narrow gulf, which extended apparently far inland. Not a boat floated on the surface of the gulf, not a sail was to be seen along the coast.

“I’m greatly afeared that yonder is a dissolute island,” (meaning a desolate island), “and if no help comes to us from the shore we may be blown out to sea, and be worse off than before,” said Jim.

The wind had fallen to an almost perfect calm, but what there was blew out of the gulf, so that we could not hope to take the vessel up it, while the breakers still burst in sheets of foam on the rocks, and we lay tossed up and down by the glassy rolling seas. We were utterly helpless.

While we were at breakfast a thought occurred to me.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Jim,” I said; “we’ll build a raft, put the poor old captain on it, take him ashore, and bury him. If we can find no people or houses we’ll go off again. The brig won’t drift far away in the meantime. If the wind will let us we’ll run into the gulf, or if it shifts to the northward we’ll steer along shore to the south and look out for another harbour. From what the captain said we may be sure there is one not far off where we shall find people to help us.”

Jim jumped at my proposal.

“That’s it, Peter; when once the dead man is out of the brig things will go better with us,” he answered.

I did not stop to argue the point, but turned to at once with him to form the proposed raft. We had plenty of spars below, so that our undertaking was not so difficult as it would have been had we not had a good supply. We first cut them into lengths with a saw we found below, and having placed them side by side, lashed others across on the top of them.

Eager as we were to finish our task, we had more than once to stop and rest, for we were both very weak, and I felt a sensation of weariness I had not ever before experienced. In fact, we were thoroughly knocked up from the hard work we had gone through, and the little time we had had for rest.

Having completed the raft and formed some paddles, we launched it overboard and secured it alongside.

“Now, Jim,” I said, “we must take some provisions, in case there are no people on the island, as we may have a longer pull back than we may like, and we have to bring up the captain and put him on the raft.”

We quickly collected some provisions, and I took the empty water-jar from the pantry.

“What’s that for?” asked Jim. “There’s water enough on shore, surely.”

“Yes, but if we have a long pull back to the brig we shall be thankful for water,” I answered.

While thus employed we heard a voice coming from no great distance hail, “Ship ahoy!”

My heart leapt within me at the sound, and running to the side we saw a boat with five men in her pulling towards us. An oldish man of portly figure, who looked like a sea captain, was steering.

“Are ye the only people aboard?” he sang out as he saw us.

“The only live ones, sir,” answered Jim.

There was no time to exchange more words before the boat was alongside, and the old gentleman and his men stepped on board. He gave a look of surprise as he saw the captain’s body, and he then, turning to us, appeared more surprised still.

“Why, my laddies, what has happened? How did this craft come here?” he asked, in a kind tone.

I briefly told him how the masts had been carried away and the people washed overboard, and how the captain had been struck down and afterwards had died, and how we had kept him to bury him decently on shore, adding—

“He told us to steer west, sir, and so we did, but we don’t know what country we’ve come to.”

“Why, surely, to Shetland, laddies,” he answered. “But if ye had kept a little farther to the north ye would have passed our islands and run into the Atlantic, and it’s weel for ye that ye didna do that. And now my men and I will take your craft up the voe and anchor her in safety. We might carry her to Lerwick, but the weather is unsettled, and she’s na weel fitted to encounter another gale, no discredit to ye, laddies.”

Our new friend evidently compassionated our forlorn condition; indeed, now that the necessity for exerting ourselves was over, we both sank down utterly exhausted on the deck.

The Shetlanders would have carried us below, but we begged to remain where we were, that we might see what was going forward. They therefore left us, and having placed the captain’s body on the main hatch, covered by a flag, they proceeded to pull our raft to pieces and to hoist the spars composing it on board. This done, the four men jumped into the boat, and going ahead began to tow the brig, while the old gentleman went to the helm to steer.

Before long, however, a breeze from the eastward springing up, the boat returned alongside, the men hoisted the canvas, and we stood in towards the voe, as the gulf, we found, was called. I could just distinguish the high green hills, with here and there grey cliffs and rocks jutting out from these on either side, as we sailed up the voe, but my eyes grew dimmer and dimmer till the brig’s anchor was dropped, and I was just aware that we were being placed in the boat to be carried on shore.

When I came to myself I found that I was in a comfortable bed with curtains round it, the sun shining brightly through the open window of the room, which looked neater and prettier than any I had ever slept in.

Hearing a footstep, I peered through the curtains, and saw a lady and a little girl come in, carrying in their hands some things which they placed on the table.

“I think the poor boy is awake, auntie,” whispered the little girl. “I heard him move.”

“Perhaps he was only moving in his sleep, but I will see,” answered the lady, and she approached the bed.

I was looking all the time at the little girl, who seemed to me like an angel or a fairy, or some being altogether brighter than I had ever seen before—even than my sister Mary.

“Yes, marm, I am awake, thank you,” I said, as she opened the curtains, “and please, I want to get up and go aboard the brig to look after her and to see that our old captain is buried.”

“He was buried by the minister the day you came, and the brig is taken very good care of,” she answered. “My father, Mr Angus Troil, has written to the owners to inform them of what has happened to her and of your brave conduct. He hopes soon to hear from them.”

“Thank you, marm,” I again said, puzzled to know what the lady meant about hearing soon from Mr Gray, for I had supposed that Shetland was a long way from England. My first thought, however, had been about Jim.

“Please, marm, where is the other boy, my shipmate?” I asked.

“He was very ill only for three or four days, and is now well enough to go down to the brig with my father,” she replied. “But I must not let you talk too much. You were to have some food, the doctor said, when you came to yourself. Here, Maggie, bring the broth and toast.”

Thereon the little girl brought the tray to the bedside and gazed compassionately at me, while the lady put the food into my mouth, for I was too weak to do so myself.

It now dawned on me from what the lady said that I must have been in a state of unconsciousness for many days, and such I found was the case. I recollected nothing that had passed since I was placed in the boat. I could not speak much, but when I had finished the basin of broth I said—

“I am very thankful to you and your little daughter, marm, for all you have done for me.”

“You deserve to be taken care of, my boy,” she answered; “but this little girl is not my daughter. Her father was my brother. He was lost at sea while captain of a ship, and her mother has since died, so that she is very precious to us.”

I looked at little Maggie with even more interest than before, and I said—

“My father was also drowned, and so was my grandfather, and I believe his father before him, for I come of a seafaring family.”

“That has been likewise the fate of many of the Troils,” said the lady; “but I must not let you talk more now. Before long my father and your young shipmate will be returning, and they will be glad to hear from your own lips how you feel. In the meantime try to go to sleep again. The doctor says that the more you sleep the sooner you will regain your strength. Saying this, the lady, followed by the little girl, left the room.”

I thought over what she had said to me, and kept repeating to myself, “Margaret Troil! Margaret Troil! I know that name, I am sure!” but I did not think long before I forgot where I was and what had happened.

I saw Maggie’s sweet face peeping in at me when I woke, but as soon as she saw that my eyes were open she ran off, and shortly afterwards Mr Troil and Jim came into the room. The old gentleman spoke very kindly; told me that I must consider myself at home, and that though he hoped I should soon get well, I must be in no hurry to go away. He then went out, saying to Jim, “I can let you stay only five minutes with your friend. When the time is up I must call you.”

Jim could at first scarcely speak for joy at seeing me so much better. He then told me how highly Mr Troil spoke of me and him for the way we had kept the brig afloat, and brought her to the coast of Shetland.

“I told him as how it wasn’t us who did it,” continued Jim, “but that God sent the wind as blew us here; and he says to me, ‘To be sure, that was the case in one way, but then that God rewarded your efforts, and thus you deserve great credit for what you did.’ He promises to see that we are rewarded, and to do all he can for us himself. I told him as how you were really captain, and that I couldn’t have done anything by myself, except pump, and that I had done with a will, seeing I am bigger and stronger than you.”

I was inclined to smile at Jim’s modesty, though I felt very grateful to him for speaking so well of me, and was about to ask him what Mr Troil said in return, when our host called him out of the room. I was thus left to myself, except when the lady, who Jim had told me was Miss Troil, the old gentleman’s daughter, or little Maggie looked in to see if I wanted anything. Two days after this I was able to dress and sit out in front of the house, enjoying the sun and air, looking down on the voe in which lay our brig, with a small sloop and several fishing vessels and boats. On that side, looking to the south, there was a view of the voe and the opposite bank, but on all the others the house, a square stone building, was protected by a high wall close to it, built to keep off the biting cold winds and snow of winter. Jim was out with Mr Troil, and as Miss Troil was engaged, Maggie came and sat by me with a book, and read and talked to me for a long time, getting me to tell her all about myself and our perilous voyage, till her aunt summoned her to attend to some household affairs. When I returned to my room I found that my chest had been brought on shore and placed there. Miss Troil came in and took out the things, which, having become damp and mildewy, she wished to dry. While doing so she came upon my old Testament, which, chancing to open, she examined the inside of the cover with intense curiosity.

“Why, Peter, how did you come by this?” she asked.

The family had got by this time to call me Peter.

I told her that it had belonged to my father’s mother, and then for the first time since I came to Shetland I recollected that the name in it was spelt in the same way as that of my host.

“I must ask my father about this!” she exclaimed. “He had an uncle called Angus, after whom he was named, and who married a Margaret Halcro. There are none of the family remaining in Shetland, though at one time they were numerous. Peter, I should not be surprised if it turns out that you are a kinsman of ours. Should you like to be so?”

“Indeed I should!” I answered; “I feel as if I were one already, from the kind way you have treated me, even before you thought I might be a relative.”

When Mr Trail came in he listened attentively to what his daughter told him, and, having examined the handwriting in the Testament, asked me the ages of my father and grandmother, and all other particulars I could tell him.

“I have no doubt about your being a near relative of ours, Peter, and I rejoice to find you one, my dear boy,” he said; “though why my aunt Margaret Troil did not come back to her husband’s relatives after her husband’s death I cannot tell.”

“Perhaps she had not the means to make the journey, or my father had gone away to sea, and she was afraid that he might be unable to find her on his return if she left her home; or, now I think of it, I remember my father saying that she died soon after my grandfather was lost, when he himself was a little chap.”

“Well, all is ordered for the best, though we don’t see how,” said Mr Troil. “And now you have come you must stay with us and turn back into a Shetlander. What do you say to my proposal?”

“Oh, do stay with us, Cousin Peter!” exclaimed Maggie, taking my hand and looking up in my face.

“Indeed, I should like very much to do so,” I answered, “but there is my sister Mary, and I cannot desert her, even though I know that she is well off with Mr Gray.”

“Then Peter must go and fetch her!” exclaimed Maggie. “Oh, I should so like to have her here! I would love her as a sister.”

“A bright idea of yours, Maggie,” said Mr Troil. “What do you say to it, Peter? I will furnish you with ample funds, and you can be back here in a month, as I feel very sure that your friend Mr Gray will willingly allow Mary to come.”

I need not say that I gladly accepted my generous relative’s proposal, and it was arranged that as soon as I had quite recovered my strength I should go south in the first vessel sailing from Lerwick, accompanied by Jim, who wanted to see his friends, and hoped to be able to work his passage both ways, so that he might not be separated from me.

Chapter Thirteen.

A disastrous voyage.

I was soon myself again, and ready for the proposed voyage southward. Accordingly, Mr Troil having received directions from Mr Gray to send the Good Intent to Lerwick to be refitted, Tom and I, bidding farewell, as we hoped, only for a short season to Miss Troil and Maggie, went on board the brig to assist in carrying her there, intending to proceed by the first vessel sailing after our arrival. Mr Troil sent us a pilot and a good crew to navigate the vessel, and accompanied her himself in his sloop, that he might assist us if necessary.

The wind was fair and the sea smooth, and thus without accident we arrived in that fine harbour called Brassa Sound, on the shore of which Lerwick, the capital of the islands, stands. We there found a vessel shortly to sail for Newcastle. Having taken in a cargo of coals, she was thence to proceed to Portsmouth. This so exactly suited our object that Mr Troil at once engaged a passage on board her for Jim and me.

After Portsmouth the town appeared small, but the inhabitants have large warm hearts, and were very kind to Jim and me. As he remarked, it is better to have large hearts and live in a small place than small cold hearts and to live in a large place. They seemed never to tire of asking us questions about our voyage in the Good Intent, and how we two boys alone managed to rig jury-masts and to keep her afloat.

“By just knowing how to do our work and sticking to it,” answered Jim, to one of our friends.

If we had remained much longer at Lerwick we should have begun to fancy ourselves much more important persons than we really were; but the brig Nancy, Captain Gowan, was ready for sea, and wishing farewell to my kind relative, Mr Troil, who set sail in his ship to return home, we went on board. We soon afterwards got under way with a fair breeze, and before night had left Sumburgh Head, the lofty point which forms the southern end of the Shetland Islands, far astern.

The Nancy was a very different sort of craft from the Good Intent. She was an old ill-found vessel, patched up in an imperfect manner, and scarcely seaworthy. Jim and I agreed that if she were to meet with the bad weather we encountered in our old ship she would go to the bottom or drive ashore.

We discovered also before long that Captain Gowan was a very different person from our former captain. He had conducted himself pretty well on shore, so that people spoke of him as a very decent man, but when once at sea he threw off all restraint, abused the crew, quarrelled with the mate, and neglected us, who had been placed under his charge.

Jim, who had to work his passage, slept in the fore-peak, but I was berthed aft. I, however, did as much duty as anyone. Jim told me that the men were a rough lot, and that he had never heard worse language in his life. They tried to bully him, but as he was strong enough to hold his own, and never lost his temper, they gave up the attempt. Captain Gowan growled when I came in to dinner the first day, which I knew that I had a right to do, and he asked if every ship-boy was to be turned into a young gentleman because he happened to have saved his life while others lost theirs?

I did not answer him, for I saw an empty bottle on the locker, and another by his side with very little liquor remaining in it. After this I kept out of his way, and got my meals from the cook as best I could.

Jim and I agreed that if the Nancy had not been going direct to Portsmouth, we should do well to leave her at Newcastle, and try to make our way south on board some other vessel. Although we went, I believe, much out of our proper course, we at last entered the Tyne. Soon after we brought up, several curiously-shaped boats, called kreels, came alongside, containing eight tubs, each holding a chaldron; these tubs being hoisted on board, their bottoms were opened and the coals fell into the hold.

The kreels, which were oval in shape, were propelled by a long oar or pole on each side, worked by a man who walked along the gunwale from the bow to the stern, pressing the upper end with his shoulder while the lower touched the ground. Another man stood in the stern with a similar long oar to steer.

The crews were fine hardy fellows, known as kreelmen. I was astonished to hear them call each other bullies, till I found that the term signified “brothers.” So bully Saunders meant brother Saunders.

Jim and I had had the sense to put on our working clothes, which was fortunate, as before long, with the coal-dust flying about, we were as black as negroes, but as everything and all on board were coloured with the same brush, we did not mind that.

With the help of the kreelmen the Nancy was soon loaded, and we again sailed for the southward. Matters did not improve. The captain, having abstained from liquor while on shore, recompensed himself by taking a double allowance, and became proportionably morose and ill-tempered, never speaking civilly to me, and often passing a whole day without exchanging a word with his poor mate; and when he did open his mouth it was to abuse. The brig, though tolerably tight when light, now that she had a full cargo, as soon as a sea got up began to leak considerably, so that each watch had to pump for an hour to keep the water under. Jim and I took our turns without being ordered, but though accustomed to the exercise, it was hard work. When we cried “Spell ho!” for others to take our places, the captain shouted, “You began to pump for your own pleasure, now you shall go on for mine, you young rascals!” The men, however, though they at first laughed, having more humanity than the skipper, soon relieved us.

This was the third day after we sailed, when the wind shifting to the south-west, and then to the south, we stood away to the eastward in order to double the North Foreland. After some time it came on to blow harder than ever, but the brig was made snug in time, though the leaks increased, and all hands in a watch were kept, spell and spell, at the pumps. The captain behaved just as before, drinking all day long, though he did not appear to lose his senses altogether. The mate, however, looked very anxious as the vessel pitched into the seas each time more violently than before. I asked him if he thought she would keep afloat.

“That’s more than I can promise you, my boy,” he answered. “If the wind falls, and the sea goes down, we may perhaps manage to keep the leaks under; but if I were the captain I would run for Harwich or the Thames sooner than attempt to thrash the vessel round the Foreland.”

“Why don’t you propose that to him, and if he does not agree, just steer as you think best?” I said. “I suspect that he would not find out in what direction we were standing.”

“Wouldn’t he, though! Why, Peter, I tell you he would swear there was a mutiny, and knock me overboard,” answered the poor mate in a tone of alarm.

He was evidently completely cowed by the captain, and dared not oppose him. The night was just coming on; the seas kept breaking over the bows, washing the deck fore and aft, and the clank of the pumps was heard without cessation. The captain sat in his cabin, either drinking or sleeping, except when occasionally he clambered on deck, took a look around while holding on to the companion-hatch, and then, apparently thinking that all was going on well, went below again. When I could pump no longer I turned in, thinking it very probable that I should never see another sunrise. By continually pumping, the brig was kept afloat during the night; but when I came on deck in the morning, the mate, who looked as if he would drop from fatigue, told me that the leaks were gaining on us. We were now far out, I knew, in the German Ocean, and if the brig should go down, there was too much sea running to give us a chance of saving ourselves.

Some time after daylight the captain came on deck, and he had not been there long when there was a lull. “Hands about ship!” he shouted.

The watch below tumbled up, and the brig was got round.

“Will you take charge, sir?” humbly asked the mate. “I have been on deck all night, and can scarcely stand.”

The captain raved at him for a lazy hound. “I haven’t turned in, either,” he said, though he had been asleep in his chair for several hours. “I want my breakfast; when I’ve had that I’ll relieve you.”

The mate made no reply, and as soon as the captain went below he hurried forward to bid the cook make haste with the cabin breakfast. It was a difficult matter, however, to keep the galley fire alight, or the pots on it in their places. The weather seemed to be improving, but the men were well-nigh worn out with pumping. When the captain at last came on deck, in spite of their grumbling, he kept them labouring away as hard as ever, and ordered Jim and me to take our turn with the rest. This we did willingly, as we knew that unless all exerted themselves the brig must founder.

As noon approached, the captain brought up his quadrant, and sent below to summon the mate to take observations though the clouds hung so densely over the sky that there was but little chance of doing this.

“Might as well try to shoot the sun at midnight as now, with the clouds as dark as pitch,” growled the mate. “What was the use of calling me up for such fool’s work?”

“What’s that you say?” shouted the captain. “Do you call me a fool?”

“Yes, I do, if you expect to take an observation with such a sky as we have got overhead,” answered the mate.

“Then take that!” screamed the captain, throwing the quadrant he held in his hand at the mate’s head, not, for the moment, probably, recollecting what it was.

It struck the mate on the temple, who, falling, let his own quadrant go, and both were broken to pieces.

“Here’s a pretty business,” cried one of the men, “I wonder now what will become of us!”

Good reason we had to wonder. The mate, picking himself up, flew at the captain, and a fearful struggle ensued. Both were too excited to know what they were about, and the captain, who was the stronger of the two, would have hove the mate overboard had not the crew rushed aft and separated them.

The mate then went below, and the captain rolled about the deck, stamping and shouting that he would be revenged on him. At last he also went down into the cabin.

Fearing that he would at once put his fearful threats into execution and attack the mate, I followed, intending to call the crew to my assistance should it be necessary. I saw him, however, take another pull at the rum bottle, and then, growling and muttering, turn into his bed. I waited till I supposed that he was asleep, and then I went to the mate’s berth.

“There is no one in charge of the deck, sir,” I said. “And if it was to blow harder, as it seems likely to do, I don’t know what will happen.”

“Nor do I either, Peter, with such a drunken skipper as ours,” he answered. “What are the men about?”

“They have knocked off from the pumps, and if you don’t come on deck and order them to turn to again they’ll let the brig go down without making any further effort to save her,” I answered.

My remarks had some effect, for though the mate had himself been drinking, or he would not have spoken as he did to the captain, he yet had some sense left in his head. He at last got up and came on deck. All the hands, except the man at the helm, were crouching down under the weather-bulwarks to avoid the showers of spray flying in dense masses over us. The sea had increased, and though we had not much sail set, the brig was heeling over to the furious blasts which every now and then struck her; if she righted it was only to bend lower still before the next.

“Do you want to lose your lives or keep them, lads?” shouted the mate, after sounding the well. “Well then, I can tell you that if you don’t turn to at once and work hard, and very hard, too, the brig will be at the bottom before the morning.”

Still the men did not move. Jim was holding on near me.

“Come, let you and me try what we can do,” I said; “we have pumped to good purpose before now.”

Jim needed no second asking. Seizing the brakes, we began, and pumped away with all our might, making the water rush across the deck in a full stream. Before long one man got up and joined, then another, and another. When we got tired and cried, “Spell ho!” the rest took our places.

“I see you want to save your lives, lads,” cried the mate, who occasionally took a spell himself. “But you must keep at it, or it will be of no use.”

All that day we stood on, the crew pumping without intermission.

“If the wind moderates we’ll set more sail,” said the mate; “but the brig has as much on her as she can bear. We must be soon looking out for land, though. You, Peter, have a sharp pair of eyes—go aloft, and try if you can see it.”

Though the vessel was heeling over terribly at the time, I was about to obey, when Jim said, “No, you stay on deck; let me go, Peter.”

To this I would not agree.

“Then I’ll go with you,” said Jim.

So we both crawled up the weather-rigging together. Jim said he thought that he saw land on the starboard bow, but I did not get a glimpse of it, and felt sure that he was mistaken; at all events there was no land visible ahead. We remained aloft till darkness came on, and there was no use remaining longer.

We made our reports to the mate. He said that Jim was right, and that we had probably passed the South Foreland.

This was, however, I suspected, only to encourage the men to keep at the pumps. All night long, spell and spell, we laboured away. When the morning broke no land was in sight. By this time we were all pretty well knocked up, and most of the men declared that they could pump no longer.

The mate now tried to make them keep on, reminding them that if they did not they would lose their lives. Some answered that they would take their chance, but Jim and I and others kept at our duty. Even we, however, began to feel that the struggle would be useless unless we should soon make the land, for the mate could not deny that the water was gaining on us.

The wind, however, began to moderate, and the sun bursting forth from between the clouds cheered us up a little.

At last the captain came on deck. After looking about him for some time he told me to go below and get his quadrant. He was apparently sober, and seemed to have forgotten what had happened.

“Have you a second one, sir?” I asked.

“No; bring the one I always use,” he answered.

“You hove it at the mate yesterday, sir,” I said. “And he fell and broke his.”

“What lies are you telling, youngster?” he exclaimed, uttering a fearful oath. Then he shouted to the mate, who had gone forward to be out of his way.

“Did I heave my quadrant at you?”

“Yes, you did,” answered the mate. “You made me break mine, too, and if we lose our lives you’ll have them on your head.”

The captain made no reply. I think that the occurrence must have flashed on his mind. He looked at the compass, took two or three turns on deck, and then ordered more sail to be set, directly afterwards changing the ship’s course to north-west. I therefore supposed that we were steering for the Downs, or perhaps for Saint Helens. The men, though very tired, went on pumping far more willingly than before.

A bright look-out was kept for land, but no land appeared. For some hours the brig made fair progress, but as the evening drew on the wind again got up. The captain had gone below. He could not resist taking a pull at the rum bottle. We were carrying topsails and topgallantsails.

A sudden squall laid the brig over. The captain sprang on deck and shouted—

“All hands shorten sail! You, Peter and Jim, up aloft with you and hand the main-topgallant-sail.”

The blast had passed over and the brig had righted. Jim and I ran aloft to obey the order.

The rest of the people were still on deck except one man, who had gone up the fore-rigging, about to let fly the sheets and brail up; but, nearly worn out with labouring at the pumps, they must have very slowly obeyed the orders they received, for almost before a sheet was let go, another furious squall struck the brig. Over, over she heeled.

Jim and I slid down into the main-top.

“Hold on, whatever happens,” cried Jim.

The warning was given not a moment too soon. There was a fearful cracking sound, the mast quivered, it was almost right over the water, and just as the brig was on her beam-ends it gave way, tearing out the chain-plates on the weather side, and Jim and I were hurled with it into the raging sea.

I expected every moment that we should be washed off as the mast was towed along, and so we must have been had not the lee shrouds given way.

To regain the brig was impossible; the next instant the mast was clear and the brig drove on. Before she had got a cable’s length from us the foremast also went by the board.

We could see no one on it as it was towed along. A minute or more passed.

The mast to which we clung rose to the top of a sea, we saw the brig plunge into another. Again we looked, for one instant we saw her stern, and the next she was gone.

We were too far off to hear a cry. The foremast must have been drawn down with her. The boats were securely lashed. Nothing that we could see remained floating. We knew that our late shipmates had perished.

Our own condition was fearful in the extreme. At any moment we might be washed from our hold! Now our head were under water! Now we rose to the top of a sea and looked down into a deep gulf below us.

“Hold on; hold on, Peter,” cried Jim, who was clinging on the mast close to me. “Don’t give up. Here, I’ve cut a piece of rope for you. Lash yourself on with it. I’ll get a piece for myself presently.”

I wanted him to secure himself first, but he insisted that I should take the rope, and I lashed myself with it. He soon afterwards secured himself in the same way. We might thus prolong our lives; but should we be able to hold out till a passing vessel might pick us up? I asked myself.

We were far away from land, and hours, perhaps days, might go by before the mast was seen, and only our dead bodies would be found. We had no food, no fresh water; night was coming on. I did not tell my thoughts to Jim, nor did he say what was passing in his mind; but we tried to cheer each other up. For an instant the clouds broke asunder in the west, and the sun, just as he sank below the horizon, bursting forth, shed a bright glow over the foaming ocean.

“He’ll not be long down,” cried Jim, “and he’ll warm us on t’other side when he rises.”

Jim’s remark did me good. We had cause to hope for the best. The squall which had carried away the brig’s masts was the last of the gale. The wind rapidly fell, and the sea went down, so that in a short time we could keep ourselves almost entirely out of the water. The mast became more quiet. Had we not lashed ourselves to it when we fell asleep as we both did now and then, we might have dropped off. We talked as much as we could, both to keep up our spirits and to prevent ourselves from dozing. Thus the night passed. It seemed long enough, but not so long as I expected. I must have closed my eyes when I heard Jim shout, “A sail! A sail!” and opening them I saw a large ship under all sail about a couple of miles away, standing on a course which we hoped would bring her near us.

Chapter Fourteen.

Jim and I carried off against our will.

“Shall we be seen, Jim, think you?” I asked, after we had gazed at the ship some minutes without speaking.

“Ain’t quite certain,” answered Jim, in a sad voice; “if I thought so, I could sing for joy, that I could, but the ship’s a long way off, and maybe she’ll haul closer to the wind and pass us by.”

“Oh, Jim! Let us pray that she’ll not do that,” I exclaimed. “She’s standing, as far as I can make out, directly towards us, and why should we fancy that we are to be deserted? Cheer up, Jim! Cheer up!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” said Jim. “Still we must not make too certain. If she doesn’t pick us up another vessel may. We are in the track of ships going up and down Channel, and that’s one comfort.”

Jim did not say this all at once, for he stopped sometimes to take a look at the stranger, and every now and then a sea washed up and made us close our mouths. Still the seas were every instant growing less and less, and we at last unlashed ourselves that we might move about a little and stretch our limbs.

We were on the top, it must be remembered, so that we did not run the same risk of falling off as we should have done if we had had only the mast to support us.

With straining eyes we watched the ship. Still she held the same course on which she had been steering when we first saw her, and which was bringing her nearer and nearer to us.

“Hurrah, Jim! We shall soon be seen, depend on that,” I exclaimed, at last, “and perhaps before to-night we shall be safe on shore. Who can say that we shan’t be landed at Portsmouth itself?”

“I wish I could say I was as sure as you are, Peter,” observed Jim, in a doleful voice. “If she had seen us it would have been all right; she would pick us up, but she may alter her course. Even now the wind is shifting, and she may have to keep away.”

I could not contradict this; still I kept on hoping that we should ere long be seen. I had a white handkerchief in my pocket, although it was rolled into a ball by the wet. I pulled it out, and waved it above my head as high as I could reach. Even now we might have attracted the attention of those on board the stranger, although we could distinguish no signal made to us in return.

“She’s a thumping big ship, whatever she is,” I remarked.

“She’s high out of the water, and that makes her look bigger,” observed Jim. “I have seen some like her brought up at Spithead, and to my mind she’s a South Sea whaler, outward bound. That’s the reason she looks so high. Yes, I am right, for I can make out her boats hoisted up at the davits.”

“I think you are right,” I said; “but even if she is an outward bound ship, she’ll put us on board another vessel homeward-bound, or land us on some part of the coast, the back of the Isle of Wight, or Portland.”

“First let us get on board her before we talk of where we shall be landed,” said Jim. “It seems to me as if she was going about. The head sails are shaking.”

“No, no! the man at the wheel was not minding his helm,” I answered. “I’ll wave again.”

“They won’t see that little bit of a rag,” cried Jim, “I’ll try what I can do. Here, Peter, just take hold of my jacket,” he continued, as he stripped it off, and then loosening his waistband he pulled his shirt over his head, and began to wave it frantically. I waved my handkerchief, and then in our eagerness we shouted out at the top of our voices, as if the faint sounds could be carried as far as the ship.

Presently our hearts sank, for there was no doubt that the ship was keeping away. Still, should anyone on board be using a spy-glass, and turn it towards us, we should, we hoped, be observed. We waved and shouted even more vehemently than before, but even I was almost in despair.

“She’s going to pass us after all,” cried Jim, “and there’s not another sail in sight.”

Just as he spoke there came a puff of smoke with a bright flash, from the ship’s bows, followed by a sharp report.

“We are seen! We are seen!” shouted Jim. “That’s a signal to us. Hurrah! Hurrah!”

The ship now came rapidly on, and we had no longer any doubt about being rescued. This very circumstance caused a reaction in our feelings, and, strange as it may seem, we both burst into tears. We recovered ourselves, however, very soon, and continued waving, still having an idea that the ship might sail away from us, but on and on she came. Presently her courses were brailed up, and she hove-to about three cables’ lengths from our mast. Almost at the same instant one of her boats was lowered, and came pulling towards us as fast as the men could bend their backs to the oars. In a few minutes kindly hands were stretched out to help us into the boat.

“Are you the only two?” asked the mate, who was steering.

“Yes, sir; all the rest are gone,” I answered.

“Well, we’ll hear all about it when we get you on board, lads, for you both seem as if you wanted looking after,” he said.

The boat leaving the mast, returned rapidly towards the ship.

While most of the crew scrambled up the sides, the tackles were hooked on, and we were hoisted up in the boat, from whence we were speedily handed down on deck. I could not have stood if I had not been supported, and Jim was much in the same condition.

We were soon surrounded by strange faces, some looking compassionately upon us, others with indifference, as if it was a matter of very little consequence that two boys should have been saved from perishing.

Meantime the yards were swung round and the ship stood on her course.

“We must have the lads below at once,” said one of the persons standing round. “They have been many hours wet through and exposed on the mast, and even now, if we don’t look out, they may slip through our fingers.”

“Very true, Doctor Cockle,” said another, who was, I saw by his dress, an officer. “One of them may be put into my cabin, where you can look after him better than for’ard.”

“And the other can go into mine,” said the doctor, the person who had first spoken.

No one had asked us any questions; probably they saw by our condition that we should have been unable to answer them, for both Jim and I were fast verging towards unconsciousness.

We were at once carried below, when I was put into the mate’s cabin, where my clothes were stripped off by the doctor’s orders, and, being rubbed dry, I was placed between the blankets. The doctor, who had been looking after Jim, soon came and gave me something out of a glass, which seemed to warm me up wonderfully. But even then I could not have spoken if my life had depended upon it.

“Get some warm broth as quickly as you can,” I heard the doctor say to someone, he in the meantime rubbing my feet and hands and chest. It seemed as if scarcely more than two or three minutes had passed when a basin of hot broth was brought me, which I drank without difficulty, and it did me more good than the stuff in the glass.

“You may go to sleep now, my lad,” said the doctor, in a kind tone; “you’ll do well. You shall tell us by-and-by how you and your companion came to be on the mast.”

I obeyed the doctor’s orders, and scarcely had the door been closed than I was fast asleep. I was awakened by the doctor coming in, accompanied by a boy who brought some more soup and some bread, and which, being very hungry, I thankfully swallowed.

“You can eat something more substantial now,” said the doctor, and he told the boy to bring in some fowl and more bread from the breakfast-table.

By this I guessed that I must have had a long spell of sleep, and that a whole day and a night had passed since we were taken on board. I eagerly ate all that was given me.

“You may get up now, my boy, and dress, and we will find another berth for you; we must not keep Mr Griffiths out of his bed,” said the doctor.

“I would not do that on any account, sir,” I said; “I feel quite strong, and am accustomed to live forward.”

I soon dressed, and was glad to see that Jim also was up. There were two apprentices on board, who lived on the half-deck, and the doctor said that the first mate promised to have some berths knocked up for us with them.

“How did you come to be on board the vessel which went down?” asked the doctor, when I accompanied him on deck.

From the kind way he spoke I was encouraged to give him a full account of myself and Jim, so I told him that he and I belonged to Portsmouth, and had gone in the Good Intent to Bergen; and how she had lost her masts, and the crew had been washed overboard. How the captain had died, and we had done our best to keep the brig afloat, and had been driven in close to Shetland, and that I had found a relative there, and was coming south in the Nancy to fetch my sister. He then asked me about my father, and I told him that he had been lost at Spithead, and that mother had died, and old Tom had taken care of Mary and me, and how, after he had been blown up in the ship at Spithead, Jim and I had managed to gain our bread and support Mary and Nancy till a claimant appeared for old Tom’s property, and our boat had been taken from us, and we had been turned out of the house, and should have been in a bad way if the good Quaker, Mr Gray, had not come to our assistance.

The doctor listened attentively, and he then asked me what sort of man my father was, and whether I had a brother in the navy.

I described my father, and then said that Jack had gone away on board the Lapwing brig of war, but that he was supposed to have been cut off by savages in one of her boats when in the Indian seas. At all events, that we had never since heard of him.

“That’s very strange,” he observed; “I think, Peter Trawl, that we have met before, when you were a very little chap. Do you remember your father taking off the doctor and the mate of a ship lying at Spithead, when you and your brother Jack were in the boat, and he was to be put on board the brig?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, looking up at his face: “I recollect it perfectly, as it was the last time I saw Jack, though I little thought then that I should never see him again.”

“I was the doctor, and the first mate of this ship was my companion. When I first heard your name, as it is a peculiar one, I all of a sudden recollected that it was that of the boatman who took Mr Griffiths and me off on the occasion I speak of. We are now brothers-in-law, and have ever since gone to sea together—that is to say, when we have gone to sea, for both of us have taken long spells on shore. If it hadn’t been for that, Mr Griffiths would have been a captain years ago.”

“I am very glad to meet you and him again, sir,” I said; “and now I look at you I fancy I recollect your countenance, as I did your voice. You were not as well accustomed to the sea then as you are now.”

“No,” he answered, laughing. “That was my first voyage. I sometimes wish that I had lived comfortably on shore, and made it my last, but I got accustomed to a roving life, and having no regular business or tie, when circumstances compelled Mr Griffiths—who married my sister—to come to sea again, I agreed to accompany him.”

I felt sure from the kind way in which Doctor Cockle spoke that he would wish to serve me.

I asked him if the ship was going to put into Saint Helens, or if not, would he get the captain to land Jim and me at Portland?

“We are some way to the westward of Portland, already,” he answered. “It is possible that he may land you at Plymouth or Falmouth, or if not put you on board some pilot or fishing boat, or any vessel we may fall in with coming up Channel.”

“Surely, sir, he would not carry us away from home? I would give anything to be on shore, where my young sister is expecting me, and it would break her heart to fancy I was lost, which she would do if I did not appear,” I said.

“As Mr Griffiths and I only joined the ship at Hull, ten days ago, we are not very intimate with the captain: but I hope he would not refuse your request.”

The doubtful way in which he spoke made me feel very unhappy. Still, I hoped that when I told the captain the strong reasons I had for wishing to be put on shore as soon as possible, he would not refuse.

The doctor left me to attend to one of the men who was sick forward, and I joined Jim, who had also come on deck. I had a long talk with him about the matter. He fancied we were only then just abreast of the Downs, and that the captain would put in willingly enough for the sake of getting rid of us. It was a great disappointment to find that we were so far down Channel, and that we should thus, at all events, have a long journey back to Portsmouth. Still we neither of us doubted for a moment that we should be put on shore somewhere to the westward, as I saw by a look I had at the compass that we were standing for the land.

While we were talking, the captain, whom we had not yet seen, came on deck. He was a fine, tall, sailor-like looking man, with a handsome countenance and large eyes, which seemed to take in everything at a glance—a person of whom the roughest crew would stand in awe.

His bright eyes fell on Jim and me; he beckoned us to come up, and, looking at me, bade me give him the particulars of the loss of the brig, about which Mr Griffiths and the doctor had told him.

I gave him the account as he desired, and then thought that I might venture to ask him to put Jim and me on shore, for that, as may be supposed, was the thing uppermost in my mind.

“We will see about that, my lads,” he answered. “If the wind holds as it now does it won’t cause us any delay, but I can make no promises. Boys at your age ought to wish to see the world, and we can find employment for you on board. You are sharp fellows, I can see, or you would not have saved your lives. One of the apprentices isn’t worth his salt, and the other will slip his cable before long, I suspect. His friends insisted on my taking him, fancying that the voyage would restore him to health.”

The captain spoke in so free-and-easy a way that the awe with which I was at first inclined to regard him vanished.

The wind, I should have said, had shifted to the westward of south. We were standing about north-west, a course which would carry us over to the English coast before long. We were obliged to be content with the sort of promise that the captain had made, and I hoped that when the doctor and Mr Griffiths spoke to him, that he would not refuse to put us on shore.

Though Jim and I were well enough to walk about the deck, we were too weak to venture aloft, or we should have been at the masthead looking out for land. We went forward, however, keeping our eyes over the starboard bow, where we expected every instant to see it.

Several of the men spoke to us good-naturedly, and were as eager as the officers had been to hear what had happened to us. While we were standing there looking out, a lad came up and said, “So I hear you fellows are to be our messmates. What are your names?”

I told him.

“Mine’s Ned Horner,” he said, “and I hope we shall be friends, for I can’t make anything of the fellow who messes with me, George Esdale. There’s no fun in him, and he won’t talk or do anything when it’s his watch below but read and sing psalms.”

“I shall be glad to be friends with you,” I answered, “but I don’t suppose it will be for long, as I expect we shall leave the ship to-night or to-morrow morning.”

“That may or may not be,” he remarked, with a laugh. “Have you been long at sea?”

I told him that I had been brought up to it from my boyhood.

“Well, you have the advantage of me, for this is my first voyage; and Esdale didn’t know the stem from the stern when he first came on board. Now come along to the half-deck; he and I are going to dinner; I suppose you’ll join us?”

Jim and I were beginning to feel hungry, and willingly accepted Horner’s invitation.

The savoury whiffs which came out of the caboose as we passed made me feel more eager than ever for something to eat.

Horner took us down to the half-deck, where we found Esdale, of whom he had spoken, seated on a chest reading. He was a pale, sickly-looking youth, taller a good deal than Jim.

He put down his book and held out his hand to shake ours.

“It’s your turn to go for the dinner,” he said to Horner, “and it must be ready by this time, but I’ll go if you wish it.”

“Well, you may go,” said Horner; “I want to do the honours to these fellows. Take care that you don’t capsize with the things as you come along the deck.”

Then, without another word, Esdale got up, and putting his book into the chest, went forward.

“I make him do just what I like,” said Horner, in a contemptuous tone. “Take care that you don’t treat him in the same way, for if he has too many masters he may be inclined to kick.”

Before long Esdale returned with a bowl of pea-soup, and a plate at the top of it containing some potatoes, and a piece of fat boiled pork.

“Now fall to, youngsters,” said Horner, in a patronising tone. “I am sorry not to be able to offer you better fare.”

While he was speaking he got out of a locker four plates and two metal spoons and two wooden ones.

We did ample justice to the dinner, as we had been accustomed to nothing better while we were on board the Nancy. After the meal was finished we returned on deck, though Esdale did not offer to accompany us, as he spent his watch below, as Horner had said, in reading, writing, or singing in a low voice to himself.

We passed the afternoon looking out for the land. At length, when night came on, in spite of my anxiety to see the coast, and the long sleep I had had, I felt scarcely able to keep my eyes open. Still, I should probably have remained on deck after dark had not the doctor come to us and said, “I have spoken to the captain, lads, and he promises to put you on shore to-morrow morning; so now go and turn in, for you require sleep.”

We went to the half-deck, where we found that the carpenter had knocked up some rough bunks, in which some mattresses and blankets had been placed. We were both glad enough to turn in. I observed that Esdale, before he did so, knelt down and said his prayers. It was Horner’s watch on deck, so that he was not present.

Chapter Fifteen.

The voyage of the “Intrepid” begun.

I slept right through the night, and was surprised to find when I opened my eyes that it was daylight. Jim and I at once turned out and went on deck.

There was the land, broad on the starboard bow, still at some distance. When I looked aloft I saw that the yards were square, and studding-sails on either side. A strong north-easterly wind was blowing, and we were running down Channel.

The captain, the first mate, and the doctor were on deck. Jim and I gazed eagerly at the land.

I went up to the doctor.

“Whereabouts are we, sir?” I asked.

“We are off the Start, my lad.”

“Off the Start!” I exclaimed. “Oh, sir, won’t the captain put into Plymouth to land us as he promised? Do speak to him, sir.”

“These lads are very anxious to be landed, Captain Hawkins,” he said. “It is of the greatest importance to young Trawl here, and it would not much delay us.”

The mate spoke in the same way, and entreated the captain even in stronger language than Dr Cockle had used.

“No, no,” he answered. “Very likely they do wish to be put on shore, but we cannot lose a moment of this fine breeze. The trip won’t do them any harm, and they’ll thank me for it by-and-by.”

Jim, when he heard this, was too angry on my account to speak, but I lifted up my hands and implored the captain to have pity on my young sister, if not on me.

“Very fine, my lad,” he answered, with a laugh; “but you are not quite of so much importance as you suppose. It might delay us not only for a few hours, but for days, perhaps, and, doctor, I cannot listen to you. We’ve got a favourable breeze, and I intend to make the best use of it.”

Once more I implored and entreated that the captain would not carry us away from home. All was of no use; he would not listen either to the doctor or the mate, or us. At length, growing angry, he said he would not hear another word on the subject, and Jim and I, by the doctor’s advice, went for’ard to be out of his way. There we stood, watching with straining eyes the shore, past which we were running, and at length the Land’s End came in sight.

“Cheer up, my lads,” said our kind friend, who came for’ard to us. “The wind may change, and we may be driven back, or we may be able to put you on board some homeward-bound ship. Cheer up! Cheer up!”

The land, as I stood gazing at it, rapidly sank below the horizon. I strained my eyes—the last faint line had disappeared. I could have cried, but my grief was too bitter for tears. Not that I cared for being carried away on my own account, but I thought of the sorrow my kind relatives in Shetland would feel—Mr Trail and his daughter, and dear little Maggie, and more than all how Mary would feel as she waited day after day for the arrival of the brig which was never to appear, and then, when all hope was gone, how she would mourn for us, and Nancy also would, I knew, share her feelings.

If I could have sent but a line to my sister to tell her I was safe, though I might be long absent, it would not have so much mattered. Mr Gray would take very good care of her, and she would have written to Mr Troil to explain what had happened; but as it was I could scarcely bear it.

“The doctor told us to cheer up, and that’s what I say to you, Peter,” cried Jim, trying to console me. “Maybe we shall fall in with a homeward-bound ship after all, though I don’t think there’s much chance of our seeing the shores of old England again for a long time to come if we don’t, as it looks as if the wind would hold in its present quarter till we are well out in the Atlantic.”

Jim was right. With yards squared and every stitch of canvas the ship could carry, we bowled along at a rate which soon left our native land far astern.

I had been too long at sea, and knew the duties of a sailor too well, to feel for myself so much as many fellows of my age under similar circumstances would have done. Jim also tried to rouse me up, so instead of moping I determined to exert myself. I still had the hope to support me that before long we might fall in with a homeward-bound ship, and I concluded that the captain would, without hesitation, put Jim and me on board her.

The day after we took our departure from the Land’s End he saw us both together on deck.

“What are those youngsters idling there for?” he exclaimed, turning to Mr Griffiths. “Put them in a watch at once, and let me see that they do their duty. If they don’t, let them look out for squalls!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the mate, who, though of a very independent spirit, always spoke respectfully to the captain.

He considerately placed us both in the same watch, knowing that we should like it, as we should be able to talk at night when we were on deck and had no especial duty to perform.

We had no reason to complain of the way the men treated us, rough as some of them were. The doctor and Mr Griffiths always behaved kindly, but the captain took no further notice of us, except when he ordered Jim or me to do something. To my surprise, I found that the ship was the Intrepid—the very one my father and I had put Mr Griffiths and the doctor on board so many years before. She was then quite a new ship, and, being strongly-built, she was as sound as ever. I have spoken of her as a ship, but she was barque-rigged, as almost all whalers are, barques being more easily handled than ship-rigged craft. The Intrepid was upwards of three hundred tons burden, with a crew of thirty hands all told, and stored, I found, for a cruise of two years or more. She carried six whale-boats, and materials for building others should any of them be lost. There were three mates, a carpenter and cooper and their mates; an armourer, a steward, and cook; four boat-steerers, four able seamen, six ordinary seamen, the doctor, two apprentices, Jim, and me.

I had never before been on board a whaler, and as I listened to the long yarns of the men describing their hairbreadth escapes and the exciting chases after the monsters of the deep, I felt, had I not had such cogent reasons for returning home, that I would very gladly have gone out to the South Seas to witness with my own eyes the scenes the men spoke of. Still I longed as much as ever to get back to England.

Jim and I made it out pretty well with the two apprentices. Horner was inclined to look down upon Jim for his want of education. Esdale treated us both alike with gentleness and consideration, and offered to teach Jim to read and write if he wished to learn. It had never occurred to me to try and do so. Indeed, although we had been so much together, I had not had many opportunities.

The second night we were on board I was awakened by feeling some hairy creature nestling by my side. I sung out, not a little frightened.

“What’s up?” cried Horner, who had just come below to rouse Jim and me out to keep our watch.

“A great big brute of some sort has come into my bunk; I wonder it hasn’t bitten me,” I answered.

“Why, I’ve got another here!” exclaimed Jim, who just then awoke. “What in the world is it?”

Horner laughed loudly.

“Why, they’re our ferrets,” he answered. “Didn’t you see them before?”

“No, and I never wish to see them again,” answered Jim, as he flung the creature down on the deck.

Horner then told us that the captain had taken a couple on board at Hull to kill the rats, and that although a hutch had been made for them the creatures always managed to get out at night for the sake of obtaining a warm berth, and that if we put them into their hutch they would be sure to find their way back again into his or Esdale’s bunks before they had been many minutes asleep.

The truth was the ferrets were more afraid of the rats than the rats were of them. We bore the annoyance for three nights more, and then, by the unanimous consent of our mess, we got Horner to carry them down into the hold, from which they never ascended, and we concluded that they either got drowned in the bilge water or were eaten up by the rats.

We had not been long at sea before a heavy gale sprang up, but as the wind was from the westward we were able to lay our course.

To Jim and me it mattered very little, although the waves were much higher than I had seen them in the North Sea, but poor Esdale suffered very much, and Horner’s conceit was taken down a good many pegs. Jim and I did our best to look after them, and to try to get them to eat something, but they could only swallow liquids.

“Oh, let me alone! Let me alone!” cried Horner.

The doctor came to see Esdale frequently, and advised that he should be taken to a spare berth in the cabin, but the captain would not allow it.

“All lads get sick when they first come to sea if there’s a gale of wind, and he’ll come round again by-and-by,” he remarked in his usual off-hand way.

This was not told to Esdale, who said, indeed, that he preferred remaining where he was.

As the weather was tolerably warm, I believe that he was as well off on the half-deck as he would have been in the cabin.

At last the gale came to an end—or rather we ran out of it. Esdale got somewhat better again, but I observed that he had changed greatly in appearance since we came on board.

I had now to abandon all hopes of the ship putting back, but there was still a possibility of getting on board a homeward-bound vessel.

Two days after the gale had ceased, while I was below, I heard the cry of “Sail, ho!” from the man at the masthead.

I hurried on deck. We had the wind abeam, and so had she—a soldier’s wind as it is called. We should meet the approaching vessel before long and pass each other, with not a cable’s length between us.

I watched her eagerly. We drew closer and closer to each other. When we got nearly abreast I went up to the first mate and asked him what she was.

“She’s from the Brazils, bound for Liverpool,” he answered.

Just then I saw the captain come on deck. Forgetting what he was I rushed up to him.

“Oh, Captain Hawkins, will you put Jim and me on board her?” I exclaimed. “You don’t know how much I want to get home; it won’t delay you ten minutes to put us on board.”

“Ten minutes of this fine breeze lost for the sake of a boy like you,” he answered, with a scornful laugh. “I expended more than ten in heaving to to pick you up, and that was as much as you are worth. Go forward, you young monkey, and give me no more of your impudence.”

Undaunted by his heartless answer, I again and again implored that he would put me on board the Liverpool ship, but he stood looking contemptuously at me without uttering a word, till Jim, seeing that I was making no way, coming up, hat in hand, exclaimed—

“If you’ll put Peter here on board yonder ship, sir, that he may go home to his young sister and friends, I’ll stay here and work for you, and be your slave for as many years as you may want me. Do, sir—do let poor Peter go!”

“Off with you for’ard,” thundered the captain, with a fierce oath. “How dare you speak to me? Away, both of you! Somebody has been putting you up to this, I know.” And he glanced angrily at Dr Cockle and the mate.

“If you mean me, Captain Hawkins, I know that the lad has very good reasons for wishing to return home, but I did not advise him or Jim Pulley to speak to you. I certainly wish that you would put Peter Trawl on board that homeward-bound ship.”

“You may wish what you like, but I am not going to allow what I choose to do to be found fault with by you or any other man on board this ship!” cried the captain, turning on his heel. “So look out for yourself,” he added, glancing half over his shoulder.

The ordinary salutes were exchanged, and the two vessels stood on their course.

My heart felt as if it would burst with indignation and sorrow. Had the wind been light, I might, perhaps, have been able to put a letter on board, even although the captain would not have let me go.

Esdale tried to comfort me, and advised me to have one written ready to send should another opportunity occur.

The first land we made soon after this was Madeira. Except the coast of Norway, I had seen no foreign country, and as we passed it within a quarter of a mile, it struck me as very beautiful and fertile.

The wind being light we tarred down the rigging, and a few days afterwards, when we were about eight hundred miles from the land, one morning, on coming on deck, I noticed that the shrouds and every freshly-tarred rope looked as red as if they had been just painted. I asked the doctor, who allowed me to speak to him in a familiar way, what had caused this, and he told me that it was the red sand blown off the coast of Africa, and that it was a common occurrence in these latitudes.

We passed in sight of the Cape de Verde islands, one of which, called Fogo, seemed of a prodigious height. The first place we touched at was the island of Brava, into which the captain put to obtain fresh provisions.

“Now is my time,” I thought. “If I can go on shore here, I shall be able to get back by the next homeward-bound vessel which calls at the place.”

Jim proposed that we should smuggle ourselves on board some shore-boat, but to this I would not agree.

“We will go with the captain’s leave,” I answered, “and he surely will not refuse it now that he has no excuse for doing so.”

I therefore went up to him as soon as he came on deck.

“Captain Hawkins,” I said, in as firm a voice as I could command, “again I ask you will you allow Jim Pulley and me to leave your ship and wait on shore until we can get a passage home?”

“Peter Trawl, if that’s your name, I shall do no such thing,” he answered. “If I find you attempting to go on shore I shall put you in irons.”

I knew from previous experience that there was no use in expostulating. When I told the doctor, he could scarcely conceal his indignation.

“I feel inclined to help you, my lad, at every risk,” he said, “but we must be cautious. Wait until the evening, and then we will see what can be done.”

I thanked him heartily, and promised to follow his advice. Jim was ready for anything.

The doctor said he would go on shore and then send off a boat which would wait under the starboard bow, and that we must manage to slip into her as soon as it was dark.

The captain in the meantime had landed, but returned very shortly with four tall negroes, whom he had engaged to pull the ’midship oars in the whale-boats. They are, I should say, first-rate oarsmen, and have a gentle disposition, ready to obey, and are happy under all circumstances. Besides the negroes, two boats loaded with fresh provisions came alongside.

These were soon hoisted on board, when the captain ordered a gun to be fired and Blue Peter to be hoisted, a signal to all those on shore to return immediately.

Dr Cockle and the third mate, with the cooper, whom the captain thought he could trust, had landed.

Presently the captain ordered another and then another gun to be fired to hasten them, and then to my bitter disappointment he directed Mr Griffiths to loosen sails and heave up the anchor.

According to Esdale’s advice I had begun a letter to Mary, but had not had time to finish it. Hoping that I should not be missed by the captain, I ran below to add a few lines and then to close it, under the belief that I should be able to send it off by a shore-boat. I had to get out Esdale’s ink-bottle and pen, which he had before lent me; the pen would not write, so I had to search for his penknife, and to try and mend it as well as I could, but having little experience in the art, this took me some time. I at last got the letter closed with a wafer, and directed to the care of Mr Gray, when I sprang with it on deck. Just then the eye of the captain fell on me.

“Come aft here, youngster,” he shouted. “Where have you been away from your duty?”

I had the letter in my hand.

“I wanted to get this ready to send on shore, sir,” I answered, holding it up.

“No excuse for leaving your station. Take that!” he cried, as he gave me a blow on the side of the head with his half-clenched fist, which brought me to the deck, and nearly stunned me. When I recovered myself the first person I saw was Dr Cockle, who, looking at me compassionately, said, “Come below, Peter, and I’ll try to put your head to rights, for you seem to be much hurt. How did it happen?”

“I can’t tell you now, sir, for I much want to send this letter off by a shore-boat,” I answered.

As I spoke I observed that the crew were hoisting away and sheeting home the sails. I ran to the side and jumped on to the main chains. The only remaining boat was just shoving off. I shouted to the people in her to come and take my letter; but they did not understand me, or did not care to remain alongside, as the ship was rapidly gathering way; another stroke of their oars and they were at a distance from the ship. I waved and shouted to them to come back, but they did not heed me, and just then I heard the captain calling to me in an angry tone to attend to my duty. I was obliged to obey, expecting another cuff harder than the last; but when he saw me begin to pull and haul with the rest he said no more. Perhaps he observed the blood streaming from my head. The sails were now sheeted home, the yards trimmed, and the Intrepid stood away from the land.

Another opportunity of making my escape was lost.

Chapter Sixteen.

We cross the Line and attempt to round Cape Horn.

Jim was always saying, “Cheer up, Peter, cheer up!” but it was a very hard matter to be cheery when I thought of the cruel way in which I had been treated, and the sorrow my sister must be feeling at my supposed loss. I tried, as advised, to keep up my spirits, and did my best to obey the orders I received.

Jim observed that it was all the same to him. His friends would not grieve much over his loss, and, as far as he was concerned, he would as soon be chasing whales in the Pacific as working a wherry in Portsmouth Harbour.

As we approached the line I found that the men were making preparations for going through the ceremony which was performed on board most vessels in those days. One of the boat-steerers, Sam Ringold, who stood six feet four in his shoes, and was proportionably broad, was chosen to act the part of Neptune, and the cooper’s mate, who was as wide as he was high, that of his wife. The armourer took the part of the barber, and the carpenter’s mate, who was lank and tall, the doctor.

Three of the ordinary seamen, the smallest fellows on board, were their attendants. All the chests were searched for the required dresses, and some curtains belonging to the cabin found their way forward to form a petticoat for Mrs Neptune. Some gold paper and pasteboard were manufactured into crowns, and some fishes’ tails were ingeniously formed for the attendants. I discovered the preparations going forward, but was charged not to let Horner, or Esdale, or Jim know anything about them. I was more favoured than the rest of my messmates by the men, who seemed to have taken a liking to me; whether it was because they had heard how I had assisted to save the Good Intent, or thought that I was ill-treated by the captain, I do not know, but so it was. No one ever abused me, or gave me the taste of a rope’s-end.

We had been sailing on with light winds when one morning, after the decks had been washed down and the other duties of the ship performed, having run on for a short distance, we lay almost becalmed with the sea as smooth as a mill-pond. The captain and his mates were seen to be taking an observation, and soon afterwards it became known that we were just crossing the line.

“I’ve often heard about it, but I can’t say I see any line,” said Jim.

“Nor can I!” cried Horner, who was looking out eagerly.

Presently a gruff voice was heard, hailing from forward.

“What ship is that, shutting out the light from my palace window?”

“The Intrepid” answered Captain Hawkins, who with the mates and doctor were standing aft.

“Then go ahead, will you, or I’ll indict you for a nuisance,” cried the voice, the remark producing a general laugh.

“I can’t think of standing on until I have had the pleasure of a visit from Daddy Neptune,” said the captain.

“Ay, ay! Glad to hear that. Then I’ll come aboard in a jiffy with my royal missus and some of our precious young family; and maybe, captain, you’ll have something to give them, for they’re very fond of any hot potions which may come in their way.”

“Be smart about it, then, Daddy, for I see a breeze springing up, and I may have to run you out of sight before you and your precious family have had time to take a sip apiece,” cried the captain, who seemed to be in far better humour than usual.

All this time Jim and Horner were standing with me abaft the main hatchway, with their eyes staring and their mouths agape, wondering what was going to happen.

Presently, over the bows, appeared the strangest group I had ever set eyes on.

First there came Daddy Neptune with a glittering crown, a beard of oakum reaching to his middle, a girdle of rope yarn round his waist, a cloak covered with strange devices, and a huge trident in his hand.

His wife wore a crown like that of her husband, with ringlets of the same material as his beard, a huge sash of some gaily-coloured stuff, and a cloak formed out of a blanket. The barber had in his hand a pot containing lather, a big bowl tucked under one arm, with a razor a yard long and a shaving brush of huge size under the other; while the children or attendant imps—for it was hard to say what they were—waddled about in green clothing, looking like sea monsters, behind them.

“Well, I have heard of strange things, but these chaps are stranger than ever I saw,” cried Jim. “Where do they come from?”

“From the bottom of the sea, I suppose,” said Horner, who evidently did not admire their looks as they advanced aft.

The captain, after a little palavering, ordered the steward to bring up some grog and serve it out to them. Then retiring a short way forward, Neptune commanded all who had not before visited his dominions to come and pay their respects to him.

We all did so, not feeling very comfortable as to what was to follow, when his attendants got hold of Jim and me. Horner tried to escape, but was quickly captured and brought back.

No one interfered with Esdale, who had, I found, crossed Neptune’s hand with a crown-piece; which, of course, none of us were able to do. A huge tub of water had been placed in front of his majesty. The barber now came forward and insisted on shaving all those who were for the first time crossing the line. Three of the ordinary seamen were novices like us.

The barber first lathered our chins with some abominable mixture from his pot, and then, scraping it off with his razor, finally ducked our heads into the tub. Horner, when undergoing the operation, had the brush several times thrust into his mouth, and his whole face and head daubed over. When he opened his mouth to expostulate, in again went the brush. As he kicked and screamed and spluttered, he was treated worse and worse.

Jim, taking a lesson from me, kept his mouth shut. I was let off even more easily than he was. Once Horner got loose, but instead of wisely remaining on deck and holding his tongue, he ran up the rigging and began abusing Daddy Neptune and his gang, whereupon he was again captured and compelled to undergo the same operation as before.

Blacky the cook next brought out his fiddle, and Neptune and his party—indeed, the whole crew—began dancing round and round, singing and shouting every now and then as an interlude, catching hold of the “green hands” and pitching them into the tub, chase being always made after those who attempted to escape.

The grog circulated so rapidly among the crew that they would all soon have been intoxicated had not the captain, in a thundering voice, ordered them to knock off and bring their tomfoolery to an end.

They obeyed. Neptune and his followers dived below, and presently returned like stout seamen as they were.

The order was given to brace the yards sharp up, and, with an easterly wind, we stood on our course.

The next land we made was a solitary islet. Near it stood a remarkable rock called the “Ninepin,” detached from the land. The doctor told me that it is eighteen hundred feet in height. It had the appearance of a monument standing out of the ocean. There are no inhabitants on the island, nor any good landing-place, but fresh water is to be obtained there, as well as pigs and vegetables.

We soon after this began to fall in with stormy weather. We found our ship, which had remarkably sharp ends, very wet, and as we were now approaching the land of storms in the dead of winter, with the days scarcely more than seven hours long, the greatest caution was deemed necessary. The royal masts were sent down and replaced by stump topgallant masts. The flying jib-boom was sent in and the studding-sail booms were also sent down. All the boats except one were got in, the hatches were battened down, and everything was done to make the ship light aloft.

We were nearly off the River Plate when there were indications of an approaching gale. The hitherto blue sky was overcast, and the scud flew rapidly along, as if impelled by a hurricane.

“You youngsters will have to look out for yourselves before long,” said Tom Ringold, the boat-steerer, who had acted the part of Neptune. “We shall be having old Harry Cane aboard here, and he’s a precious deal more difficult to tackle than Daddy Neptune, who paid us a visit on the line.”

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wonder what we shall do?” cried Horner, who did not exactly understand what was going to happen.

“Why, hold on to the weather-rigging, if you haven’t to be pulling and hauling, and duck your head if you see a sea coming,” answered Jim, who understood the joke about Harry Cane.

In a short time the captain ordered the topsails to be reefed and the mainsail to be stowed and all the lighter sails handed. Jim and I were sent aloft to the fore-topgallant sailyard to furl the sail. We were laying out when, to my horror, I saw Jim disappear. I nearly fell from the yard myself, from thinking that he would be dashed to pieces, and that I should lose my staunchest friend.

“Jim! Jim! Oh, save him! Save him!” I shouted out, not knowing what I was saying, or considering how useless it was to shout.

“Here I am all right, Peter,” cried Jim, and his voice seemed to come not far from me.

What was my joy to discover that he had been caught in the belly of the sail, and there he lay as if he had been in a hammock, the reef tackle having been hauled out just at the time he fell. He quickly scrambled on to the yard again, resuming his duty as if nothing particular had occurred. We having finished our work came down. Scarcely was this done when the gale struck us, taking us right aback. The cabin dead-lights not being properly secured, the cabin was nearly filled with water. The carpenter and his mates hurried aft to close them, and we youngsters were sent below to help him, and put things to rights.

When this was done down came the rain in such torrents that it seemed as if it would swamp the ship, while as she fell off into the trough of the sea, she began to roll in a way which threatened every instant to shake the masts out of her. It seemed wonderful that they stood. Had the rigging not been well set up they must have gone. The only accident I have to mention was that one of our remaining pigs was killed, but this did not grieve the crew, for as we had no salt on board, and the meat would not keep, the portion not required for the cabin was served out to us.

Another, and what might have proved a far more serious matter, occurred. Tom Ringold was steering, when a sea striking the rudder with tremendous force knocked him over the wheel, carrying away several of the brass spokes as it flew round, and sent him against the bulwarks. For a moment everyone thought he was killed, but he picked himself up, and although he could not use his arm for two or three days, at the end of that time he was able to do his duty as well as ever.

That storm soon came to an end, but the old hands told us that we might look out for others, and so the captain seemed to think, for although he was anxious to get round Cape Horn we were always under snug canvas at night, and during the day a bright look-out was kept, lest one of those sudden squalls called Pamperos might come off the land and whip the masts out of the ship, or lay her on her beam-ends, as frequently happens when the hands are not ready to shorten sail. We, however, got to the southward of the Falkland Islands without accident.

My poor friend and messmate Esdale severely felt the cold which we now began to experience. He came on deck to attend to his duty, but a hacking cough and increasing weakness made him very unfit for it. The doctor at last insisted on his remaining below, although Esdale declared that he would rather be on deck and try to do his best.

“But I insist on your remaining in your bunk until we round Cape Horn and reach a warmer latitude,” said Dr Cockle. “I will see the captain, and tell him plainly that he will be answerable for your death, should he insist on your doing duty any longer.”

Esdale still pleaded, but the doctor was peremptory.

“It is his only chance,” he said to me; “I cannot promise that he will live. He will, however, certainly die if he is exposed to this biting wind and constant rain. I intend to tell the captain, but you, Trawl, go and stay with him whenever you can; it will cheer him up, poor fellow, to have someone to talk to, and that dull Horner cannot speak two words of sense.”

Before the doctor had time to do as he proposed, Captain Hawkins, missing Esdale from the deck, ordered me to tell him to come up.

This I determined not to do, for it was blowing hard at the time from the south-west and the wind would have chilled him through in a minute. I, however, went below, and after remaining a little time, I returned, and said—

“Esdale is very ill, sir, and is not fit to come on deck.”

“How do you know that, youngster?” asked the captain, in an angry tone.

“Dr Cockle has seen him and says so,” I answered boldly.

“Tell him to come up, or I’ll send a couple of hands to bring him neck and crop,” thundered the captain.

I was as determined as before not to tell Esdale, knowing that he would come if sent for.

“Go below and bring up that lazy young rascal,” shouted the captain to Tom Ringold and another man standing near him.

I immediately dived below to persuade Tom to let Esdale remain in his bunk.

“It will be his death if he is exposed to this weather,” I said.

“I am not the fellow to kill a shipmate if I can help it,” answered Tom. “Tell him to stay and I’ll take the consequences.”

When Tom returned on deck, the captain enquired in a fierce voice why he had not carried out his orders.

“Because he is too ill to be moved, Captain Hawkins,” answered Tom, promptly.

The captain, uttering an oath, and taking a coil of rope in his hand, was just about to go below when Doctor Cockle came on deck, and guessing, from the few words he heard, what was the captain’s intention, came up to him and said—

“It would kill the lad to bring him up, and as he is my patient, I have told him to stay below.”

“Am I to be thwarted and insulted on board my own ship?” cried the captain. “Whether he is ill or well, up he comes.”

And going down to the half-deck, he asked Esdale why he had not obeyed his orders.

Esdale, of course, had not received them, and said so, beginning at the same time to dress. Before, however, he could finish putting on his clothes the captain seized him by the arm and dragged him up. Scarcely, however, had he reached the deck when the poor fellow fainted right away. Tom, on seeing this, lifted him in his arms and carried him down again.

“I warn you, Captain Hawkins, that you will cause the death of the lad if you compel him to be on deck in this weather,” said the doctor firmly, as he turned to follow Tom and Esdale.

The captain, making no remark, walked aft, and did not again interfere.

Whether that sudden exposure to the cold had any serious effect I do not know, but Esdale after this got worse and worse. Whenever I could I went and sat by his side, when he used to talk to me of the happy land for which he was bound. He did not seem even to wish to live, and yet he was as cheerful as anyone on board. The doctor and first mate used also to come and talk to him, and he spoke to them as he did to me, and urged them to put their trust where he was putting his. I believe that his exhortations had a beneficial influence on them, as they had on me. When I said how I hoped that he would get better after we were round the Cape, he answered—

“I shall never see the Horn, Peter; I am as sure of that as I can be of anything.”

Two days after this land was sighted on the starboard bow. It proved to be Staten Island; but scarcely were we to the south of it when we encountered a furious gale blowing from the westward.

For two days; by keeping close hauled, the captain endeavoured to gain ground to the westward, resolved, as he declared, “to thrash the ship round the Cape.” On the third day, however, while I was on deck, a tremendous sea came rolling up.

“Look out! Hold on for your lives, lads!” shouted the first mate.

Every one clung to whatever was nearest to him. One poor fellow was to leeward. There was no avoiding the sea, which, like a mountain topped with foam, struck the bows. The ship plunged into it, and for a few seconds I thought would never rise again. On swept the roaring torrent, deluging the deck; and had not the hatches been battened down, would have half filled her.

A loud, crashing sound followed, and when the water had passed over us nearly all the lee bulwarks were gone, and with them our shipmate who had been standing a minute before as full of life as any of us. He was not again seen, and must have gone down at once.

The captain was compelled at last to heave the ship to, and there we lay, now rising to the top of a sea, now sinking into the trough, with walls of water, half as high as the main-top, round us. The seas in the German Ocean and Bay of Biscay were nothing to be compared to those we encountered off the Horn, though, perhaps, equally dangerous.

As soon as I went below, I hurried to the side of Esdale. He asked what had happened. I told him.

“Some one was carried overboard?” he inquired.

“Yes,” I said. “Poor Jack Norris,” wondering how he knew it.

“And I shall soon follow him,” he replied.

His words proved true. That very night, as I came off my watch and was about to turn in, I heard my messmate utter my name in a low voice. I went to him.

“I’m going,” he whispered. “Good-bye, Peter; you’ll remember what I have said to you?”

I promised him I would, and told him I must run and call the doctor.

“No, stay,” he said. “He can do me no good. Tell him I thank him for his kindness. Good-bye, Peter.”

The next instant his hand relaxed its hold of mine, and stooping down over him I found he had ceased to breathe.

So died one of the most amiable and excellent young men I have ever met. The next morning he was sewn up in canvas, with a shot at his feet, and brought on deck. The captain stood aft watching the proceedings. Whether he felt he had hastened Esdale’s death I know not; but his countenance was stern and gloomy as night. The boldest seaman on board would not have dared just then to speak to him. Hail and sleet were driving in our faces; a furious gale threatening to carry our only sail out of the bolt-ropes was blowing; the mountain seas raged round us; there was scarce time for a prayer, none for form or ceremony. A foaming billow came thundering against the bows; over the deck it swept. We clung for our lives to ropes, stanchions, and ring-bolts. When it had passed we found that it had borne our young shipmate to his ocean grave.

Chapter Seventeen.

Rounding Cape Horn.

For well-nigh six weeks we were endeavouring to get round Cape Horn, when the weather moderated, making way to the westward, but again being driven back often over more ground than we had gained.

The captain was constantly on deck, exhibiting on all occasions his splendid seamanship. He was ever on the look-out to take advantage of the least change of wind which would enable us to lay our course. Day and night were alike to him; he seemed indifferent to the piercing wind and tremendous storms of sleet and hail we encountered. Twice we sighted Cape Horn, but each time, before many hours had passed, were again to the eastward of it. The captain thought he could endure anything, and certainly did not expose others more than he did himself. We saw numerous sea birds—albatrosses, Cape pigeons, stormy-petrels (or Mother Carey’s chickens, as they are called), and many more. The albatross appeared to me a truly noble bird when on the wing; no matter how rough the weather or how heavy the sea, he sat on the water perfectly at ease, seeming to defy the very elements.

One of the mates having got a strong line with a large hook at the end of it, a piece of meat as bait, and a cork to float it, let it drop astern. In an instant a huge albatross pounced down on the tempting bait, and was hooked. It required two men, however, to draw him on board over the taffrail. Even when brought on deck he attacked everyone who came near him. The doctor advised us to stand clear of his wings and beak, but Horner thoughtlessly held out his hat, when the bird, seizing hold of it, bit the crown clean out in a moment. Not until he had had several blows on the head with a handspike did he drop dead. He measured seventeen feet from tip to tip of the wings. The feathers under his wings and breast were as white as snow, and as they glanced in the sunlight, shone like silver.

In contrast with the albatross was the stormy-petrel, a black bird scarcely larger than a sparrow, and, of course, web-footed. Vast numbers flew about the ship, but they were more difficult to catch than the albatrosses.

Again we sighted Cape Horn, standing out solitary and grand into the Southern Ocean. The wind had moderated and become more in our favour, although the vast billows rolled on like moving mountains of water. Now the ship forced her way to the summit of one, the next instant to glide down rapidly into the vale below, performing the same course again and again.

At length even the billows subsided, and we began to look forward to having fine weather. About noon one day the look-out from the masthead shouted—

“There she spouts! There she spouts!”

A school of whales was in sight.

“Lower two boats,” cried the captain.

No sooner was the order given than their crews, hurrying aft, jumped into them, and very few minutes were sufficient to place all their gear in readiness and to lower them into the water.

The captain himself went in one as harpooner, the second mate in the other. I should have liked to go, but I knew that it was useless to ask leave of the captain.

Away the boats pulled at a rapid rate to windward, the direction in which the whales had been seen, and that we might keep as near them as possible the ship was hauled close up. They were soon not discernible from the deck, and on they went increasing their distance till even the look-out from the masthead could no longer distinguish them. Still the first mate had carefully noted the direction they had taken, and seemed to have no doubt about picking them up. The weather, however, which had been fine all day, now gave signs of changing, and in a short time the wind began to blow in strong gusts, creating a nasty sea, but still it was not worse than whale-boats have often to encounter.

Whether or not they had succeeded in striking a fish we could not tell, for the days were very short, and evening drew on.

Fresh look-outs were sent to each of the mastheads, and we waited with anxiety for their reports. They soon hailed that they could see neither of the boats. At length, the darkness increasing, they were called down, and lanterns were got ready to show the position of the ship.

“Shouldn’t be surprised if we were to lose our skipper and the boats’ crews,” said Horner to me. “I’ve heard that such accidents have happened before now.”

“I hope not,” I answered, “for although our captain is a severe man, it would be dreadful to have him and the other poor fellows lost out in this stormy ocean, with no land for hundreds of miles where they could find food and shelter, even were they to reach it.”

While we were speaking a heavy squall struck the ship, and the remaining hands were ordered aloft to take two reefs in the topsails. Jim and I were on the fore-yardarm. We had just finished our task, when Jim declared that he saw a light away to windward.

On coming on deck we told Mr Griffiths. He at once ordered a gun to be fired as a signal. A blue light was then burnt, the glare of which, as it fell on our figures, gave us all so ghastly an appearance that Horner, who had never seen one before, cried out, “What has come over you fellows? Is anything dreadful going to happen?”

As the firework died out we looked in the direction Jim had seen the light, and in a little time we caught sight of it from the deck. The men on this gave a hearty cheer to show their satisfaction. Now the light disappeared, now it came in sight again, as the boat rose on the summit of a sea.

The ship was hove-to. Presently a faint hail was heard. We answered it with a shout from our united voices. At length one boat could be distinguished. Where was the other?

The captain’s voice assured us that he was in the first. He was soon on deck, and the boat was hoisted up. He looked pale and haggard, and much annoyed at not having killed a whale. The other boat he said was not far off.

We kept hove-to for her, fearing that if she did not soon appear she might be swamped before she could be hoisted in, for as the wind and sea were now rapidly rising every moment was of importance. At length she came alongside, but it was with the greatest difficulty that the men got out of her. They looked thoroughly worn out with their long pull. We had scarcely made sail again and were standing on our course when the gale came down on us, more furiously than before, blowing right in our teeth. It was now evident that had a whale been killed we should have been compelled to abandon it.

In spite of his fatigue the captain remained on deck, swearing fearfully at his ill-luck. Those who had been away with the boats were allowed to turn in, but the rest of us were kept on deck, for at any moment all our strength might be required.

Suddenly, while I was aft, the captain uttered a loud cry, or shriek it seemed to me.

“What’s the matter, sir?” asked the mate.

“I cannot see!” groaned the captain. “Where am I? What has happened?”

The mate went to him and took his arm. “It may be but for a moment,” he said.

There had been no lightning; nothing, as far as we could discover, to produce blindness. Still the captain refused to leave the deck, declaring that it would pass over. The doctor, who had turned in, was called up, and came to him.

The increasing gale compelled the mate to attend to the duties of the ship. The doctor summoned me to assist in leading the captain below. I took his arm; he was trembling like an aspen. We led him to his berth, and assisted him to undress.

“Shall I be better in the morning, think you, doctor?” he asked, in an agitated tone.

“I cannot say, Captain Hawkins. I believe that this blindness has come on in consequence of your having overtaxed your physical powers. In course of time, with rest and a warmer climate, I trust that you will recover your sight.”

“Oh that it may be so!” cried the captain, as he laid his head on the pillow.

We had a heavier gale that night than we had before encountered. The seas again and again washed over the deck. It seemed wonderful that more of the men did not knock up.

The first mate looked thin and haggard, and so did most of the other officers and men. The bulwarks on both sides had been carried away, two of the boats had been injured, and the ship had suffered various other damages.

Still we kept at it; the wind shifted; Cape Horn was actually weathered, and at length a joyous cheer burst from the throats of the crew as the ship’s head was directed to the north-west. It was some days, however, before we felt any sensible change of climate, but after that it grew warmer and warmer, for we were now fairly in the Pacific.

The captain was disappointed in his expectations of recovering his sight. He came daily on deck and stood turning his head round in every direction, and I observed a painful expression on his countenance.

“I’ll tell you what, Peter, I’ve a notion how the captain came to lose his sight,” said Horner to me in a confidential tone. “It’s a punishment to him for the way he treated Esdale, and you, and Jim.”

“We have no right to think that,” I answered; “even if he had treated me ten times worse than he has done, I should not wish him to suffer what must be to a man of his nature so terrible a misfortune.”

“Well, then, I suppose I must keep my opinion to myself,” answered Horner.

In a few days we reached the island of Juan Fernandez, and hove-to off it that the boats might go in close to the shore to catch some fish. Mr Griffiths gave Jim and me leave to go in one of them. We were provided with hooks and lines. The water was so clear that we could see the fish take the bait, which they did so ravenously, that in a short time we had as many rock cod and other fish as we required. We afterwards landed and brought off a quantity of wild mint, which grows in profusion over the island. We made it into tea, which we enjoyed very much after drinking pea-coffee so long.

While we were collecting the mint we saw a number of goats bounding among the rocks, some standing still and looking down on us. They were descendants of those which inhabited the island in the days of Alexander Selkirk, who was taken off by Dampier during his last voyage to the Pacific.

At first we thought that there were no inhabitants, but just as we were shoving off we heard a shout, and a white man and negro were seen rushing down towards us, shouting and gesticulating furiously.

They were both dressed in skins, with high fur caps, and had long sticks in their hands to help themselves as they ran.

“Why, I do believe that must be Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday,” cried Horner, at which all hands laughed.

“He got home long ago, or he never could have written his history, stupid,” said the mate, “but whoever they are we’ll wait for them.”

Still Horner had not got his first idea out of his head. He had not read much, but he had read Robinson Crusoe, and believed in it as a veracious history.

The strangers soon reached the boat.

“Now, I say, ain’t you Robinson Crusoe?” cried Horner, as the white man got up to the boat.

“No, my name is Miles Soper, and I know nothing of the chap you speak of,” answered the stranger.

“I say, mister,” he continued, turning to the mate, “will you take us poor fellows off? We were cast ashore some six months ago or more, and are the only people out of our ship, which went down off there, who saved their lives, as far as I can tell. Sam Cole here and I came ashore on a bit of a raft, and we have had a hard time of it since then.”

“Why, as to that, my man, if you’re willing to enter and serve aboard our ship, I daresay the captain will take you, but he doesn’t want idlers.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” answered Miles Soper. “If you are willing to take us we shall be glad to go, and both Sam and I are able seamen.”

“Well, jump in, my lads,” said the mate; “but haven’t you anything at the place where you have lived so long to bring away?”

“No, we’ve nothing but the clothes we stand up in, except it may be a few wooden bowls and such like things,” answered the stranger, who looked hard at the mate as he spoke, probably suspecting that we might pull off, and that he and his chum might be left behind. Both the men seemed in tolerably good condition. They told us that they had had abundance of goat’s flesh and vegetables, as well as fruit, but that they had got tired of the life, and had had a quarrel with four mongrel Spaniards, who lived on another part of the island, whom they thought might some day try to murder them.

They both asked to take an oar, and, by the way they pulled, they showed that they were likely to be useful hands. When we got on board the Intrepid, Mr Griffiths spoke very kindly to them, and as they at once said that they would be glad to enter, their names were put down as belonging to the crew.

I took a liking from the first to Miles Soper, though he was perfectly uneducated, and could neither read nor write. Sam also seemed an honest merry fellow. He and the other Africans soon became friends.

The crew had been employed on the passage, whenever the weather permitted, in preparing what is called the “cutting-in gear,” which consists of the various tackles and ropes for securing the whales alongside when caught and taking off the blubber. Then there was the gear of the various boats, and it would astonish anyone to see the enormous number of articles stowed away in a whale-boat when she starts after a whale.

Everything was now got ready, as we were in expectation every day of falling in with whales, and the men were on the look-out from the mastheads from dawn until dark, in the hopes of seeing them. I longed to see a whale caught, for as yet the voyage had been profitless, and every one was out of spirits. The captain, who still remained perfectly blind, notwithstanding the assurances of Dr Cockle that he would recover, was so especially. He seemed like a heartbroken man; his countenance gloomy, as if troubled with melancholy thoughts, and his whole manner and appearance were changed. It was sad to see him come on deck and stand, sometimes for an hour together, turning his face round, as if he were picturing to himself the sparkling ocean, the blue sky overhead, and the busy scene which the deck of his ship presented.

I observed that Mr Griffiths never gave an order if he could help it while the blind captain was on deck. The health of the latter, however, by degrees improved, the colour returned to his cheeks, and his voice, when he spoke, again had the ring in it which I had from the first remarked.

Day after day, however, we sailed on without seeing a whale. At length one day, soon after noon, the first mate having just taken an observation, and the captain being in his cabin, we were cheered by the cry from the masthead of—

“There she spouts! There she spouts!”

The loud tramping of the men on deck roused those below, who quickly sprang up, eager to engage in the expected chase.

Among the first who appeared was the captain, who ran up the companion-ladder with as much agility as he had ever displayed.

“Where away—where away?” he asked.

The men pointed to windward, and to our surprise the captain turned his eyes in the same direction.

“Lower three boats,” he shouted. “I’ll go in one of them.”

Presently I saw a low, bush-like spout of white mist rise from the surface of the sea, not two miles off.

“There she spouts! There she spouts!” shouted the captain, showing that he saw too.

With wonderful rapidity, as everything was prepared, the boats were lowered. The doctor had come on deck.

“Where are you going, Captain Hawkins?” he asked, in an astonished tone.

“In chase of those whales out there,” answered the captain; “for, doctor, I can see them as well as you do.”

Of this there could be no doubt. Several at that instant appeared at various distances.

The excitement of the moment had given the required stimulus to the captain’s nerves, and he was restored to sight.

I remembered the fruitless chase off Cape Horn, when the captain and those with him so nearly lost their lives, but this promised to be successful. The captain’s boat took the lead. His aim was to get up to one of the monsters of the deep just as it returned to the surface for breathing, as it would be some time before it could go down again, and before that interval many a harpoon and lance might be plunged into its body.

The captain soon took the lead; the men pulled as if their lives depended on it. Before they were half a mile away a whale rose just ahead of the captain’s boat. Springing into the bows, he stood, harpoon in hand, ready to strike.

Presently he was close up to the monster; the weapon flew from his grasp, followed by three lances hurled in rapid succession. The whale, feeling the pain, darted off. Another boat came up, and a second harpoon was made fast, while several more lances were plunged into its side.

Presently its enormous flukes rose in the air.

“He has sounded! He has sounded!” cried those on board.

The whale had dived, and the lines coiled away in the tubs ran rapidly out. The monster, however, had not finished its breathing, and soon after a second line had been secured to the first it came again to the surface. The boats pulled rapidly towards it, and the harpooners plied it with their lances. Presently we saw them pull away as if for their lives. The whale rose nearly out of the water, and began turning round and lashing the surface with its flukes, each blow being sufficient to destroy any boat and her crew within its reach.

“The monster is in its flurry,” I heard the doctor say. “It is ours to a certainty.”

He was right. After lashing the water into a mass of blood-tinged foam, it lay perfectly still.

Those on board raised a shout as they saw a little flag fixed on the body.

The boats now made chase after another whale, which gave them more trouble than the first; but they attacked it bravely, now pulling up and hurling harpoons and lances into it, and now pulling away to avoid being attacked in return.

Presently we saw one boat again dash forward, almost the next instant its fragments rose in the air, and the crew were scattered far and wide around. Which boat it was we could not tell. Some fancied it was the captain’s, others that it was the second mate’s.

“He regained his sight to-day,” said an old Orkneyman. “It’s a question whether it wasn’t that he might have a last look on his fellow-creatures and the mighty sea.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Our first whales caught—I hear news of Jack.

The moment the accident was perceived Mr Griffiths ordered the only remaining boat away, and jumped into her, for the carpenter had not yet finished the two building to replace those lost off Cape Horn. I asked to go.

“No! You stay on board and help to work the ship up to us,” he answered.

I accordingly went to the helm, as I steered better than most of those remaining on board, while the doctor and steward lent a hand to the rest in pulling and hauling, as we had continually to go about; but the wind was light, and it was not very hard work. I kept an eye constantly towards the boats, and soon saw a whift planted on the back of the last whale attacked, which showed that it was dead.

Our anxiety was relieved when, instead of returning, they made chase after another whale. It proved that although the boat had been destroyed, the men had escaped with their lives.

“I do believe we shan’t have the skipper aboard again,” observed Horner.

“I hope so,” I said.

“Ahem!” was his answer, as he walked away.

At length, shortening sail, we ran up alongside the first whale that had been killed. The men descended to its back with ropes round their waists to hook on the tackles to its head and flukes. We had then to wait until the boats towed the other whale up to the opposite side. We eagerly watched their proceedings.

The third whale was attacked. After sounding twice and carrying out, apparently, three, if not four lines, we saw it suddenly come to the surface and leap completely out of the water. This is called breaching. It then began rolling round and round, endeavouring in its agony to get rid of the weapon sticking in it. The boats for some time kept at a distance. Then once more they approached, again to pull off as the whale commenced lashing the water with its huge flukes.

“It’s in its flurry,” observed the doctor, who was looking through his telescope, which he handed to me.

At last we saw the three boats approaching, towing the whale by the nose. The wind having fallen, and having a whale alongside, we were unable to near them to save them their long pull. On they came, towing the monster at the rate of a mile and a half an hour. It was thus upwards of that period of time before they got alongside.

The first man handed up was Miles Soper—or Robinson Crusoe, as we called him—whose leg had been broken by the second whale attack. He had willingly endured the suffering, lying at the bottom of the boat, rather than give up the chase. No one else had been injured, though all had run a great risk of being drowned; but a whaler’s crew know that such may be their fate at any moment. The doctor at once took the man under his charge. No time was lost in hooking on the other whale, and commencing the operation of “cutting-in.” This I may briefly describe as taking off the blubber with large spades, the handles of which are twenty feet long. The whale is turned round and round by means of tackles brought to the windlass, the blanket-piece, or blubber covering, being thus gradually stripped off till it reaches the tail, which is hove on board with the last piece. The blubber is lowered down the main hatchway and cut up into small pieces, called “horse pieces.” These are afterwards piled up on deck to be minced into thin slices for boiling in the pots. The operation of “cutting-in” is a very dangerous one when there is any sea on to make the ship roll. The first and second mates stand on stages lowered over the side, cutting the blubber from the whale as the crew heave it round with the windlass. The four boat-steerers are on the gang-ways attending to the guys and tackles, the captain superintending the whole process, while the carpenter grinds the spades.

All round the sea swarms with sharks attracted by the oil and blubber. When not otherwise employed, Tom and I and Horner attacked them with the spades and killed great numbers. We worked away until night, but did not finish even then, as it takes twelve hours to strip the blubber off a large whale. We commenced again at daylight, and it was dark before we began to cut into the second whale. We had still a third to operate on, but as each was worth nearly a thousand pounds, no one complained.

Fortunately the weather remained fine, and we got the blubber of the third whale on board by the end of the next day. We had also boiled the spermaceti oil out of the head, with small buckets at the ends of long poles. This is the most valuable production of the whale, and is used for making candles.

For night work the ship’s company was divided into two watches, from six to one, and from one to six. The instant the last piece of blubber was on board, the carcasses were cast loose to be devoured by fish and fowl.

We began the operation of trying-out, as boiling the blubber is called, by first putting some wood under the try-pots. As soon as the blubber was boiled, the scraps which rose to the surface were skimmed off with a large ladle, and after being thrown into a pot with holes in the bottom to drain off the oil remaining in them, were used as fuel for boiling the remainder of the blubber.

The appearance our decks presented, with huge fires blazing away under our pots, and the men with the ladles skimming off the scraps, or baling out the oil into the coolers, was strange and weird in the extreme. Had I been suddenly introduced among them, I should not have recognised them as my shipmates, begrimed as they were with smoke and oil. I was, however, much in the same condition. Dr Cockle had become accustomed to it, but I cannot fancy that it was very pleasant to him.

The doctor told me that he should be glad, whenever I could, if I would go below and talk to poor Miles Soper.

I willingly did so. He was suffering occasionally great pain, but in the intervals it cheered him to have some one to speak to. I found that he was even more ready to talk than listen, and I accordingly got him to tell me about himself. He happened to ask my name. I told him.

“Peter Trawl!” he exclaimed. “Trawl! That’s curious. I remember a chap of your name aboard the Lapwing brig-of-war.”

I at once was deeply interested.

“He must have been my brother Jack,” I exclaimed. “Do tell me what has become of him, for I heard he was lost out in the Indian seas.”

“That’s just where he and I were nearly lost. We were coming home when a boat was sent away, and we, with six more men and an officer, went in her, to visit an island on some business or other, I forget what, and I didn’t know it’s name.

“There are wild sorts of chaps out in those parts, who go pirating in their proas, as they call them. While we were just shoving off, a dozen or more of these proas came round us. We knew if the pirates got hold of us we should all be knocked on the head, so we began blazing away to keep them at a distance. We kept on at it till we hadn’t a charge left for our muskets. Two of our men were killed, and our officer badly wounded. The pirates then came nearer and fired their gingalls into us. Just then one of their proas caught fire, and sent up such clouds of smoke that for some time, as we were near her, we could not be seen.

“‘Now, lads,’ said the officer, ‘those among you who are not wounded try and swim to shore. It’s your only chance. The rest of us must die like men.’

“Our oars, you see, were shattered, and by this time all hands except Jack and me were more or less hurt. We followed our brave officer’s advice, and leaping overboard reached the beach before we were seen by the pirates. Some gingalls were fired at us, but we got away among the bushes, and ran as hard as our legs could carry us in shore. We did not know where we were going, or what sort of people we should meet. Whether the pirates landed or not we did not stop to learn, but as we ran for three or four hours there was not much chance of being overtaken.

“We saw at last a river before us, and as it was too broad to cross, and we were afraid, should we attempt to swim over, that we might be picked off by one of those big scaly beasts they call crocodiles, we kept down along the bank, as we knew that it must lead us to the opposite side of the island to where we had landed.

“‘Cheer up,’ said Jack to me. ‘Maybe our ship will come round there and take us off. Our fellows are sure to be searching round the coast on the chance of finding us.’

“‘I hope you’re right, Jack,’ said I, ‘for it will be a bad job for us if we can’t get away, as how we are to find food is more than I can tell, and it’s very clear we can’t live without it.’

“There were plenty of trees growing on the bank, though not so thickly but that we could manage to make our way between them.

“Says Jack to me, ‘If those cut-throat fellows come after us, we must climb up one of these and hide ourselves among the branches.’

“‘I don’t think they will take the trouble to follow us so far,’ I answered. ‘But it’s a good idea of yours, and it will give us a chance of saving our lives.’

“We of course could not run as fast as we had been going in the open country. Sometimes we came across fallen trees, over which we had to climb, and at others we had to go round thick bushes which we could not get through. Still, what stopped us would stop our enemies. On and on we went, till just as we got out of a wood we saw before us a village of curious-looking houses, built on stout piles, many of them right in the water.

“‘Hadn’t we better go back?’ I said to Jack; ‘the people who live there may be the same sort of cut-throats as those we have got away from. They’ll be for knocking us on the head when they see us.’

“Jack agreed with me that it would be better to stay in the wood till it was dark, and we might then make our way clear of the village down to the sea. We were just going back, when a woman came out on a sort of verandah in front of the house nearest to us, and we knew by the way she was looking that we were seen. Then she turned round and called to another woman, who also came out.

“‘Come,’ said Jack, ‘we had better go on boldly and ask those dark-skinned ladies to give us their protection. They are sure to do that if we look humble enough, and show them that we want to be friends, for to my mind women are alike all the world over.’

“So we moved on, kissing our hands, and then holding them up clasped before us. The women did not run away, or seem a bit frightened; and as we got nearer one of them came down the ladder and held out both her hands, which we took and put on our heads. She then beckoned us up the steps, and made signs to us to sit down on mats inside the house. As we were both very hungry by this time, we pointed to our mouths to show that we wanted something to eat and drink. The younger girl went to another part of the house and brought back some fish and yams, and a bowl with some liquor in it. There was not much to be said for the taste, but we were too thirsty after our long run to be particular. We tried to make the women understand that there were enemies coming after us, and that we wanted to hide away, so when we had finished our meal they beckoned us to come into another room, and, placing some mats on the ground, they told us that we might sleep there safely—at least, that’s what we made out.

“Night came on, and Jack and I, agreeing that we had got into good quarters, went to sleep. There was no bell striking, and no bo’sun’s mate to rouse us up, and so we slept on till it was broad daylight. We got up and looked out from the verandah, or platform, which went round the house, when we saw three men talking together. As soon as they caught sight of us they came towards the house, and one of them mounted the ladder. He looked at us with surprise, and seemed to be asking who we were. We told him as well as we could by signs that we had come across from the other side of the island, and wanted to get off to our ship, which would soon be round to take us aboard. This did not seem to satisfy him. Presently in came the women, and they had a talk about the matter, but what they said we could not make out. The first man then called the other two, and after more palavering they began to look savage, and gave us to understand that we were to be their slaves, and work for them.

“‘Well,’ says Jack to me, ‘all we’ve got to do is to grin and bear it. Maybe, as we are near the sea, we shall have a chance of making our escape.’

“This was one comfort; so we nodded, as much as to say we were ready to do what they bid us, for, you see, we were in their power and couldn’t help ourselves. After we had gone into the house and sat down, waiting to see what would next happen, the women—bless them for their kindness!—brought us some more food for breakfast, and a capital one we made. Bad as was our lot, yet it was better than being knocked on the head or having our throats cut. A number of people now came out of their houses, and there was great rejoicing among them to think that they had got two white men as slaves. We found that we had plenty of work to do to cut wood and fetch water, and to hoe in their fields, which were some way from the village, or to go out fishing with them.

“This we liked better than anything else. If it had not been for the women our lot would have been worse, for they took care to give us food every day, which I don’t think the men would have troubled themselves about doing, for they were regular savages.

“Day after day went by; we were getting accustomed to our life, and as yet had had no chance of escaping. A precious sharp look-out was at all times kept over us, and I don’t think even the women would have wished us to go, for we had to do a good deal of the work which would have otherwise fallen to their lot. Though we were, as I was saying, used to the life we led, we both wanted to get away.

“I’ve an old father down in Dorsetshire, and there’s a bright young girl who lives with him whom I would give something to see again; and Jack sighed to go home, as he said, to see his father and mother, and a young brother and sister. He used to talk much to me about you all, and it seemed to me as if I knew you long before we ever met.

“We found that we were much farther from the sea than we had at first supposed, for although we went a good way down the river we never reached its mouth.

“The people in the village didn’t lead quiet lives, for they were always on the watch, fearing that they might be attacked by enemies. At night they made fast their boats under their houses, and had their goods all ready for a start into the woods, while they had men on the look-out night and day to give notice should any strange vessels come up the river.

“Jack and I agreed that if any enemies should come in the night we might have a good chance of escaping, but from what we had seen of the fellows who had attacked our boat we had no wish to fall into the hands of such characters. We thought that we might manage to slip into a boat and pull up the river and hide ourselves until the pirates had gone away.

“You must know that we did not wish any ill to our masters, for though we were their slaves we had taken a liking to them, as they did not ill-treat us, and gave us a good deal of time to ourselves.

“Weeks and months went by. We began to think that no enemy would come, and that we must try to get off by some other means than that we had first thought of. At last we saw the men sharpening their long knives and polishing their spears, and new painting their shields.

“‘Depend upon it there’s something in the wind,’ said Jack to me. ‘They are going on a war expedition.’

“‘No doubt about the matter,’ I said, ‘and they’ll want us to go with them.’

“‘Then we must take care not to go,’ said Jack. ‘I for one won’t be for killing men, women, and children, as these fellows are likely to do. We must pretend to be sick, or that we do not understand what they want of us, and get off somehow or other.’

“Whether or not it was talking about being sick I don’t know, but the very next night I was struck down with fever. Our masters saw that I was not shamming. The women also stood our friends, and declared that I was not fit to get up and work, while Jack was allowed to stay at home and nurse me. I was very bad, and I believe he thought that I should die.

“If he had been my own mother’s son he couldn’t have looked after me better than he did; night and day he was always by my side, ready to give me what I wanted. One day I heard a loud shouting and singing, and Jack, who had gone out, came back and said that the men had all started with their spears and shields. They had wanted to make him go, but the women said he must stop behind, though he had a hard matter to escape from the men. I was already getting better, and this news made me feel better still.

“‘It will be a bad return to run off with one of their boats,’ said Jack, ‘but there seems no help for it, and it may be our only chance, for the men will be back again in a day or two.’

“That very night, while Jack and I were sitting up talking, we heard shrieks and cries in the distance; and presently, looking out, Jack said he saw the houses lower down the river burning.

“Then depend upon it the pirates have taken the place, I said.

“‘No doubt about it,’ exclaimed Jack, ‘and now is our chance. If we could defend the poor women and children we would, but we cannot do that. They’ll know where to fly to, and so, I hope, escape.’

“Suddenly I felt my strength come back, and I was able to follow Jack down the ladder, at the bottom of which the boat was kept moored. To cut the painter by which she was made fast didn’t take us a moment, and springing into her we paddled across the stream. As we looked down the river we could see all the houses in a blaze, and here and there people running off into the woods, while we made out half a score or more of the dark proas stealing up along the shore.”

Just as Miles Soper had got thus far in his history I was summoned on deck, and eager as I was to hear how he and Jack had fared, I was obliged to attend to my duty.

Chapter Nineteen.

Miles Soper’s narrative concluded.

“I’ve heard news of my brother Jack!” I exclaimed, as I met Jim directly after I sprang on deck.

“What! Is he alive?” asked Jim.

“Miles Soper, who was his shipmate, thinks so,” I answered. “At all events, he wasn’t killed when we thought he was.”

“Then, Peter, we’ll find him if we search the world round!” cried Jim, giving me a warm grip of the hand. “I am glad; that I am!”

It takes a whole day to “try out”—that is, to boil down the blubber of each whale. I found that the cooper and his mate had just finished filling up the casks from the coolers, and I was wanted, with others, to assist in rolling them aft.

Here they were chocked and lashed and left to cool for several days before they were in a condition to be stowed away in the hold. In the meantime we had to get up all the empty casks on deck so that we might lay the ground-tier with the full casks. As the casks were piled up, one upon another, the ship was in consequence almost topheavy, and I saw the captain and Mr Griffiths frequently casting glances round the horizon, to watch for an indication of any change in the weather, for should a sudden squall strike the ship she might, while in this condition, be sent over in an instant. Every possible exertion was therefore made to get the task accomplished, and all hands were employed. Anxious as I was to hear what had become of my brother, I consequently had no opportunity for a long time of listening to a continuance of Miles Soper’s narrative. I should have said that though the oil casks were stowed away empty and filled by means of the hose from the deck, the greatest care was required in bedding them, as they might have to remain three years or more in the hold. The blubber from the three whales was at length tryed out and secured in the casks, and the decks being washed down, the ship once more resumed her ordinary appearance, we meantime continuing our course northward. The first moment I was at liberty I went down to see Miles Soper. He said that he felt much better, though still unable to do duty.

“And what about Jack?” I asked; “you and he were just pulling away across the river at night to escape from the Dyack pirates.”

“Yes; I have been thinking much about it since I told you. I would not have to go through that time again for a good deal if I could help it. We could hear the shrieks and cries of the old men, women, and children as the cruel pirates caught them and cut off their heads, and we could see the flames burst out from the houses all along the banks of the river. We were afraid that the light would be thrown upon our boat, so that we dare not venture down the river, but pulled up along the southern bank close under the bushes. We thought that we were safe, at all events, till daylight, when we caught sight of two boats coming out from among the pirate fleet and steering up stream. I gave up all for lost, as I knew that they would whip our heads off in a moment should they come up with us.

“‘Don’t give in!’ cried Jack; ‘perhaps it isn’t us that they’re after.’

“We ceased pulling lest the light should fall on our oar-blades, for we should have had no chance if they had made chase.

“‘Let’s paddle in under these bushes,’ whispered Jack; ‘they’re very thick, and we can lie hid here, while maybe they’ll pass us.’

“We did as he proposed. As the boughs overhung the water and almost touched it with their ends, we hoped that the pirates would not discover us. We could just look out across the river, and saw the boats still coming towards us. We both lay down in the bottom of our boat and remained as quiet as mice, scarcely daring to look up above the gunwale for fear of being seen. We could hear the voices of the pirates and the splash of their oars as they drew nearer. If they had before seen us they might have observed the spot where we had disappeared, and I expected every moment to have my head whipped off my shoulders. Just putting my eyes above the gunwale, I saw the two boats, broadside on, pulling along. They hadn’t found us out. On and on they went, right up the stream. They must have thought that we were still ahead. We, of course, didn’t dare to move, hoping that they would give up the chase and go back again.

“‘We must not be too sure that they won’t look for us when they do come back,’ said Jack. ‘Howsomdever, there’s no use crying out till we’re caught. I’ll tell you what; the best thing we can do is to get on shore and make our way inland; then, though they may find the boat, they won’t catch us.’ I agreed; so, shoving the boat farther in till we reached the bank, we sprang on shore, and having secured her by the painter, set off directly away from the river. As it was very dark, we had to grope our way amongst the trees and bushes, though the glare in the sky from the burning houses enabled us to steer a right course. We half expected that a snake or a wild beast might pounce down upon us, and we had no arms to defend ourselves. But anything was better than to be caught by the pirates. At last, when our clothes were torn nearly off our backs, we reached some open ground, and set off running till we got to a wood on the opposite side. ‘Now,’ says Jack, ‘we won’t go farther, but hide here till the morning; then maybe, if we can climb to the top of a tree, we shall be able to catch sight of the river and find out what the pirates are doing.’ I thought his idea a good one, so we sat down on the ground and waited. We could hear no sounds, so we concluded that all the poor people had been killed. We hoped, however, that the warriors might come back and beat the pirates off. Not that we wished to fall into the power of our old masters again, for they would have kept us prisoners if they didn’t lake it into their heads to kill us.

“At last the light returned, and seeing a tall tree near: Jack and I climbed up to the top. Jack went first. ‘Hurrah!’ he shouted; ‘there go the pirates down the river, pulling away with all their oars out!’ Sure enough I saw them also. ‘But I say, Jack, perhaps the warriors have come back and put them to flight; if so, we must take care not to be caught by them.’ I said, ‘I can see where the village stood, but I don’t see any people moving about.’ ‘It’s a long way, to be sure, so we must be careful,’ answered Jack. We soon got down the tree and returned to our boat. The pirates hadn’t discovered her, so we got on board, and cautiously shoved out to the edge of the bushes, stopping just inside them. We then took a look-out, but could discover no one moving on the opposite shore, so we pulled across to the village. It was a fearful sight we saw there. Bodies of old men, women, and children were scattered about, but the heads were gone.

“We were in a hurry, you may be sure, to get away, but, says Jack, ‘It won’t do to put to sea without food or water.’ So we hunted about, and found in the bushes several baskets which the poor people had been trying to carry off with food of all sorts, and some calabashes, which we quickly filled at the spring where we were accustomed to get water. We hurried with them back to the boat, and once more shoved off. We then paddled away down the river. The current was running out, so that we made good way, and were soon out of sight of the burnt village. Our craft was not very well suited for a voyage, but anything was better than stopping to be killed on shore. We pulled on until nearly noon before we came in sight of the mouth of the river. There was no bar, and the sea was smooth, so we resolved to pull out at once, in the hope of being picked up by some passing vessel. We were still not certain even now that our masters would not make chase after us, so we didn’t stop a moment, except just to look round, but pulled right away to sea. Just as we got outside we caught sight of the pirate fleet under sail, standing to the nor’ard. We therefore pulled south, not that there was much chance of their coming back, but we thought that if we went in their wake we should not fall in with any merchant vessel, for at any rate if they should have met one they would to a certainty have robbed and scuttled her.

“We supposed that there were other islands away to the westward, but then they might be inhabited by the same cut-throat sort of fellows as those from whom we had escaped, and we didn’t want to fall into their hands. Our chief hope was to be picked up by some passing vessel or other, perhaps by our own ship, but Jack said he thought she would not have remained at the station, and would have long ago given up searching for us. It was hot work paddling away all day, and we would have given much for a sail, but the boat was not fitted for one, and she was not fitted either for a heavy sea—not that there was much chance of that getting up at such time of the year. We had plenty of food and water, so we kept up our spirits. Where we were going to neither of us could tell; all we knew was that we were our own masters. We were queer characters to look at, with our clothes all torn to shreds, our hair long, and our faces as brown as berries. No one would have taken us for Englishmen, but we had English tongues and English hearts, and we made up our minds to stick at it and not be downcast. We wanted to get away as far as we could from the shore, for fear any of the natives might come after us—not that there was much chance of that. We paddled and paddled till our arms ached, and we were well-nigh roasted with the hot sun. We were thankful when night came on, and we were able to rest and take some food.

“We had agreed to keep watch and watch, but it was of no use trying to keep awake, so we both lay down in the bottom of the boat and went fast asleep. When we awoke it was broad daylight, and presently up came the sun and beat down on our heads as hot as the day before. There we were floating on the sea with the water calm as a mill-pond, and not a sail in sight. There was no chance either of a vessel coming near us while the calm continued. We took our breakfasts, however, and talked of what we should do. Far away to the east we could see the blue outline of the island we had left, but what part to steer for we could not make up our minds. There was only one thing we determined—come what might, not to go back and be made slaves of. It seemed useless to be paddling away and yet not to know where we were going to; but we still hoped that we might fall in with some merchant vessel, it mattered not of what country, though we wished she might be English, and so we might find our way home.

“‘Come, let’s be moving,’ said Jack, at last. ‘I’ve heard say that there are Dutch and Spanish settlements out in these parts, and maybe we shall fall in with one of them, and both the mynheers and dons are good sort of people, and will treat us kindly.’

“So we took to our paddles and made our way to the westward. All day we paddled on, but no land appeared in sight, and now and then we stopped to take some food and a drink of water, but it was tiring work. We were thankful when night came at last. We didn’t sleep so long, and were at our paddles before daybreak, for we knew by the stars how to steer.

“Next day we did just the same, and the next after that.

“‘I say, Miles,’ said Jack, ‘we must soon manage to come to land or we shall be starving. We have not got food nor water for more than one day longer, and without them we shall not be able to hold out.’

“That was very true; still neither of us thought of giving in. A light breeze from the eastward had sprung up, so that we made good way, but there was no land to be seen ahead. We didn’t talk much, for we had said all we could say about our prospects, and they were bad enough. But they became worse when we had drunk up all the water and eaten every bit of food we had in the boat. I had heard of people going three or four days without eating, but the want of water was the worst. We would have given a heap of gold if we had had it for a cupful. The wind now shifted to the southward, and blew much stronger than before, knocking up a sea which threatened every moment to swamp our boat, which was not fitted for rough water. We now began to think that it was all up with us, and that all we could do was just to keep the boat’s head to the seas to prevent her from capsizing.

“At last Jack sang out, ‘A sail! A sail to the southward!’

“There she was, coming up before the wind. A strange-looking, outlandish craft she seemed as she drew nearer.

“‘I wonder whether she’s one of those Dyack or Malay pirates,’ I said. ‘If so, we may as well let the boat turn over.’

“‘No, no; let us trust God, and hope for the best,’ said Jack. ‘Cheer up, Miles! She’s sent for our relief.’

“I was not so sure of that, for it was easy to see from her outlandish rig that she was one of the craft of those seas. Presently, as she got near us, she lowered her sails and came close up. Ropes were hove to us, and hands were stretched out over the side to haul us on board, for we had scarcely strength enough left to help ourselves. They tried to secure the boat, but she drifted off and was swamped. We just saw that the people were Chinamen, pig-eyed, with turned-up noses and yellow skins. We both fainted away. They brought us some water, and in a short time we got better. They then carried us into a small cabin aft out of the hot sun. Presently they brought us some food—rice, and some stuff minced with it. We were not particular, for we were desperately hungry.

“We now found that the people who had picked us up were honest traders bound northward with a cargo of sea-slugs, birds’-nests, and other things from these seas. We tried to talk to them, but could not manage it, as none of them understood English, and we couldn’t speak their lingo. But as soon as we got stronger we made ourselves useful, pulling and hauling, and doing whatever came to hand. Where we were going to we could not make out, but we hoped that it was to some place at which the English ships touched, and that we might get home some day. As Jack said, we had reason to be thankful that we had been picked up, for the weather came on very bad, and our boat could not have lived through it. The Chinamen kept a bright look-out, and seemed terribly afraid of the pirates. We tried to make them understand that we had seen the fleet sail to nor’ard a short time before, and we ourselves didn’t like the thoughts of falling in with them. We told them also that we would fight to the death sooner than yield. They understood us, and seemed to think that we were very fine fellows. We had been sailing on for three or four days, and we began to hope that we were free of the pirates, when just as we passed a headland we caught sight of a number of craft coming out from under it. On seeing them the Chinamen looked very much frightened, hoisted all sail, and brought their arms on deck. We watched the strangers, who, it was very clear, were making chase after us. We should have a hard fight for it, even if we should manage to get off. Presently, however, we saw their sails flapping against their masts as they came under the headland, whilst we still had a breeze and went away dancing merrily over the water. I never felt so pleased in my life, and the Chinamen seemed highly delighted, chattering and jabbering away like so many monkeys. It was pleasant to see the pirates’ sails sink below the horizon, and pleasanter still to lose sight of them altogether.

“We ran on day after day. The breeze held fair and we by degrees got accustomed to our new friends, and could make ourselves understood in a fashion. We sometimes were sailing between islands, and sometimes on the open sea. Whereabouts we were we had no idea, though we supposed that we were approaching the Chinamen’s country.

“We had been a fortnight or more on board when dark clouds rose up from the south-west, and it came on to blow very hard. The sails were lowered and we ran before the gale. I saw by the looks of the crew that they didn’t like it, nor did we, for it seemed as if at any moment the clumsy craft might be capsized. We, however, pumped and baled, and tried to keep her clear of water. It all seemed, however, of no use, for the seas washed into her and she was leaking terribly.

“We had been driven a long way out of our course. We did our best to cheer up our shipmates, and set them the example by working harder than any of them.

“At last the gale ceased, and we once more made sail, but, do all we could, the water gained on us and the crew began to heave the cargo overboard to keep the junk afloat. The boats had been washed away, and we knew that if she went down we should all be drowned. Jack and I talked of what we could do to save our lives, but we agreed that we should have to share the fate of the rest. It seemed to us that the craft would not swim another night, when we made out a sail to the westward.

“The Chinamen by this time were so knocked up that they were scarcely able to exert themselves. Jack and I sprang here and there, now pumping, now baling, now trying to make our companions do the same. It seemed to us that they would let the craft go down in sight of help. The stranger we judged by the cut of her sails to be a whaler. The junk was settling lower and lower in the water. Jack found a flag, an odd-looking piece of stuff it was. He ran it up half-mast high as a signal of distress. The stranger came on slowly, for the wind was light. It seemed even now that she would not be in time to save us. At last she got near enough to see our condition, and hove-to. Four boats were lowered, which came pulling towards us.

“By this time the water was almost up to the lower deck. Jack and I stood ready to spring on board the first boat which came up. The brave crew came on, and were in time to haul the greater number of the Chinamen on board before the junk sunk beneath their feet. Several went down in her, too much knocked up to exert themselves. With us and those saved, the boats returned on board. We found that we had been picked up by the Helen, whaler. She had been cruising off the coast of Japan, and was going to Macao for fresh provisions. As she was short of hands Jack and I at once entered on board her. Having landed the unfortunate Chinamen and taken in the stores we wanted, we stood away into the Pacific. We found ourselves among a somewhat rough lot, but we were better off than we had been as slaves, though Jack and I agreed that we would much rather serve on board a man-o’-war. We had been cruising for some time, and had caught and stowed away about a dozen whales or more, when one night there was a cry of ‘Breakers ahead!’

“The captain, who was on deck in a moment, gave the order to put up the helm and veer ship, but before she could be got round she struck heavily. We sounded round her and found the water deep on the starboard side. But all our efforts proving useless, the order was given to lower the boats. We had five fit for service, and they were got safely into the water. Jack went in one of them, I in another. We were ordered to keep off at a safe distance from the ship till daylight. When morning broke we found that the ship was a complete wreck, and that there was no chance of saving her. The captain then ordered the boats to come alongside one at a time and embark the rest of the crew, with such provisions as could be collected. We now saw land away to the nor’ard, and, having left the ship, pulled towards it. Our great want was water, and to obtain it the captain divided us into two parties to look into any bays we might discover and try and find a spring. I was in the second mate’s boat. We were just pulling into a bay, when a dozen canoes full of black savages, with bows and spears, darted out and made chase after us, so we pulled away out to sea. What had become of the other boats we could not tell. Your brother Jack had gone in the captain’s, and that was the last I saw of him.”

“Do you think they could have escaped from the savages?” I asked, anxiously.

“I have no reason to suppose they didn’t, just as we managed to escape,” answered Miles, “but we didn’t catch sight of them again. We had sails in our boat, and plenty of provisions, and the mate told us he intended to steer for the Sandwich Islands, the nearest civilised place he knew of, but that it was a long way off, and we should be a long time about it. He might have been right, but we were still many days’ sail from it when we ran short of provisions and drank up all our water. I believe that we should have died if we hadn’t fallen in with another whaler, which picked us up. I entered on board her, as did some of the men, but the mate and others preferred landing at Honolulu. I served on board her for some time. We had gone southward, having got a full ship, when we struck on a coral reef. Though we did all we could to keep her afloat, she went down with all hands, except the black and me, and we managed to get ashore on Robinson Crusoe’s Island, from which you took us off.”

“But can’t you give me any idea as to what has become of Jack?” I again asked.

“Not more than I have told you,” answered Miles; “but my idea is that some if not all the boats got off, though in what direction they steered I’ve no notion.”

I was prevented from talking more on the subject just then by being summoned on deck, and when I told Jim he repeated what he had before said—

“We’ll find him, Peter. We’ll find him.”

Chapter Twenty.

A mutiny and its consequences.

I told Dr Cockle all I had heard about my brother Jack from Miles Soper. He seemed greatly interested, and said that he sincerely hoped we might find Jack or hear of him, though he confessed that it was very much like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. Jim and I talked of little else. We neither of us any longer thought of going home, but I got a letter ready to send, by the first ship bound for England, to my sister Mary, and another to Mr Troil, telling them that I had got tidings of Jack, and much as I wished to get back, should stay out in those seas till I found him.

My great wish now was to fall in with other whalers, that I might make inquiries about my brother. The captain—though, I suppose, Dr Cockle and Mr Griffiths told him what I had heard—seemed to take no interest in the matter, nor did he show me any more attention than before.

We had left Juan Fernandez more than a month, when a cry came from the masthead of “Land ho!” It proved to be Chatham Island, one of the Galapagos, a group of volcanic islands almost under the line, some hundred miles away from the coast of Peru. We brought up in a fine bay, but the shore as far as we could see looked black and barren. There were, however, thick, low bushes of a peculiar kind, covering the ground at some distance from the beach. As Dr Cockle was going on shore with one of the mates and a party of the men, he to botanise and they to obtain fresh provisions, I went up to the captain and asked leave to accompany him.

“I understand you have made up your mind not to run away,” he observed, in his usual sarcastic tone.

“Yes, sir,” I answered; “I’m content to remain on board your ship, though I know that I would until lately have done anything to get back to England.”

“Take care you don’t change your mind,” he said, in the same tone as before. “If the doctor will be answerable for you, you can go.”

I told the doctor what the captain said.

“I know that I can trust you. Peter, and I’ll tell the captain that I’ll undertake to bring you back,” he answered.

I was glad to find that Jim was to form one of the party. Horner also got leave to go. Though he and I were on good terms, I can’t say I looked upon him as a friend, but I was well pleased that he should have a run on shore, as I hoped that it would put him in good humour, for of late he had become one of the most constant grumblers on board. I even now recollect the pleasure I felt on thus once more treading the firm ground, as, except for the short time I had landed on Juan Fernandez, I hadn’t set foot on shore since I left Shetland. The rest of the seamen seemed greatly to enjoy their freedom.

As soon as we had secured the boat we all set off together, running over the rough black ground, startling a number of strange-looking creatures like lizards, some of which slid off into the water, others hid themselves in holes and crevices of the rocks.

Jim and I, however, went back to join the doctor, as we knew that he would want us to carry anything he might chance to pick up. The mate, after the men had had a good run, called them to him, and we proceeded more leisurely. The shrubs we had seen we found to be prickly pears. We had gone some distance when we caught sight of some enormous creatures like tortoises. The doctor called them terrapins. They had been feeding on the prickly pears, and were now leisurely making their way towards the hills which rose in the distance. We were all suffering from thirst, and the sun beat down on our heads with a great heat. We had in vain been looking for water.

“I’d give anything for a mugful!” cried Jim.

“So would I,” “And I!” echoed several more of the men.

“You needn’t have long to wait if you can catch those creatures,” said the doctor. “They’ll yield as much cool water as we want.”

We all set off running after the terrapins, which, as they didn’t move fast, we soon overtook. As we got close to them they drew their heads into their shells, and remained quiet.

Horner had become unusually lively, and on seeing the creatures stop jumped on the back of one of them, when immediately on it went carrying him along with it. At first he thought it very good fun, and began snapping his fingers and pretending to dance, but whilst he was looking round at us the terrapin carried him against a prickly pear-bush, and over he went sprawling on the ground, to the great amusement of the men.

“Oh, save me! Save me!” he shouted out, scarcely knowing what had happened, and believing that the creatures were going to turn upon him and run their bills into his body.

Jim and I helped him up, and found that he was bleeding from a cut hand and a wound inflicted in his side by the point of one of the leaves. The doctor, however, on arriving at the spot, examined his hurts and comforted him by the assurance that there was not much the matter, and that if he didn’t think about it he could go on as well as the rest of us.

We soon again overtook the terrapins, when the men who were armed with spears ran them in under the creatures’ necks and quickly killed them. We turned them over, and under the doctor’s directions, found, as he said we should, plenty of perfectly cool water in their insides. It was fresh as if just out of the spring. Leaving the terrapins to carry back with us on our return, we pushed on in the hope of falling in with some more. We were not disappointed. We in a short time killed four, as many as we could manage to carry on board the boat, and sufficient to give us fresh meat for several days. I was in hopes of meeting with inhabitants, as I wanted, wherever I went, to make inquiries for Jack, not knowing where I might find him. As Miles had come to the east, I thought he might have found his way in the same direction. None of the islands are, however, inhabited, and only one of them, Charles Island, has a spring of water, though people might otherwise exist in them for years. We saw a vast number of birds, which were very tame, but not a single four-legged creature besides the terrapins and lizards. We had to make several trips to carry the meat to the boat. As we shoved off we saw the sea literally swarming with fish, and the next morning the captain sent in two boats, which, in a short time, caught as many as we could eat.

In the evening we sailed and cruised in the neighbourhood of the islands, during which time we added the oil of four whales to our cargo. We also met several other whalers, from all of whom I made inquiries for Jack, but none of the people I spoke to had even heard of the wreck of the Helen, and could give me no information. At length the crew began to grumble at being kept so long at sea, and we sailed for Tumbez, on the mainland, where we took in wood and water.

When this task was accomplished the captain gave leave to half of the crew to go ashore, and to remain away three days. On their return the other half had liberty granted them for the same time.

I accompanied the doctor. We went up the river some distance, and then landing walked to a town surrounded by sand, far from having a pleasant look. With the assistance of the doctor, I made inquiries for Jack, thinking that if he belonged to a whaler he might have visited the place; but I could gain no intelligence of him. The night before we sailed it was my middle watch, and when it was over I tumbled into my bunk.

I had been asleep for some time when I was awakened by hearing Horner’s voice, exclaiming, “You are here, then? Rouse up and come on deck. The captain is in a great taking. He has found that a boat is missing and some of the hands, and he declares that you have gone with them.”

Slipping into my clothes, I hurried on deck. It was just daylight; the captain was standing aft, looking in a fearful rage, while the second mate was forward, shouting to the men to come up and show themselves.

“Do you want me, sir?” I asked.

“So you and Jim Pulley have not taken yourselves off?” he exclaimed.

“No, sir; we never thought of doing so, and I gave you my word that I wouldn’t desert.”

He made no reply, but ordered Mr Griffiths to call over the names of the men. Four were found missing.

“Take a boat and six men, well armed, and see you bring the rascals back, alive or dead!” he exclaimed, turning to the mate.

In a couple of minutes the boat was in the water and the men were ready, and Mr Griffiths pulled away.

He was absent for some hours. At last we saw his boat coming back, but without the runaways. On reaching the deck Mr Griffiths reported that he had gone up the river and examined the coast on either side of it, but could find no traces of the boat or men.

As soon as Captain Hawkins had abandoned all hopes of recovering the runaways he ordered Mr Griffiths to go again on shore to try and pick up some fresh hands in their place, and I was sent to look after the boat. On either side of the river as we pulled up it we saw numbers of alligators sunning themselves on the sandy banks. As we got near them they plunged into the water, and at first I thought they were about to attack the boat.

As we got higher up, the river narrowed and the trees bent over our heads. In the branches we could see numbers of monkeys leaping from bough to bough and chattering at us. At last, after going six miles, we reached a landing-place, near which was an orange-grove coming close down to the water. Mr Griffiths, taking two men with him, ordered the rest of us to remain in the boat, and on no account to quit her. Scarcely, however, was he out of sight than the men declared that they must have some oranges. When I reminded them of the orders I had received they laughed at me, and one of them, springing ashore, ran off to the grove. He soon again appeared, with a handkerchief in his hands full of oranges, and sucking one as he came along. He was followed by an old gentleman, whom I at once guessed to be the owner of the orange-grove, and who came on till he reached the boat. He then stopped and said something in his native language, which none of us understood. When he found this he made signs to us that we had no business to take his oranges without leave. I tried to explain by pointing to the men’s mouths that they were very thirsty, and that I couldn’t prevent the sailor from taking the fruit. Whether it was from my manner or looks I can’t say, but the old gentleman appeared to be pleased, and going back to an orange-tree picked off a quantity of the fruit, which he brought to me in his own handkerchief, patting me on the back at the same time, as if he was satisfied with my explanations.

While sucking away at the oranges the men were kept quiet. All the time the monkeys chattered away at us from the neighbouring trees, and an ugly alligator would now and then poke his snout out of the water to have a look at us, but the shouts we raised made him swim off. At last Mr Griffiths appeared with four fresh hands, each man carrying a bundle containing all his worldly possessions. As soon as they stepped into the boat we shoved off, and gave way down the river. I was surprised to find all the men talk in a way far superior to that of common sailors, and soon found that they had deserted from American whalers, and had been, before they came to sea, in good positions, which they had lost by misconduct. The moment we got on board, though it was now late in the evening, the captain ordered the anchor to be hove up, and as the wind was off shore, we stood out to sea.

We proceeded at once to our old cruising ground in the neighbourhood of the Galapagos. While we were on our way the new hands seemed perfectly contented, having little or nothing to do. I, of course, inquired of them if they had heard of anyone who had escaped from the Helen, but they could give me no information. To my surprise, I found that, though they had entered in different names, three of them were brothers, and the fourth an old friend. One of the brothers appeared to be a quiet, well-disposed man. As far as I could make out, he had come to sea to look after the others, and to try and keep them out of mischief, though he didn’t appear to have been very successful, as time after time they had got into all sorts of scrapes, and it was a wonder that they had escaped with their lives. On reaching the old ground we fell in with a number of whales, and had very hard work, for scarcely had we stowed away the oil of one than we were in chase of another. The new hands grumbled, and so did some of the others. Of course they couldn’t complain of our success in catching whales, that brought them the work to do. The mates knew of their grumbling, but took no notice of it. At last, one morning, when I came on deck, I found a letter lying on the companion-hatch, addressed to Captain Hawkins. I, of course, took it to him.

“Who sent this?” he asked, in an angry tone.

I told him where I had found it, and that I knew nothing more about the matter.

Tearing it open, as he read it a frown gathered on his brow. “The mutinous rascals! I’ll not yield to them,” he exclaimed. “Say nothing about this till I come on deck,” he said to me. “Send Mr Griffiths here.”

When the mate came the captain read the letter to him. They then armed themselves and went on deck, when the second mate was ordered to muster all hands aft.

“Who wrote this letter?” asked the captain, in a firm tone.

No one answered, and there was silence for some time, until the captain repeated the question.

“It was Muggins,” at last said one of the men.

Muggins was one of the last hands shipped, and though a man of some education, he always seemed to me utterly worthless. He was a friend of the three brothers, who went by the names of Washington, Crampton, and Clifford.

“But in this precious letter I have the names of all the crew,” exclaimed the captain.

Several of the men on this protested that they knew nothing about the letter, and had not put their names to any paper.

“Well, then, let those who have agreed to it walk over to the port side, and those who wish to stick to their duty and remain in the ship go to the starboard side.”

Eight only walked over, including those I have mentioned.

On this Miles Soper, stepping aft and touching his hat, said, “I never like to peach on shipmates, but, as an honest man, I can’t hold my tongue. On two different nights I saw Muggins get up and change the meat and throw dirt in among the bread. One night he carried up some of the best pieces and hove them overboard.

“It’s clear to me that he did it to make the rest of us discontented with our victuals. I had made up my mind to speak about it, but I couldn’t catch him at it again, though I’m certain he played the same trick more than once afterwards.”

“I believe you, Soper,” said the captain, and at a signal from him the mates rushed forward and seized Muggins, whom they dragged aft, none of the others interfering. The captain then produced a pair of handcuffs which he had got ready, and fixed them on the wrists of the man. He then called to Horner, Jim, and me to assist the mates, and together we carried the man down below and shut him up in the cabin store-room, the captain meantime remaining by himself on deck. When we returned we found that the crew hadn’t moved.

“Now, lads!” he said; “you who have made up your minds to remain in the ship return to your duty.”

On this the men on the starboard side went forward, but the remaining seven mutineers stood where they were with their arms folded. I was in hopes that, as they were no longer under the influence of Muggins, they would yield, but they would make no promises. At length, tired of standing where they were, they moved lazily along forward. Dr Cockle told me that the captain intended to put into the Marquesas, where he could get rid of the men and obtain others.

I found the next day that we were steering in that direction. After this not one of them would do any work, though they were allowed to remain at liberty. I fully expected that they would try to rescue their companion, but the captain and mates kept an eye on them, as did Jim and I.

It was tantalising to us to see whales every day and yet not to go in chase of them, but the captain wouldn’t send any boats away with the good men in them for fear of what the others might do in their absence.

At length we reached Witahoo, one of the Marquesas, and brought up in a beautifully sheltered bay. Had there been any English authorities in the place the men would have been imprisoned, but as it was all the captain could do was to release Muggins from his handcuffs, and to send him and the other men ashore. The second mate went in one boat, and I had command of the other. The mutineers were ordered to get into them, and we pulled for the beach. Though they had only their clothes and a few articles put up in bundles, they stepped on shore with as jaunty an air as if they were going among friends, and having walked a little distance they turned round and jeered and laughed at us.

“I pity you poor fellows who have to toil away on board that filthy whaler,” cried Muggins. “It’s a shame that you haven’t spirit enough to lead the happy easy lives we are going to enjoy.”

Before we shoved off several natives came down to the beach, with whom the mutineers shook hands, as if they were old friends. Presently a huge fellow appeared, who, judging from the way the rest treated him, we supposed to be a chief. Though the others were of a gigantic size and magnificent proportions, he was taller than any of them. Every part of his body that we could see was tattooed over a deep blue colour, from the crown of his head to his feet. His head was shaven, and every hair, even to the eyelashes, was plucked out.

He introduced himself to the mate, who was standing up in the boat, as Utatee, the chief of the island. He spoke a little English, and from him we made out that a missionary resided a short distance off up the bay. In a short time a number of other people came down, with several women and children. Nearly all the latter appeared to me to be very handsome, their good looks not being spoilt by tattooing. I have never seen so many fine-looking people together in any part of the world. The chief told us that we should be welcome to as much wood and water as we required, and offered to supply us with fresh provisions at a cheap rate.

Next day the missionary came on board, and warned us to beware of the people. He had made but little progress with them, owing very much to the misconduct of the runaway sailors who lived on shore and set them a bad example. Still he had some converts, and he hoped, in time, to make more. I told him about my brother Jack, and how anxious I was to find him. I got Miles Soper to describe him minutely, and the missionary kindly promised to make inquiries for him.

The captain returned with him on shore to look for men, and came back in the evening with eight he had picked up. One of them was a runaway sailor, who had been living on the island several years (such being termed a beachcomber), a Portuguese, and six Kanakas, as the natives are called.

Meantime the blacks and the Sandwich Islanders, with a few of the white men, were employed in bringing off the fresh provisions we required. As Dr Cockle wished to visit a part of the bay a little distance off, he borrowed one of the boats manned with two natives, Jim Horner, and me. We visited two or three spots, where the doctor collected some plants and some shells from the shore. We were about to return when he proposed that we should look into a little bay a short distance farther on. The natives seemed disinclined to go there, and as far as we could make out advised us to return to the shore, saying that there were bad people in that neighbourhood.

The doctor, however, who supposed that they only wished to save themselves from the longer pull, persisted in going on. As we got up towards the head of the bay we saw several natives, who ran off as we approached, and hid themselves behind the trees.

“We must be cautious, for perhaps our men here didn’t warn us without reason,” observed the doctor as we pulled slowly in. Directly after he exclaimed, “There are two men lying on the beach. Who can they be? We must, at all events, go in and ascertain.”

He had brought his fowling-piece, and we had besides two muskets. He told Jim and me to stand up, with the muskets in our hands, for he didn’t like to trust Horner, while he stepped on shore. Just as the boat reached the beach, and Jim, who was in the bows, was about to jump out, he exclaimed, “Why I do believe those two fellows are Muggins and Jones.”

The doctor leaped on shore, looking carefully round to ascertain that no natives were near. A cry of horror escaped him. The two men were dead, with their skulls fractured, the brains lying about.

Their “free and happy” life on shore had come speedily to an end. Why they had been killed it was difficult to say. The doctor, stooping down, felt the bodies.

“They are perfectly cold, and must have been dead some time,” he observed. “They probably had a quarrel with some of the natives, and were trying to escape to the beach to cry for help, when they were overtaken.”

As we could do nothing we returned to the ship, thankful that we had escaped the treachery of the natives, though, as the doctor observed, the men who had suffered had evidently brought it all upon themselves.

Chapter Twenty One.

A cruise across the Pacific and the adventures I met with.

On reaching the ship we found that the captain, the English missionary, and the big old chief, Utatee, had arrived on board just before us. The doctor at once told them what had occurred.

“The fellows probably brought their fate upon themselves,” said the captain. “They must have provoked the savages and got killed in consequence.”

“I’m afraid that such was the case,” observed the missionary; “but I will ask the chief to inquire into the matter.”

Utatee said he would do so, but if the white men were guilty he could not undertake to punish their murderers.

While we were talking some of the crew cried out, “A shark! A shark!” and sure enough there was a huge creature swimming up close under the counter, with his fin just above the water, his wicked eye glancing up at the ship. The chief said something to one of the natives who had come aboard with him, a fine athletic fellow, who, like the chief, appeared to be fully dressed in a tightly-fitting dark blue silk dress, but who, in reality, had only a loincloth round his waist, fastened by a girdle, in which were stuck a couple of knives, the rest of his body being perfectly tattooed from head to foot.

The man looked at the shark, and waiting until it had gone a little ahead, overboard he went, and swam rapidly up after it. Presently he dived, and we saw the shark floundering in the water. I thought that he had turned to seize the man, and that the blood which tinged the waves was issuing from his body; but no, it was the shark which was wounded. The man rose, and again plunged his knife into the monster’s side. He did the same several times, and then towing it up by the tail to the ship, made signs for the bight of a rope to be hove to him. He passed it over the shark’s head, and another rope being secured near the tail, the monster was hoisted up, while the native, with wonderful agility, climbed on deck, apparently not in the slightest degree exhausted by his exertions.

Immediately after this we saw a prodigious commotion near the entrance of the bay, while a loud sound like that of stones knocked together reached our ears. We soon made out a number of people, men, women, and children, who had come off from the extreme point forming one side of the entrance of the bay, and were swimming across it, shouting and striking together a couple of big stones, which they held in their hands. Having formed in a line across the bay, they turned and swam up it, and we saw that they were driving before them a shoal of porpoises. On they kept in perfect order, till the porpoises were driven right ashore at the head of the bay. Here a number of other natives met them. Together they attacked the creatures, which they quickly killed. The missionary told us that their object was to extract the teeth, through which they make holes for the purpose of forming necklaces.

“You’ll not forget, sir, I hope, to look out for my brother Jack,” I said, as the missionary was going.

“You may trust me for that, my young friend,” he answered, kindly; “but I shall not be long on these islands, I fear, as the French are coming to take possession of them, and they’ll allow no Protestant missionaries to live here.”

The captain had no wish to remain for the purpose of inquiring into the death of the two seamen, as they didn’t belong to his ship, and we therefore sailed at daybreak the next morning for Dominica, the largest island of the group, where we understood that we could obtain a larger supply of pork than we had obtained at Witahoo.

We quickly came off that island, but could discover only one bay into which we could safely enter.

As soon as we brought up, two of the boats were sent ashore under charge of Mr Griffiths, he going in one, and I, with Jim and Horner, in another.

As we got near the beach we saw that a heavy surf was breaking on it. Mr Griffiths, however, thought that we could land safely, and waiting till the wave had burst, we dashed on.

Though we shipped a good deal of water, the boats got in safely. The natives being accustomed to supply whalers, guessing what we wanted, had come down with a number of hogs to sell. The price for one was a bottle of powder, and five could be purchased for an old musket.

We had brought a number of these articles for barter. Mr Griffiths ordered me to stand by the boats while he carried on the trade.

As was my custom, I looked about in the hopes of seeing some English sailor of whom I might make inquiries about my brother Jack.

When we had purchased as many pigs as the boats would carry, we prepared to shove off.

The natives made signs to us that we had better be careful, but we didn’t understand them, and the pigs being put on board, we shoved off.

“I’ll lead,” said Mr Griffiths. “When you see me safe outside you can follow,” and away he went.

He got through one breaker, but what was my horror to see the next catch the boat and roll her completely over! We knew that the place abounded with ground-sharks, and we expected to see either him or some of the other men carried off by the savage creatures.

He was not a bad swimmer, but, at the same time, was unaccustomed to make his way through a heavy surf.

The rest of the men clung to the boat, but he attempted to gain the shore by himself. I was about to tumble the pigs out of my boat, and to go off in her to his assistance, when three of the natives darted out through the foaming seas towards where he was struggling. Every instant I expected he would disappear, but they quickly reached him, and supporting him in their arms, brought him back safe to the beach, where the rest of the men arrived, without hurt, on the bottom of the boat.

“We must not be defeated, lads,” cried out Mr Griffiths, as soon as he had recovered. “We shall have better fortune next time.”

The boat was baled out and put to rights, and the pigs, which had swum ashore, being again put in her, away we pulled, but just as she had got to the middle of the roller she broached to and over she went.

This time I, not without reason, feared that some of my shipmates would be lost, as I saw the boat tossing helplessly in the breakers, but presently she came driving, with all hands and the pigs, at a rapid rate towards the beach, where the natives received them, looking as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Still undaunted, Mr Griffiths determined once more to make the attempt, and the next time succeeded. I waited until the largest roller, which I had carefully noted, had passed, and my men giving way, we got through, although the boat was nearly half full of water.

We carried the pigs on board, but after this, at the suggestion of one of the natives, we anchored the boats a short distance from the shore by letting him dive down and make fast a cable to the coral at the bottom.

The natives then swam off to us with the pigs and the cocoanuts which we bought of them, without making any additional charge for their trouble; indeed, to them it seemed a matter of course. We could obtain no yams, but we got instead some enormous plantains, which served us instead of potatoes. As we could bring off but a few pigs at a time it was rather a long business, and we had then to skin and salt them down.

The wind changing, and the surf no longer breaking at the end of the bay, we were able to land without difficulty. I had one day accompanied the doctor, who took only three other men to pull the boat. As he wished to botanise and obtain some shells and other productions of the island, the men went with him to carry what could be got, while I remained by the boat to prevent the natives from stealing the lead and gear belonging to her.

Before long two or three old women came down to the beach and began talking to me by signs, for words were of no use. Then others joined them. They took hold of my hands and seemed to be admiring my complexion and examining my clothes. As far as I could make out they wanted me to accompany them to their village. When I refused, for of course I was not going to neglect my duty and leave the boat, they grew angry, and at last several of them seized me by the arms and were attempting to drag me off. I struggled violently, and shouted out at the top of my voice, but they didn’t seem to mind that.

As they were very strong I was completely in their power, and I fully believed that I should be carried off, when I caught sight of a man running towards the boat. He proved to be one of our crew who had been sent back by the doctor for something he had left. When he saw what was taking place, holding his musket in his hand, he rushed towards the old women, who let me go and scampered off.

“It’s lucky for you, Peter, that they didn’t succeed in getting you away,” he said. “They would have tattooed you all over and turned you into a nigger and made you marry one of their girls. I’ll stay by you, for the chances are they may come back and try again to make you a prisoner. The doctor must manage to do without his spud.”

When Dr Cockle returned, though at first he began to scold the man, when he heard why he remained he told him he was right. At all events, had the natives carried me off it might have caused a deal of trouble to recover me.

Sailing from the Marquesas we gradually worked our way westward towards the Society Islands, catching a few whales, till we arrived at Totillah, one of the Samoa group.

The scenery was magnificent, while everywhere the country was covered with beautiful trees, among them the pandanus palm, the tree-fern, the banyan, the bread-fruit tree, wild nutmeg, and superb bamboos. The natives also were very well-behaved and quiet, and were always inclined to treat us hospitably. Indeed, we might have travelled without the slightest risk from one end of the island to the other. The good behaviour of the inhabitants was the result of their having become Christians owing to the indefatigable exertions of missionaries. It was here that John Williams, the great apostle to the Pacific heathen, spent several years. Not far off from where we lay at anchor was Leoni Bay, the scene of the massacre of the French navigator Perouse and his companions. While we were here two of the men we had obtained ran off. Two others were shipped in their stead. One of them, who called himself John Brown, as he stepped on deck seemed to me a remarkably fine fellow. He had belonged to a whaler which had been wrecked some time before, and he had remained behind while the rest of the crew went on to Sydney. I immediately asked him the question which I put to everybody. “Do you know anything of a young fellow named Jack Trawl?”

“It seems to me that I have heard of the name,” he laid, “but when or where I can’t say. When did you last get news of him?”

“He was wrecked in the Helen, and was last seen in one of her boats when the crews were making their escape from the savages,” I answered.

“Then perhaps I may help you a little,” he said. “Some time ago we fell in with a whaler, and we were talking to her crew. At last, as we were going to shove off, one of the men said that he had been on board the Helen, and he knew for certain two of her boats had got safely to Timor, but what became of the others he couldn’t tell.”

I naturally asked which of the boats had reached Timor, and whether the captain’s was one of them, but he could not say, and I was obliged to rest satisfied with this information. It gave me fresh hopes that Jack was alive.

I have not described the bay in which we lay. It was very deep and narrow, and might rather have been called a gulf. Just as we got under way the wind came right in, and we had either to anchor again or work out. The captain decided to do the latter. Two boats were sent ahead to tow the ship round, the rest of the crew were at their stations. Not a word was spoken, for we all saw that we had no easy task to perform. As we went about, first on one tack then on the other, we each time gained but little ground.

At last, as we were just again going about, a puff of wind drove her right ashore on a coral reef. In vain the men in the two boats endeavoured to pull her round. The captain and both the mates gave her up for lost, and the crew seemed to think the same, but Brown, who was looking round everywhere, called me, and we hauled away at the fore brace. The fore-topsail filled with a flaw of wind which came off the shore, and away the ship went, the wind favouring us till we were clear out of the bay. It was one of the narrowest escapes from shipwreck I ever had.

The next land we made was “Boscawen” and “Keppel” Islands, the former being a high peak, the latter a low, level island. We here landed to obtain provisions, among which we got some of the finest yams I ever saw. The natives were good-looking, friendly people.

We continued on to the north-west, and made the “Duke of Clarence” Island, which has no land within four hundred miles of it. The captain said that he had touched there years before, but that it was uninhabited. As we were nearing it, however, a number of natives came off in large canoes loaded with cocoanuts and fruits, so that they or their fathers must have made a long voyage to reach it in their frail-looking vessels.

Thence we proceeded to the Kingsmill group, of which Byron’s Island is the largest. The men, who were heathens, were quite naked, but the women wore small aprons of seaweed. They didn’t tattoo themselves, but many of them had their skins rough and hanging in flakes, which gave them a most repulsive appearance. This was in consequence of their spending much of their time in the water.

They were savage not only in their appearance but in their customs, for we heard that to prevent overcrowding, as they cannot provide sufficient food for a large population, they kill their infant children.

Such were the people of all these islands, however handsome in appearance, before the missionaries went among them. Many of them had terrible wounds, produced in their battles with each other, either by their spears or clubs, which are covered with sharks’ teeth.

We didn’t see the land till we were within about ten miles of it, as it is very low, being of coral formation. Its only vegetable production is the cocoanut tree, which is of the greatest value to the natives. They build their huts of the trunks and roof them with the leaves. Their canoes are composed of numerous pieces of the wood sewn together with cocoanut fibre. The form of these canoes, which are from eighteen to twenty feet long, is curious; the shape is that of a whale-boat cut in two lengthways; one side is round, and the other perfectly flat, and they are kept upright by having an outrigger to windward which extends about ten feet from the hull. The sail is triangular and made of matting, and in fine weather they can beat to windward with the fastest ship.

We here spent several months, occasionally touching at Byron’s Island for fresh cocoanuts and water. We had caught nineteen whales, when towards the evening of one day a twentieth was seen at a considerable distance.

“We must have that fellow,” said the captain.

The boats were lowered; he went in one, Mr Griffiths in another, and Mr Harvey, the second mate, in a third. Another whale appeared much nearer, but in a somewhat different direction. While Mr Griffiths pulled for the first, the captain and the second mate made for the second. Both were to windward. We had a light breeze, and at once began to beat up after them.

Just before sundown we found that the captain and the second mate had made fast. It took some time before the whale was killed, and we could scarcely perceive the whift planted on its back before darkness came on. We had, in the meantime, lost sight of Mr Griffiths’s boat, but we hoped that he would be equally successful. We made tack after tack till we got up to the whale, which two boats were towing towards us. We burned a blue light to show the first mate our position, but looked in vain for an answering signal. At last the captain, being anxious at his non-appearance, and fearing that some accident must have happened, ordered the second mate to hang on to the whale while he beat the ship up in the direction Mr Griffiths’s boat had taken. The hours went by and the wind increased and the sea got up.

“Never mind,” said the captain; “Harvey will hang on under the lee of the whale even if it does come on to blow harder, and he’ll be safe enough.”

At last, at about half-an-hour to midnight, we made out a faint light dead to windward. It took us some time to get up to it, for, though we were sure it must come from the mate’s boat, it didn’t approach us.

As we got near we could distinguish the people hanging to the bottom of the boat, one of them sitting astride of her and holding up a lantern. We immediately hove-to, and lowered a boat to take them on board. It then appeared that the boat had been stove in by a whale, when the mate and his men clung on to her, the whale fortunately not molesting them.

The boat’s lantern is always headed up tight in a keg, together with a tinder-box and candles, and having providentially secured the keg, they managed to open it, get out the lantern, and strike a light. We might otherwise have passed them in the dark, and they would all probably have perished, as we should have run back to pick up Mr Harvey’s boat and the whale we had killed. We now did so at once, and a hard night’s work we had of it, as we had to secure the whale alongside, and get ready for cutting-in as soon as it was day.

Soon after this, while I was aloft, I saw Jim, who had just been relieved at the wheel, go to the side, and, throwing off his clothes, jump overboard. It was what we often did, always taking care to leave a rope overboard to get up by, to get rid of the soot and grease, besides which, as we were close under the line, the weather was very hot, and a bath refreshing.

Jim swam some way ahead of the ship, when the cook, to play him a trick, hauled up his rope, which I didn’t perceive, as I was looking at Jim. Just then I caught sight of the fin of a shark at no great distance off. I shouted to Jim to come back, and he, knowing that I should not give a false alarm, struck out lustily for the ship. Mr Griffiths, who was on deck, seeing his danger, at once hove him another rope, and shouted at the top of his voice to keep the shark off. Still the monster came nearer and nearer. I saw Jim, to my great relief, get up to the side, but as he took hold of the rope, from its being covered with grease, it slipped through his fingers. The mate shouted to the other men on deck to come and assist him in hauling Jim up. I slid down on deck as fast as I could. On came the shark. Jim was still in the water, and I expected to see my old friend caught.

With all our strength we hauled at the rope, but still Jim couldn’t hold on by it, and I feared that it would slip through his fingers altogether, when, as it turned out, there was a knot at the end. This enabled him to hold on, and we hauled him up, more dead than alive from fright, just as the shark, showing the white of its belly, shoved its snout out of the water and made a snap at his feet, not six inches from them.

Jim was saved, and I never in my life felt more inclined to cry for joy than when I saw him out of danger. While the shark was still alongside looking for its prey, one of the Marquesas islanders who came on deck, taking a knife in his hand, leapt right down, feet first, on the monster’s back, which so scared it that away it went like a flash of lightning.

I have mentioned these circumstances just as they occurred to show the sort of life led by the crew of a whaler. I have more interesting events to narrate in the following chapters.

Chapter Twenty Two.

A typhoon, and how we got through it.

The crew of a whaler had need to exercise much patience. Sometimes they watch for weeks and weeks together, but watch in vain, for fish. At others so many are caught that they have not a moment to rest between the time that one is tryed out and another is brought alongside.

We had at first been very successful, but a week or more having passed without a whale being seen, Captain Hawkins ordered a course to be steered for the Japan whaling ground. The very first day that we arrived in the latitude of these islands, which were, however, far out of sight, we caught two whales.

We had tryed out the first and had the other alongside when another whaler made her appearance. As she got within half a mile of us it feel calm. Soon afterwards a boat was lowered from her, which came pulling towards us. When she came alongside a fine, hale-looking old man stepped on board and introduced himself as Captain Barnett, of the Eleanor. He spoke in a hearty, cheery tone, which contrasted greatly with the rough and unpleasant way in which Captain Hawkins generally expressed himself.

Captain Barnett dined on board, and then invited Captain Hawkins and Dr Cockle to come and sup with him, I managed to address the old gentleman, and told him about Jack.

“Should I ever fall in with your brother I’ll say that I met you, and that you were inquiring for him,” he answered, kindly.

When the two captains came on deck they took a look round the horizon.

“You must excuse me from accompanying you,” said Captain Hawkins, “for I tell you what, I don’t like the look of the weather. There’s something brewing somewhere I’d advise you to get on board as soon as you can.”

The ocean had hitherto been perfectly calm, but there now came from the north-east a slowly-heaving swell, which every minute increased, and the whole atmosphere in a short time assumed a sombre, melancholy appearance, while a peculiar light tinged the two ships and sea around, owing to the sun’s rays passing through clouds of a dull yellowish-red colour. Before this, numbers of birds had been flying about the ship, but they now winged their way to distant lands. As soon as our visitor had pulled away, our captain ordered the hands aloft to shorten sail, although at the time there was not a breath of wind.

Everything was taken in with the exception of a main-topsail and storm trysail.

As the swell increased, the ship began to roll in a most frightful manner, her chain-plates striking the water every time she heeled over, while the water as it rose beat against the stern with a force so violent that we were almost thrown off our legs.

We had to cast adrift the last whale caught before the whole blubber was cut in, as it was impossible, without the greatest risk, to keep it alongside.

I asked Brown, who was the most intelligent seaman on board, what he thought was going to happen.

“We shall have a typhoon—a precious hard one too, I suspect,” he answered.

All night long the swell went on increasing, when suddenly the wind sprang up and broke the hitherto calm swells into foaming seas, which furiously dashed round the ship though they did us no damage.

Just as daylight came on the wind again dropped; but though the wind had fallen, the sea, instead of going down, raged more fiercely than ever, making the ship roll so violently that we feared that at any moment the masts might be carried away. Yet all this time there was scarcely a breath of wind. This state of things continued till about three o’clock, when suddenly, as Brown had foretold, the gale again broke upon us, and continued to blow with increasing violence until about two o’clock on the following morning, when a more furious blast than ever struck the ship.

“Hold on for your lives!” shouted Mr Griffiths, who was on deck.

The captain, followed by Dr Cockle, hurried from below. There was little need to give the warning; we all clung to the weather-bulwarks. Over went the ship right on her beam-ends, and away flew the storm trysail, while every article not securely lashed was carried away. Fearful indeed was the uproar. The wind howled savagely, the sea dashed with thundering roars against the sides of the ship, the masts groaned, the bulk-heads creaked, the ropes and blocks clashed together and rattled in a way I had never before heard. Indeed, I believed that our last moments had come, for it seemed impossible unless the masts went that the ship would right. Jim and I and Horner crouched down close to each other, sheltering ourselves as we could under the bulwarks. Not far off were Miles Soper, Sam Coal, and Brown.

“Is there any chance for us?” asked Horner, his teeth chattering and his voice showing his terror.

“Chance!” answered Brown; “the chance that many a stout ship has braved as bad a hurricane, and yet come out of it not much the worse.”

We looked out for the Eleanor, but she was nowhere to be seen. Some of the men declared that she must have gone down.

“We’re afloat and why shouldn’t she be?” said Brown, who was ready to cheer every one up.

Some of the hands stole below, and I believe if they could have got into the spirit-room they would have made themselves drunk in order to forget their fears. Most of us, however, preferred remaining on deck and watching what would happen.

Suddenly, during a momentary cessation of the wind, the ship righted, and we flew on before it, though matters in other respects seemed but little mended. As the sea beat against the ship it seemed like a huge battering-ram trying to knock her to pieces, every blow making each plank shake though none gave way. Now she plunged her head into an immense hollow, now she rose rapidly to the top of a foaming sea, while the next instant another rolling on threatened to overwhelm us.

Daylight came, but it brought no cessation of the hurricane. The hours went by; not one of us thought of breakfast. Indeed, it was impossible to cook anything. We watched the masts quivering as the ship plunged into the seas, and we expected every moment to see them go by the board. The carpenter and the first mate had got their axes ready to cut them away, should such occur. At length a tremendous sea came roaring towards our weather bow. The ship struggled as if to avoid it, but she pitched headlong into the deep hollow just before her, and a monstrous sea, lifting its head half way up to the foretop, came right down on our deck, sweeping up to the main hatchway. Horner and several of the men shrieked out with terror, believing that their last moments were come. I scarcely supposed that the ship would recover herself, but suddenly she came up with a jerk, the bowsprit carried away, and the next moment it came right across our forecastle.

“Rouse up, lads, and secure the foremast,” shouted the captain.

Led by the mates, with Brown, Ringold, Soper, Jim, and me, the crew rushed forward to secure the fore-topmast stay. We then got the bowsprit inboard. After this the ship began to ride more easily, though the hurricane continued until near sunset, when it began to abate. The watch below turned in, eager to get some rest. I never slept more soundly in my life. Next morning the sun rose from a cloudless sky. A gentle breeze was blowing. The sea had already gone down, and in a few hours sparkling wavelets alone played over the surface of the deep.

Two days afterwards we brought up under the lee of South Island to repair damages. After this we again sailed to resume our search for whales.

I was forward, when I saw a dark object floating some distance on the weather bow. On my reporting it to the captain, he ordered a boat to be lowered to ascertain what it was. Mr Griffiths went in her with the doctor, Jim and I forming part of the crew. As we got near we saw that it was a creature of some sort, but it made no effort to avoid us, and seemed to be fast asleep. With his harpoon Mr Griffiths went forward. As we got closer it seemed to be an enormous turtle; the doctor said of the “trunk” species.

We paddled as noiselessly as we could for fear of waking it, and on getting close Mr Griffiths plunged his harpoon deep into its body through its shell. The creature in a moment was lively enough, and, after swimming away a short distance, turned and made a snap at the rope, which it nearly bit in two. We were up to it again, however, and two or three plunges of a lance quickly finished it. We then secured a rope to it and towed it to the ship. By means of the windlass it was hoisted on board. When lying on deck it was found to measure seventeen feet in length, to be seven feet wide, and four feet six inches in depth. All on board declared that they had never seen a creature of that species of the same size. We boiled it down as we would the blubber of a whale, and it yielded nearly a barrelful. Fish in these seas are very numerous. Sometimes from the masthead I could see the whole ocean alive with them.

Before leaving for the Sandwich Islands, for which we were next bound, we had a day’s fishing, and in a few hours caught as many as we wanted. I here also saw numbers of the paper nautilus floating on the calm surface of the water. I managed, with a small net at the end of a long pole, to catch several for my friend the doctor.

I’ll not describe our voyage back to Honolulu, the capital of the Society Islands. There were two or three merchantmen and about forty whalers at anchor. The entrance to the harbour is surrounded by coral reefs, and is very intricate. The chief pilot came out in his whale-boat, manned by natives, and as he passed each ship he hailed to have a boat sent him to assist in towing us in. In a short time we had nearly fifty whale-boats, twenty-five on each bow, in two long lines. It was one of the prettiest sights I ever witnessed, towing on the big ship at the rate of about three knots an hour between the coral reefs, making what would otherwise have been a difficult business perfectly easy. Here we exchanged the fish we had salted down for fifty barrels of potatoes and twenty of onions. Among the ships was the Eleanor, from which we had parted off Japan. As the old captain had greatly taken Dr Cockle’s fancy, he wished to pay him a visit, and invited me to accompany him. On getting on board the mate said that he was below, and considering all things, doing wonderfully well.

“What do you mean?” asked Dr Cockle.

“Why, sir, I’ll tell you,” answered the mate. “If I ever saw a wonderful thing done, our captain did it. While the typhoon which caught you as well as us was at its height our rudder broke adrift, and on getting it on board to repair, it came right down on his leg, crushing it fearfully. We all thought he must have died, for you see our doctor had left the ship some time before, and there was no one who knew what was to be done. So our skipper sat down on the deck and ordered the carpenter to bring him the surgical instruments. Our carpenter is a wonderfully clever fellow, and between them they managed to saw off the leg below the knee, to take up the arteries and stop the bleeding. (See Note 1.) We then got the old man, who is sixty years of age, into bed. Would you believe it? In a few weeks after the accident he had a turning-lathe brought to the side of his bed, and if he didn’t turn out a first-rate wooden leg for himself.”

On going below the doctor found the old captain doing wonderfully well and not requiring any further aid. Before we left he was stumping about on deck as hearty and cheery as ever. Indeed, through his courage and coolness he had undoubtedly saved his own life.

The old captain probably is dead, but Mr Rosden, the mate, who is the son of an old Downs pilot, will confirm the account I have given.

The captain was constantly on shore, and Mr Griffiths kindly let me take one of the boats, with Jim, and Soper, and Coal as a crew, and we visited every ship in the harbour, that I might make inquiries for Jack. As we pulled about, though disappointed at one ship, we half hoped to find him on board another. My heart grew sick as I approached the last.

“Do you think he’s aboard her, Miles?” I asked.

“If he isn’t don’t lose heart,” was the answer.

“No, no, don’t lose heart, Peter,” echoed Jim. “He’ll turn up some time or other. It mayn’t be to-day or it mayn’t be to-morrow, but if he’s alive—and there’s no reason why he should have lost his life—he’ll be somewhere no doubt, and you’ll be led to him, that’s my opinion.”

We got on board the ship. She was an American whaler, the William and Eliza. We found the crew in a great state of commotion, and they would scarcely listen to what I had to say. Their commander, Captain Rogers, who seemed to be a great favourite with them, had been wrongly accused of infringing the revenue laws, and had been imprisoned in a mud fort which guarded the landing-place, and they were determined to rescue him.

Most of their boats were away visiting the other ships to obtain recruits, and they declared that if he was not let out that evening they would liberate him before morning.

I, of course, could not join them, but Soper and Coal were very eager to lend a hand. I persuaded them, however, to come back with me to our ship after I had made all the inquiries I could for Jack without success.

Miles and Coal brought the news, and what was to be done on board, and several of our men declared that they would join, as much for the sake of the spree as influenced by a regard for Captain Rogers.

As evening drew in, a number of boats put off from all the American ships, and from several of the English, for the imprisoned skipper was much liked, not only by his own men, but by the captains and mates of nearly all the whaling ships. He was a great friend, too, I found, of Captain Hawkins. When the captain came on board again, he gave any of us leave to go that chose. I don’t say we were right, but when I found the second mate about to lead a party of our men, Jim and I offered to go with them, and away we pulled for the William and Eliza.

We found her surrounded by boats, carrying well-nigh two hundred men, the whole being under the command of an American captain.

We waited till nearly midnight, when the order was given to shove off. We could not tell whether the authorities on shore knew anything of what was about to take place.

We carried a number of scaling ladders, with stout ropes and hooks. The first who got up with the ladders were to fix on the hooks, so that the others might swarm up, and we might all mount the walls together.

We had no firearms, only axes, blubber-spades, and spears. We pulled in, forming a long line abreast, as silently as possible. On reaching the shore, two hands were left in each boat, and the rest of us rushed up to the fort to fix the ladders.

It took but a few seconds before we were all at the top, and down we leaped into the fort.

Nearly the whole of the garrison were asleep. When they found the place full of men some of them ran away and hid themselves, and others dashed out at the gate. We soon found the room in which Captain Rogers was shut up. The door was broken open and he was set free. Not wishing to have a disturbance with the natives, we hurried back with him the way we came, and before long were on board again. The captain made us a speech, and thanked us for setting him free, and we returned to our respective ships. I don’t know that any notice was taken of the affair by the authorities, but of course Captain Rogers was unable to go on shore again while he remained in the harbour.

Having repaired our ship and taken on board several fresh hands, who wished to return home to England, we sailed again for the Marquesas, in order to land the natives whom we had taken from those islands.

The passage lasted five weeks, during which time we didn’t see a single ship. We proceeded at once to Resolution Bay. On entering we found a French man-of-war, which immediately sent a boat on board us.

The officer in command informed the captain that the islands now belonged to France, and that we must not land anything in the shape of firearms or ammunition.

While he was still on board a boat pulled off from the shore, bringing a dozen soldiers, who, without asking leave, came up the side.

“Why do these men come on board my ship?” asked the captain.

“To see that you comply with the orders you receive,” answered the officer, who spoke very good English.

“I have no intention of breaking the laws you impose,” exclaimed the captain, who was not the man to stand that sort of thing, “but I’ll not submit to have foreign soldiers placed on board my ship.”

The French officer shrugged his shoulders, and said that he was but carrying out the orders of his superiors.

On this the captain ordered his boat to be lowered, and pulled away on board the French man-of-war. He there threatened to throw the ship on the hands of the French if the soldiers were not immediately withdrawn.

After a little time the captain returned, accompanied by a French lieutenant, who brought an order for the soldiers to return on shore. Our stay here was rendered very unpleasant by the French. As soon as we got our fresh provisions on board we sailed again for the westward, proceeding as before among the coral reefs, which lie to the north of the Society Islands. The navigation is exceedingly dangerous, as many of them are so low that they cannot be seen till the ship is close to them, and we had to keep a very sharp look-out as we sailed on. The most dangerous of all those we sighted was the Sidney group, which consist of bare sandbanks, without the least vegetation, and are nearly level with the surface of the sea. We landed on some of them to obtain birds’ eggs and fish, which are very plentiful, but they are uninhabited, as there is no fresh water.

Still sailing west we touched at the Kingsmills, passing also several other islands, till we came off Strong’s Island. Here is a magnificent harbour, surrounded by coral reefs, but the mouth is so narrow that we could not have attempted to enter had not the boats of three vessels lying there come out to assist in towing us in. On bringing up, a number of natives came off, who talked capital English, and seemed very intelligent fellows. We found that the chief of the island was named King George.

In a short time another canoe came off with a fine-looking fellow on board, who seemed as eager to trade and obtain anything he could as the rest of the natives.

At last Captain Hawkins, turning to him, said, rather roughly, “You and the other chaps must be off now.”

“You know who I am?” asked the native. “I King George, chief of all these islands.”

“I beg your majesty’s pardon, but you don’t look much like a king,” said the captain, laughing.

The chief, however, didn’t appear to be angry, and shook hands with the captain and officers, and stepping into the canoe paddled away for the shore.

“We must take care these fellows don’t play us any trick,” observed the captain to Mr Griffiths. “We’ll give them a salute to show them that we’re wide-awake.”

We carried four nine-pounders, which we forthwith fired. It was the first time we had to use them during the voyage. It was hoped that this would awe the natives, and that we should not be molested during the night. The sound of the last gun had scarcely died away, when a Captain Rounds, commanding one of the whalers, whose boats had assisted to tow us in, came on board. After he had shaken hands and the usual civilities had passed, he said—

“You are wise to show that you are wide-awake, and when you hear the account I have to give you of the fearful work which took place here not long ago, you will judge whether it will be prudent to put yourself or any of your people in the power of the natives.”

Note 1. This account is true in every respect. My friend, Mr Henry Foster, Trinity pilot, vouches for it.

Chapter Twenty Three.

A fearful narrative—Doings at Strong’s Island.

As it was very hot below, the captain had ordered chairs and a small table to be brought on deck, and he, with Captain Rounds, Dr Cockle, and Mr Griffiths, took their seats, while Mr Harvey, Horner, and I stood within earshot to hear the account our visitor had promised to give.

“I came in here about two months ago for the first time this voyage to obtain provisions and water,” began Captain Rounds, “and as none of us understood the language of the people, I shipped a couple of natives who spoke English very fairly to act as interpreters. Besides having been to sea on board other whalers, they were, I thought, likely to prove useful hands. Everything went on in a satisfactory way while I lay here. The natives who came on board behaved themselves well, and King George, their chief, seemed a very decent sort of fellow, and was as honest in his dealings as I could expect. I had made it a rule when I came out to these parts never to trust many of my people ashore at a time among the heathen natives without having some of the principal natives on board as hostages, or so well-behaved and friendly did these appear that I should otherwise not have hesitated to let half my crew land at a time, feeling confident that they would be well treated. Thus it was that I every evening at sundown fired off my guns, and kept a strict watch during the night. I did this, not from any fear of being attacked, but that I considered it prudent to keep to the rule I had laid down, and to maintain discipline on board. You’ll see that I was fortunate in doing so. I parted on good terms with King George and his people without having any reason to alter the favourable opinion I had formed of them, taking the two native interpreters with me. From the way I treated them they became very friendly and much attached to me. We had been at sea for some time, and had caught three or four whales, each of which cost us, perhaps, more than the usual trouble to take. The two natives, who go by the names of Jackey and Tubbs, seemed very much struck by the exertions we had to make to secure the whales, and one day they came to me and said that they could put me up to the means of filling the ship with perfect ease if I would follow their advice. I asked them what they meant. They then told me that a ship lay sunk in their harbour loaded with casks of oil, and that they knew the exact spot where she went down. I then learnt from them the following particulars.

“You, Hawkins, well knew Barber, who commanded the Harriet, of London, as you sailed together as mates with old Captain Newton in the Felicity. I met Barber when I first came out to the Pacific, and was wondering that I had never since heard of him or the Harriet. The natives now told me that about a year ago she had put into this harbour, there being no other vessels here at the time. You remember what a good-natured, yet somewhat careless fellow he was. The natives came in numbers on board his ship, and appeared to be on the most friendly terms with him and his crew. They at length, one day, invited his men to go ashore, and he consequently allowed the greater number of them to land. This sort of thing continued while he lay in the harbour. King George and most of his though they came down to visit the ship when she first arrived, were, at that time, living in another part of the island, and the people just here did pretty much as they liked.

“Barber, with a boat’s crew, only remained on board, when, on going on deck in the morning, he caught sight of three of his men running down towards the beach as fast as they could go, with a posse of natives after them. Presently they were overtaken. First one was struck down by the club of a savage, and directly afterwards the other two shared the same fate. The natives, on reaching the shore, jumped into their canoes, a whole fleet of which came paddling off towards the ship. The crew, on seeing this, I suspect, took fright, thinking that they should all be murdered, as their mates on shore had been. Captain Barber himself would, I am certain, have stopped to defend his ship, but probably fearing that it would be of no use to make the attempt while his crew were so faint-hearted, he ordered the boat to be lowered with such provisions and water as could be hastily thrown into her. They had scarcely left the side of the ship before the savages were up to her. They pursued the boat for some distance, but at length gave up the chase, eager to get back and secure their prize. They then set to work to plunder the vessel of everything they considered of value. They stripped her of her sails and rigging, and all the iron-work they could get at, managing even to carry away her topmasts, jib-boom, and yards. Having done this, they towed the vessel higher up the harbour and scuttled her.

“When King George, who had known Captain Barber and some of his people—for he had been down at the harbour when the ship first arrived—heard of the massacre he was very indignant, and Jackey and Tubbs told me that he killed no less than thirty of those who had taken part in it with his own hand. Whether this was actually the case or not I could not make out; but, after cross-questioning the two natives, I came to the conclusion that he himself had no hand in the massacre, and was entirely ignorant of it till afterwards. What has become of poor Barber and his boat’s crew I am anxious to ascertain; but he would have had a fearfully long passage to make to any other island, and I’m afraid that he and his companions must have perished from hunger and thirst before they could have reached any friendly shore.

“Having fallen in shortly after I heard this with the Lydia and Pearl, I communicated the intelligence to them, and we determined to put in here to ascertain the truth of the story.

“Now you have come we shall be sufficiently strong-handed both to defend ourselves from the natives, and to recover the Harriet’s cargo if we cannot raise her.”

Captain Hawkins at once entered into Captain Rounds’ views, and they agreed the next morning with their brother captains to set to work. Captain Rounds, who was a very ingenious man, had a diving-bell constructed out of a cask, with pipes to lead the air into it.

Proceeding with the boats, we found the ship sunk in six fathoms of water at a spot Jackey and Tubbs pointed out. They willingly agreed to descend in the diving-bell, and Brown and another man also went down in it. It was then found that the ship had been set on fire, but she had sunk before the flames had reached the cargo. It was calculated that there were one thousand six hundred barrels of oil in her.

Her figure-head and other articles were got up, thus clearly identifying her as the unfortunate Harriet.

The captains proposed raising her, and dividing the oil between them; but after a great deal of consultation it was considered that they had better give up the plan, as it would have occupied a long time, and caused a difficulty on their arrival at home as to whether they had a right to possess themselves of it. Thus the results of many a hard month’s labour were lost.

King George watched our proceedings with much interest, generally hovering about the boats in his canoe while we were at work. Perhaps he thought from the first that we should not succeed, though I think we should have done so had it been desirable to make the attempt. As soon as the undertaking was abandoned, the other vessels, which had only come in for water and provisions, sailed, and we were left alone in the harbour. The king, who did not appear to be at all offended by the way Captain Hawkins had treated him on his first visit, at once came on board, and appeared to be excessively friendly. He spoke English remarkably well, having learned it on board a whaler in his youth, and kept it up by frequently talking to runaway sailors who had remained at the island. He invited the captain to go ashore and visit him in his palace, the name we gave to the great hut in which he lived.

“With great pleasure, king,” answered the captain: “but fair play’s a jewel, you know. If I go to visit you, your brother here will remain on board to keep my mates company till I return.”

The captain told Mr Griffiths to keep a strict watch on the king’s brother, and not to allow him to leave the cabin lest he might slip overboard and swim on shore.

We called the young savage Charlie, though that was not his real name. Charlie, who spoke a little English, seemed perfectly content; and when the king and the captain went on shore, descended to the cabin without the slightest hesitation. As the stern-windows, through which Charlie might have squeezed himself if he had had a mind, were left open for the sake of the air, Mr Griffiths told me to remain in the cabin whenever he was on deck. At night he was locked up in the state-room. I don’t know that the captain was very well pleased at having the savage sleeping in his bed.

Next morning the captain came back, saying that he had been hospitably treated. In the afternoon, as Charlie wished to return, and as the doctor and several men were on shore, the captain sent me, with Miles Soper and Brown, to bring the king off, that he might take his brother’s place.

We pulled up a long narrow creek for several miles, till we arrived at the royal residence, which was a large hut with a framework of poles and roofed over with matting. Near it were other huts, and a number of natives were employed in different ways, some pounding kava between two large stones, when the root, thus thoroughly bruised, was thrown into water. This is a much pleasanter way of preparing the beverage than by employing the women to chew it, as is done in Samoa.

The king was away when we arrived, and we had thus plenty of time to walk about the village and look around us. Some natives were engaged in cooking fish and yams. This was done by putting them into a hole on the top of some hot stones and leaves, and then covering them up with more hot stones, leaves, and earth at the top of all. We soon had an opportunity of tasting them, and I can answer for their being most delicious.

As the king didn’t appear we walked some little distance into the country, for we knew that we were perfectly safe while the king’s brother remained as a hostage. Going into a hut we found a young woman about to light a fire. I watched the process. She first took half of the log that had been split in two and laid it down with the split side upwards; then taking a small piece of hard wood about a foot long and pointed at one end, she sat down astride of the log and commenced rubbing the sharp point of the stick up and down the grain of the large piece, thus making a groove, and shoving the shavings which she worked out to the farther end, till at length they ignited, when immediately catching up some dry leaves which lay handy, and blowing gently, she soon obtained a blaze. I tried the experiment under her directions and succeeded very well. Though simple and easy as is this method of obtaining fire, I have never seen it tried in any other place.

On our return to the village we found the king, who invited us to feast on the fish and yams which I had seen cooking. We were now joined by the captain and Dr Cockle, with the second mate and several men, and I was directed to go back with the king, who had to take his brother’s place on board.

His majesty preferred going alone in his own canoe. I sat in the bows with a long pole to keep the bow off the rocks as we went down the creek, and he placed himself astern with a paddle in his hand. He giving the canoe a shove from the bank, away we went. I was highly amused at the thought of carrying off the king as a prisoner. He, however, seemed to take it as a matter of course, and chatted and laughed as we glided along. Presently he asked—

“You young Englishman ever been here before? I think I know your face.”

“When was it your majesty fancied that you saw me?” I inquired.

“Let me see,” he said, holding his paddle in the air for a moment; “were you ever aboard the ship that my rascally people sent to the bottom out there?” and he pointed to where the Harriet lay.

“No,” I answered, a dreadful thought coming into my mind. “Was the person you fancy I am killed with the rest of the crew?”

“I think not. If I think so, I no ask you,” he answered. “I see him with the captain when he visit the shore, and each time I go on board the ship. When I come down to the harbour I took great fancy to him, and asked captain to let him stay with me, but he and captain say no. He want to go home to see father and mother, brother and sister. When I found the men killed I remembered him, but no find him ’mong them. Dat all I know, but me think that he was with captain when they got away in the boat.”

At first, on hearing what the king said, I was almost in despair, for I was very sure that he was speaking of my brother Jack, as I thought that by this time I should have grown very like him, as I often heard my mother say that I was so when I was at the age at which he went to sea. How he had got on board the Harriet I could not tell, any more than I could what had become of her boat. Still there was a possibility of his having escaped. I had no wish to return on shore with “Prince Charlie” after I had handed the king over to the care of Mr Griffiths, as I wanted to talk about the matter to Jim. As may be supposed, we did talk about it for many an hour. I was now eager to be out of the harbour, in the hopes that we might visit some other islands at which Jack might be found. Jim was as sanguine as ever that he would be found. When I told Mr Griffiths he looked very grave.

“It is possible, my lad,” he said, “and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to find him at last; but you know what is likely to have been the fate of the poor fellows in a boat, with a scanty supply of provisions and a long voyage to the nearest land. Just look at the chart. We are away from all civilised countries, with the wildest savages on each side of us.”

Next day, when the captain and the rest of the party came on board, and as soon as our royal visitor had taken his departure, I was very glad to hear the order given to get under way. The breeze being fair we stood out of the harbour.

We were soon at our old work again. My patience was sorely tried. If I had not been actively engaged I don’t know what I should have done.

My idea was that the captain would at once sail in search of the missing boat, but he had no idea of the sort in his head. He either was convinced that she was lost, or considered that it was his business to fill up his ship as soon as possible, and not to waste time in looking for those who might never be found.

We had caught several whales, when the time came for returning to the Japan fishing ground, as it’s called, some distance off the east coast of those islands. My hope of finding Jack decreased, but didn’t die away altogether.

Jim kept me up. “We don’t know in what direction the boat went,” he observed. “She may have steered to the northward, and we are as likely to fall in with him the way we’re going as anywhere else.”

I often consulted the chart. To the northward of Strong’s Island I saw the Caroline group, consisting of a vast number of coral islands, and north-west of them, again, the Ladrone Islands, the principal of which, Guam, is inhabited by Spaniards. Knowing this, Captain Barber may have attempted to reach it, and one day, to my satisfaction, I heard from the doctor that Captain Hawkins intended to call there before returning home.

We were now leaving those islands I have mentioned to the southward. We were very successful on the Japan ground, and nearly completed our cargo, at least the lower hold was full.

At length, one calm day, a large whale was seen spouting at some distance from the ship. Four boats were lowered. The captain, the two mates, and Brown went in them, Miles Soper going as the chief mate’s boat-steerer. His boat was the first up, and in a short time Soper put two irons into the whale, which almost instantly turned over on its back, threw its lower jaw open, and nipped her clean in two.

Wonderful to relate, the men all got clear, and Mr Griffiths, standing up on half of the boat, plunged his lance right down the whale’s throat, and then jumped off and swam with the other men to the next boat coming up. The captain’s boat now fastened to the whale, which, turning as before on its back, treated her in the way it had the first. When we who were on board saw this, we began to lower the spare boats as fast as we could. While we were thus employed, the doctor, who was looking on, exclaimed—

“There’s a third boat caught!”

And we saw that the second mate’s boat, which had got up, had been nipped by the whale. Brown’s boat, the fourth, now pulled gallantly up, watching every movement of the monster, if necessary to get out of its way; but the wound it had received had already weakened it, and though it made at his boat he escaped, and succeeded in plunging several harpoons and lances into its body.

Meanwhile the crews of the other boats which had been destroyed had been hanging on to them, and though the sea was swarming with sharks it was a remarkable fact that not one of the men was lost. Sharks rarely bite people when a whale is bleeding, but keep following the track of the blood. Brown took some of the men on board, and we in the spare boats, leaving only the doctor and two hands to take care of the ship, pulled quickly up and rescued the remainder.

We soon had the whale alongside; it was the largest we had caught—nearly a hundred feet in length; but we got very little oil out of it, for, having been fastened to previously, there was a huge swelling on its back as big as a tun butt, which was, no doubt, the cause of the blubber being so thin. We had still some spare space, and the crew were eager to catch the additional whales required to complete our cargo, that we might at length direct our course homeward. Although I should have before been the most eager of any to return to England, yet now, with the idea that had taken hold of me that Jack was somewhere in the neighbourhood, I was anxious to remain until I had found him. Jim shared my feelings, but I didn’t suppose anybody else did.

We remained a week or more, however, after killing the last huge whale which had cost us so much trouble, without seeing another, when the captain determined to steer for the Ladrone Islands. As we had now been some months without obtaining fresh provisions, we first directed our course for the Bonins, some degrees to the eastward of the coast of Japan. We understood that there were wild pigs, if not goats and sheep, on them. At all events, that fish could be caught in abundance off the shore. In a few days we sighted them, and ran under the lee of one of the group called South Island. Here the ship was hove-to, and a boat lowered, in which Mr Griffiths, the doctor, Horner, Jim and I, Brown and Miles Soper and Coal, with two other men, went. We took with us besides fishing-lines the whaling gear and a couple of muskets, three or four casks to fill with water, and provisions for the day, for we didn’t intend to get back to the ship till evening.

Mr Griffiths, who had been there before, took the boat inside a high reef of rocks, where he had, he said, caught a number of fish.

Our first object was to obtain bait. Miles Soper and Coal undertook to swim on shore with baskets and catch some crabs, for which the fish in these seas seem to have a special fondness. We pulled in as close as we could to land them, and in a short time they filled their baskets, and shouted to us to return and take them off. We now dropped our kedge anchor just inside the surf, in between two and three fathoms of water, which was so clear that we could see the fish as they swam about, darted at the bait, and swallowed the hooks.

We quickly hauled in a number of magnificent fish. We were so eager at the sport that we didn’t consider how rapidly the time passed, while the doctor was more occupied with admiring the variously-coloured coral, the richly-tinted seaweeds, and the curiously-shaped fish of all the hues of the rainbow, swimming in and out among the trees of their marine gardens.

At last Mr Griffiths, pulling out his watch, exclaimed, “Hulloa! How time has gone by! Get up the anchor, lads. We ought to be off.”

The order was more easily given than obeyed. We hauled and hauled, but the anchor had got foul of the coral, and we ran a risk of losing it. Soper offered to go down and clear it, but just then a huge shark showed his ugly throat alongside, and Mr Griffiths would not let him go. At last, just as it was dark, Brown managed to get the anchor up.

When we pulled outside the reef we found that the weather had changed. It was blowing very hard, though, sheltered as we had been, we had not discovered this. We looked eagerly out for the ship, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Our life on an uninhabited island.

We were still in smooth water, but the sea was breaking in the offing, the white caps rising against the dark sky. Mr Griffiths thought that the ship might have stood to the eastward and be concealed by the point of land which ran out in that direction. We eagerly gave way and pulled off from the shore. Several times he stood up to look about him. At length he cried out—

“There she is! There she is! She’s burning a blue light.”

We all looked in the direction he pointed, which was almost abeam, and there we saw a light, appearing, however, just above the horizon. He at once steered the boat towards it, but as we pulled on the seas increased and frequently broke aboard us; the wind was rising rapidly, and in a short time blew a heavy gale. In vain we again looked out for the light; none could be seen, and there was a great risk, should we continue to pull on, of the boat being swamped.

The doctor and Mr Griffiths talked together earnestly; the latter then said—

“Lads, there’s no help for it, we must try and get on shore for the night, and in the morning, if the wind goes down, the captain will stand in to look for us.”

We all knew the danger we were in, for in pulling round the boat might be caught on her broadside and turned over; but it had to be done, and we trusted to Mr Griffiths’ steering. We gave way as he told us, though for a moment I thought all was over as a sea struck the boat abeam and half swamped her.

We got round, however, and while Horner and I baled her out, the men pulled in towards the shore. It was now very dark. All we could see ahead was an irregular line of black, but whether rocks or hills rising near the beach we could not tell. As we neared the shore Mr Griffiths stood up looking out for a landing-place, but no opening could he discover in the rocks, against which the surf was now breaking furiously; should we get within its power the boat, we knew, would be dashed to pieces in a moment. The wind went on increasing till it blew almost a hurricane. At last Dr Cockle exclaimed—

“There is an opening. We passed it this morning. I remember it by the clump of trees on the top of a rounded hill, and I can now make them out against the sky.”

Mr Griffiths hesitated. Should the doctor be wrong in another minute we should be hurled to destruction against the rugged rocks. Just then the moon rising on the other side of the island broke through the clouds and showed us clearly the outline of the trees and the hill.

The mate hesitated no longer, but telling us to give way steered in for the opening. The surf broke wildly on either side of us, flying up above our heads; the seas came rearing on astern, threatening to engulf us. We all gave way steadily together. Now the boat rose on the top of a foaming sea, and then down she glided into comparatively smooth water inside the reef, and we were safe.

Pulling on, we saw ahead a small bay with the trees coming down to the water’s edge. Their tops were waving wildly, but we felt but little wind where we were, and we were able to run the boat’s head on to the beach and land without difficulty. We at once drew her up and looked out for a sheltered spot under some rocks to camp. Here we got a fire lighted, as there were plenty of broken branches and leaves lying about, and soon had some of the fish we had caught cooking before it.

Outside the tempest was howling furiously, and we had reason to be thankful that we had gained the shore, as no boat could have lived in the sea which was by this time running.

After supper was over, and we had dried our clothes, wet through and through by the spray, we lay down to sleep under the rock. Mr Griffiths assured us that there were no wild beasts or natives to molest us in the island, though we were not altogether free from danger, as the trees which grew on the top of the rock above our heads might be blown down, or the upper part of the rock itself might give way and crush us.

That we might have some chance in being awakened so as to enable us to attempt to escape, as also to prevent the fire going out, Mr Griffiths arranged that one of the party should keep watch. The doctor offered to keep the first watch. Mr Griffiths and the rest of the men then stowed themselves away close under the cliff. I, feeling no inclination to sleep, joined the doctor, who was sitting by the fire on one of the water-casks, every now and then throwing on a few sticks and making it blaze up cheerfully. I asked him if the ship were likely to return soon to take us off.

“Not till the hurricane is over,” he said; “the captain will not like to come near the coast for fear of being driven on it.”

“Then you think, sir, that we shall remain here long enough to explore the island?” I said.

“Why do you wish to explore the island?” he asked.

“Because I have a notion that my brother Jack is upon it,” I replied. “They say there are pigs here, and there are, no doubt, plenty of birds, and he would be able to live as well as Miles Soper and Coal did on Juan Fernandez.”

“But it’s a hundred to one—I may say a thousand to one—that the boat was driven here; besides which, so many whalers pass by this island that he would have been seen and taken off even if he had come here. You only raise up such ideas to disappoint yourself. Don’t think about it; lie down and go to sleep.”

Notwithstanding what the doctor had said, I could not get the idea out of my head, and longed for morning, that I might set off and make a tour round the island with Jim, who, I knew, would be ready to come with me, as would Miles Soper and some of the others.

Notwithstanding the howling of the wind above our heads, and the wild roar of the breakers on the rocky coast, contrary to my expectation I fell fast asleep, and didn’t wake till the mate roused up all hands at daylight. The storm was raging as wildly as ever. Furious torrents of rain had come down, but the watch had managed to keep in the fire, and we all gathered round it to cook some more fish and dry our damp clothes. We were in good spirits, for we knew that the gale would blow itself out in a short time, and we expected that the ship would then come and take us off.

As soon as I proposed to Jim to explore the island, he at once agreed to accompany me. The doctor and Miles Soper also said that they would go. The latter carried one of the muskets, which the mate said we might take, and the rest of us armed ourselves with long pointed sticks. The mate thought we might as well go armed, for though the island had hitherto been uninhabited, it was possible that some savages might have been driven as far north in their double canoes, and might attack us if they found we were unable to defend ourselves.

We took some cooked fish for provisions, and we hoped to find water as we proceeded. We had first to make our way through a thick forest, of what the doctor called tamana-trees—some of them being of gigantic size. It was often so dark beneath their thick boughs that we could with difficulty see our way; but we went on, guided by the doctor’s pocket-compass, in a straight line, until we at length got out of the forest into more open country. He proposed going on till we reached a hill which we saw some way off, and there to light a fire, that the smoke might attract the attention of any one living on the island. He carried out his plan, and collecting sticks as we neared the spot, having brought tinder and matches, we quickly had a fire blazing. We looked in vain, however, all round the island for an answering signal.

“Perhaps, if there is any one, he is down by the shore, and has no means of striking a light,” said the doctor; “or maybe he is still sheltering himself from the storm.”

As this seemed very likely, leaving the fire burning, we made our way down to the beach on the farther side of the island.

The view from the hill on the north side showed us only rugged and broken ground, and we therefore proceeded along the shore as close as we could get towards the southern end. We saw plenty of birds, which would have afforded us food if we had had time to stop and shoot them. It was somewhat rough work, especially in the more exposed places against the wind. At last we got back to the part we had started from, just as night was falling. From every height we kept a look-out for the ship, but she did not appear.

“You’re convinced now, Peter, that your brother is not on this island,” said the doctor. “I should have rejoiced if we had found him, but I did not think it at all likely that he is here. However, that is no reason why he should not be somewhere else.”

We had found water on our way, and the mate had discovered a spring not far from our camp. The hurricane, which had abated somewhat during the day, came on again as night approached, and we were thankful to obtain the shelter of our rock. The wind blew more furiously than ever, the lightning flashed and ran along the ground—now and again crashes were heard as some tall tree was struck and rent in two, while the rain at times came down in torrents, and nearly put out the fire. We, however, got shelter from the overhanging rock. We had just done supper, when Mr Griffiths observed—

“I’m afraid something may happen to our boat. The breakers sound so loud that they perhaps are dashing over the reef, and the sea may sweep up and carry her off.”

We hurried down to where we had left the boat. A bright flash of lightning revealed her to us, with the seething water rushing up under her keel. Dashing forward, we seized her just as a second wave was lifting her, and in a few seconds would have carried her off. We dragged her up the beach till we had placed her, as we hoped, out of the reach of the water.

While we were thus employed we heard a loud crash coming from the direction of our camp. On returning, we discovered our fire nearly out, but it blazed sufficiently to show us a mass of earth and rock, and two tall trees, which had fallen on the very spot where a few minutes before we had all been collected.

We were thankful for our preservation, though we had lost the only shelter we knew of. The mate suggested that we should go back to the boat, turn her over, and creep under her for shelter. As no trees were near where she lay, we hoped that we might thus rest in perfect safety. Having taken the things out of her, we did as he proposed, and one by one crept in, and stretched ourselves upon the damp ground. After the exertions I had made during the day I felt very sleepy, and though I remained awake for some time thinking of Jack, my eyes at length closed.

I was awakened by hearing three distinct loud raps on the bottom of the boat. I fancied that I must be dreaming, but I found that Jim and Horner, who were sleeping next to me, were awake, and had heard the sounds.

“What are you lads making that noise for?” asked Mr Griffiths.

I told him of the raps which had awakened me.

“I thought it was one of you that made them,” he said.

“I heard them also,” remarked the doctor, from his end of the boat.

The rest of the men were asleep; all of us were inside, and the sound certainly came from the outside. On this I crawled out from under the boat, half expecting to see some one standing there, but neither human being nor animal was visible. The rain had ceased, but the night was very dark, and there was time for a person after the knocks had been given to retreat into the woods. Still, I didn’t think that it could have been Jack. I returned to the boat, supposing that whoever had knocked would knock again. The expectation of this kept me awake, and I determined that I would try to spring out and catch the person, whoever he was. I waited, however, in vain, and in less than two hours saw the daylight coming in under the gunwale.

The surf was still breaking with a loud roar on the rocks, but the wind had ceased to howl through the trees, and I hoped that the hurricane was nearly over. The noise I made in getting out from under the boat awakened those sleeping near me, and the rest of the party were soon on foot.

The first thing we did was to go back to our camp and see the effect of the landslip. The spot where we had been sitting was covered with a large mass of earth, rocks, and trees. We found a hollow in the rock near the spot, which appeared safe, and here we determined to light a fire and cook some more of our fish. While most of the people were thus employed, Mr Griffiths, the doctor, and I climbed to the highest rock in the neighbourhood, that we might take a look-out for the ship. The sun was just rising, and cast a ruddy glow over the still heaving ocean covered with foam-crested seas, which, rolling in towards the shore, broke into masses of spray as they reached the surrounding reefs. In vain we looked round for the ship; not the slightest speck of white appeared above the horizon.

“Can anything have happened to her?” said the doctor, in an anxious tone.

“She has weathered out many a worse gale than we have just had,” observed the mate. “My only fear is that in attempting to make the land she may have been driven on one of the hidden reefs which abound everywhere hereabouts.”

“And if so, what are we to do?” inquired the doctor.

“We must try to reach the nearest islands inhabited by civilised people. We have casks sufficient to hold water for the voyage.”

“I still hope she will come,” said the doctor; “but we must not lose heart whatever happens.”

Taking another look round, we returned to the camp, where we found a blazing fire and the fish cooked. We remained all that day and the next, unable to get out and catch any more fish. By this time our stock was completely exhausted—indeed, for the last day it had been scarcely eatable. While two of the men remained on shore to collect salt from the rocks, the rest of us went off, and with the crab-bait soon caught a large quantity of fish. In two days we got as many as we could well carry. Some of these were salted, others were smoked over the fire. We didn’t fail, as may be supposed, to pay frequent visits to our look-out place on the rock. Day after day went by and no sail appeared.

“She’s not coming back,” said Mr Griffiths, at length; “something must have happened to her; and I put it to you whether we remain here or try to reach either Japan or the Ladrones. Though Guam, which is the chief island of the Ladrones, is much farther off than Japan, we are likely to receive better treatment from the Spaniards than we are from the Japanese, who may either send us off again or put us to death. The passage there is also likely to prove more boisterous than to Guam.”

The mate, having concluded his remarks, put the matter to the vote. Two of the men said they would rather remain on the island. No one proposed going to Japan, and the doctor and Miles Soper wished to steer for Guam. The rest of us voted with them. The mate considered that the sooner we were off the better. He said that the island was not a bad residence, but that when the winter came on we should have rains and storms, and might be unable to catch any fish or find other means of supporting life. We therefore at once set to work to prepare for the voyage. We first put off and caught a supply of fish, which we cured as before. We might have killed some birds, but we were unwilling to expend our small stock of powder, which we might require to defend ourselves against any natives who might prove hostile.

Led by the doctor, Brown, Jim, and I started to explore the neighbourhood, to collect scurvy grass or roots of any sort which might serve as vegetables. The natural productions of the country appeared to be very limited, but we dug up some roots which the doctor pronounced wholesome.

We were about returning in despair of obtaining what we wanted, when we came, near the shore on the other side of the bay, on a small open space overgrown with what at first looked like weeds, but I saw the doctor’s eye brighten as he espied them. Hurrying on he pulled away eagerly at the seeming weeds.

“Here are onions,” he cried, “of more value to us than gold; and see, here are potatoes, and these are cabbages, though somewhat overgrown, but there are leaves enough to supply us for a month.”

We set to work to dig up the onions and potatoes with our pointed sticks, and to pull away at the cabbage leaves.

“Some beneficent person must have planted a garden here not long ago,” said the doctor, as we were labouring with might and main. “These vegetables may be the means of preserving our lives, for without them we should have run a great risk of suffering from scurvy.”

We each of us loaded ourselves with as many of the roots as we could carry, and staggered back with them to camp. We were received with a loud shout by our companions, who knew the value of what we had brought.

We quickly had some of the potatoes roasting in the ashes, on which, with some onions and fish, we made a more hearty meal than we had taken since we landed. We had fortunately an iron pot, in which we were able to boil a quantity of the potatoes, and afterwards the greens and some of the roots, which, being well-seasoned with salt, the doctor hoped would keep for some time.

All our preparations being made, one morning, having breakfasted at daylight, the doctor and I went up to the top of the rock to take a last look-out for the ship. On coming down we saw the boat in the water loaded, when, all hands getting aboard, we shoved off and stood out through the reef with a fair breeze from the north-west and a smooth sea. The wind would have been directly against us had we been bound for Japan, so we were glad that we had decided to sail to the southward.

Our boat was somewhat deeply laden with provisions and water, but our cargo would be rapidly lightened, and Mr Griffiths told us we must be prepared to heave some of it overboard should bad weather come on. We were all in health and good spirits, our chief anxiety being about the fate of the ship.

I must pass rapidly over the first part of our voyage. We had the boat’s compass to steer by, but having no quadrant to take an observation or log-line to mark accurately the distance run, we could only guess at the rate we made. Mr Griffiths, however, was a good navigator, and was pretty certain that he was correct. We had, we fancied, plenty of food, but from the first he put us all on an allowance of water.

While the sea remained smooth he also made us change our places constantly, and by the doctor’s advice he ordered one at a time to stand up and move his arms and legs about to prevent them from becoming stiff. He also encouraged us to spin yarns and sing songs; indeed, he did everything in his power to keep us in good spirits.

After the first day of our landing we had not touched any of the biscuits we had brought with us. These we now husbanded with great care in case our other provisions should run short or spoil, which the doctor feared might be the case. We were much indebted to him for the precautions taken, as Mr Griffiths carried out all his suggestions.

We had a whole week of fine weather, and we could favourably compare our lot with that of many poor fellows who had to voyage in open boats in the Pacific, exposed to storms, and often with a scant allowance of food and water. The wind was generally from the northward, and when it fell calm we took to our oars. Mr Griffiths told us that we had a distance of between seven and eight hundred miles to run, as far as he could calculate, and that if the fine weather continued we might hope to reach Guam in ten days or a fortnight.

We had got on so well that we began to fancy that we should have no difficulties to encounter. We were, of course, constantly on the look-out for vessels. At length we sighted a sail, but she was standing away from us. We steered after her for some distance, but before nightfall her topgallant sails sank beneath the horizon, and we again kept on our course.

“I wonder whether that craft out there is the Intrepid,” said Jim to me.

“Little chance of that,” I remarked. “If she escaped shipwreck, or has not been severely damaged, she would have come to look for us long before we left the island.”

“Perhaps the skipper fancied that we were lost, and didn’t think it worth while to come and look for us,” said Jim.

Four days after this, according to Mr Griffiths’s calculations, we were in the latitude of Guam, but to the eastward of the island. Brown, however, was of opinion that we had run farther to the south, and that if we stood east we should see it on our port bow. We accordingly hauled up on the port tack. Scarcely had we done so when the weather, which had lately looked threatening, completely changed. A strong wind began to blow from the north-west; it rapidly increased, and the sea got up and began to break over the bows in a way which threatened to swamp the boat. Three hands baled away together, but even thus we could scarcely keep the boat free of water.

“We must form a raft to serve as a breakwater,” said Mr Griffiths.

We lashed three oars together, the sail was lowered, the boat rounded to, and the raft, with a stout rope to it, was hove overboard, the rope being secured to the bows. At the same time the steering-oar was peaked and fixed into the after-thwart, with the flat of the blade facing the bows. This served as a sail, and kept the boat’s head to the sea.

Thus, with the seas roaring and hissing round us, driving at the rate of two miles an hour to the southward and west, we prepared to pass the night, all of us feeling that we might never see another sun rise.

Chapter Twenty Five.

A perilous voyage in the whale-boat.

The night was very dark, the sea rose fearfully high. Now the water broke over the starboard, now over the port bow, nearly swamping the boat, and all hands were employed in baling it out. We worked for our lives, for should another sea come before the boat was clear she might be swamped. Some of the men cried out that we should not live through the night.

Mr Griffiths and the doctor cheered them up, but if it hadn’t been for the raft ahead, which broke the seas, I believe that we must have gone down. I had heard of boats being saved by hanging on under the lee of a dead whale, but I had not supposed that a few oars lashed together would have served as an effectual breakwater.

The peaked oar played a most important part by keeping the boat’s head to the wind, and at a sufficient distance from the raft. She must otherwise have broached to, and it must have been driven against her and stove in the side.

As soon as the boat was clear of water, Brown sang out, “Now let’s have a stave, lads,” and he began to sing, but few were able to join in with him.

Jim and I tried, knowing Brown’s object, but we had scarcely got through a verse when another sea came roaring on board, nearly carrying over the men in the bows, and washing away some of our provisions. We all had immediately to turn to again and bale out the boat. No one thought of singing after this, for directly we were free of one sea another broke aboard us. It was a mercy that they didn’t come together.

“We must pray to God, lads,” cried Mr Griffiths. “He who rules the seas and winds, if we ask Him, can save us if He thinks fit. Don’t cease baling. He likes people to work and pray, but not to fall down on their knees while there’s work to be done and leave it undone.”

He and the doctor set the example by baling away as hard as any of us. We had the boat’s regular balers, our iron pot, and a couple of small buckets; the rest of us used our hats and caps. Still, do all we could, it was a difficult matter to keep the boat free from water. We were wet through, as was everything in the boat, and we were afraid that our provisions would be spoilt, except perhaps the onions and potatoes.

Hour after hour went slowly by, for we had no time for talking to make it appear shorter. Still the night did come to an end at last, but there were no signs of the gale abating. As soon as the sun rose we looked out eagerly on all sides for land. Nothing broke the uniform line of the horizon except the foam-topped seas, which rose up tumultuously between us and it. We were driving all this time, it must be remembered, to the southward at the rate, the mate said, of two knots an hour, so that if we had been near Guam when the gale came on we were being driven farther and farther from it, and it would be a hard matter to regain the island.

We had taken nothing during the night, and we now all cried out for food. The store of salt fish we had remaining was scarcely eatable, for the salt had been washed out of it, and it was becoming bad. What we had smoked was a little better, but that also was almost spoilt, yet such as it was we were glad to have a portion with an onion apiece, and a small mug half full of water. The mate would give us no more.

“What I do is for the good of all of us, lads,” he said. “I can’t tell when we may make the land, or what provisions we may find when we get there.”

Horner sang out, “We had some biscuit. What has become of that? Why don’t you let us have a piece for our breakfasts?”

“Because the biscuits will keep longer than anything else, and are all we may have to depend upon,” answered the doctor, who had got them under him in the stern-sheets, and had been trying from the first to keep them as free from water as possible.

We had till now fancied that we had an abundance of food, but some had been washed overboard and some had been completely spoilt, so we found to our dismay that we had a very small quantity remaining. Horner now began to complain bitterly of hunger and thirst, declaring that if he didn’t get some food he must die.

Jim and I endeavoured to cheer him up. It was not a matter to joke about; indeed I was myself feeling the pangs of hunger and getting weaker and less able to work, though I did my best. Jim kept up better than I did. We had not much time to be thinking, however, for we were compelled to be constantly baling the greater part of the day.

Towards evening the sun broke through the western clouds, sending his rays athwart the troubled ocean, and tinging the seas with a ruddy hue, while his heat dried our wet clothes.

Soon afterwards the wind began to drop, but the seas still ran so high that the mate thought it prudent to hang on some time longer to our raft. However, they no longer broke on board as they had been doing, and we had better hopes than on the previous night that we should see another sun rise. We had been awake so long that none of us were able to keep our eyes open, and I suspect that at times every person in the boat was fast asleep. I know for my part that I must have dozed through the greater part of the night, for I was awakened by hearing the mate’s voice saying—

“Now, lads, we will get the raft on board and make sail.”

I jumped up to lend a hand. We got the oars out and put the boat before the seas while we set up the mast and hoisted the sail.

The wind was still in the same quarter, blowing directly from where we supposed Guam to be, and as there were no hopes of making it the mate determined to run for some island to the southward, where, though it might be uninhabited, we should probably find cocoanuts and water, and might catch some fish.

As none of the islands are very close together we ran a great risk of passing between them without seeing land, but then again he argued that we might be days or weeks beating up to Guam, and as he could not tell its exact position, we might even pass it after all, while by keeping to the south we might have a better prospect of having fine weather, and finding food on any shore at which we might touch. On the other hand again there was the risk of falling among savages, for the natives of these latitudes were known to be fierce, treacherous, and inhospitable to strangers.

We might, however, possibly meet with some ship, as we should cross the course pursued by Spanish vessels sailing from America to the Philippines. Should we pass through the Caroline group we should have another long channel to sail over, and must then reach the coast of New Guinea. If driven thus far south our prospect of escape was small indeed; though we might obtain food, the people were supposed to be extremely savage and cruel.

The doctor, to cheer us, said that he had some doubts about that, for although such was the character of the natives of some parts, there were others who might treat us kindly should we fall among them, provided we behaved well and showed that we wished to be friendly.

As we sailed on the sea gradually went down, and at length we were running with a light breeze over the smooth ocean. Though at first the warm sun was pleasant it soon became very hot, and while it dried our clothes increased our thirst.

At the same time the heat destroyed the remaining portion of our fish, which became so bad that we were obliged to throw it overboard. We had now only a few raw potatoes and onions, and the little store of biscuits which the doctor had so wisely husbanded.

The mate told us that we must make up our minds to live on very short allowance, and be content with a quarter of a biscuit, an onion, and a small piece of raw potato. To make the latter more wholesome he cut them and hung them up to dry in the sun. Our food was served out about noon, and each day we sat eagerly waiting for the hour. Horner would turn his eyes up and watch the sun till he fancied that it had gained its greatest altitude, and then cry out to the mate—

“It must be twelve o’clock, now, sir. Won’t Dr Cockle look at his watch and see?”

The doctor was the only person who kept his watch wound up. The mate had collected all the provisions and placed them in the stern-sheets, and he didn’t think fit to tell us how rapidly they were going. The quantity he served out was scarcely sufficient to keep body and soul together, but he acted for the best; there was no doubt about that. We were all becoming rapidly weaker, and longing for some substantial fare. Horner at last cried out that if he didn’t get it he must die. Two or three of the other men said much the same thing. As I looked at their faces I felt afraid that they spoke the truth. Our limbs were swollen, and we felt so stiff that we were scarcely able to move.

“Trust in God, lads,” said the mate, to try and cheer us up.

We were no longer inclined to spin yarns or sing songs, and only now and then exchanged a few words with each other. Not long after this, as I was gazing over the side, I saw a movement in the water, and presently a score of flying-fish rose from the sea, their wings glittering in the sunlight, and about a dozen pitched into the boat. Oh, how eagerly we all stooped down to seize them! Just then, as I was looking out, expecting some more to come, I saw several dolphins, which had no doubt been pursuing the flying-fish, and now came close up to the boat, looking out for them.

Notwithstanding our hunger the doctor advised that we should split the fish and hang them up in the sun to dry. We were, however, too hungry to do this, but the mate insisted that all should be handed to him. He then served out to each of us half a fish, which we eagerly devoured. This meal, scanty as it was, somewhat restored our strength.

“I told you to trust in God, lads,” said the mate. “See He has sent us these fish, and He’ll send us more, never fear.”

Before long I saw, a hundred yards off, another flight of flying-fish rise from the sea, and come darting through the air like masses of silver, when, to our joy, a number struck the sail and dropped into the bottom of the boat. The mate immediately served out the remainder of those which had at first been sent to us. This made the men cheer up more than ever, as we expected that, now we had got into the tropics, we should have an ample supply every day.

We saw large quantities of dolphins, bonitos, and albicores, which pursue the flying-fish, and induce them to seek for safety in flight; but none of the larger fish came near enough to enable us to catch them, though Brown, harpoon in hand, stood up as long as he could keep his feet, in the expectation of striking one. It was very tantalising to see them sporting round us, and yet not to be able to get one on board. We had, however, a sufficient number of flying-fish to give us a good meal each for that and the next day. The mate proposed drying some in the sun and reserving them in case no more should come aboard, but nearly all hands cried out that we were certain to have some more sent us, and begged so hard to have the fish while they were good that the mate yielded to their wishes.

During the night we steered south-east, with the wind on our port quarter. It was in that direction Mr Griffiths said he knew the islands lay thickest. We had a regular watch set, and a bright look-out kept ahead, for we could not tell when we might come upon reefs, and the boat might be knocked to pieces on some uninhabited spot where neither food nor water was to be procured. The next day was passed much as the previous one had been, but no flying-fish came on board, though we saw them glittering in the air in the distance. It was drawing towards evening when I saw a black triangular fin, which I knew to be that of a shark, coming up astern.

“What are you looking at?” asked the doctor.

I told him. Presently we caught sight of the monster’s cruel eyes and back a couple of fathoms from the boat. I saw by their looks that the men did not like its appearance.

“We hab him,” cried Sam Coal. “We eat him if he no eat us.”

Brown, on hearing this remark, stood up, with his harpoon in hand, but the savage brute seemed to know its danger, and kept just beyond his reach, eyeing us, we thought, as if he expected to make a feast of the whole party.

The men made their remarks on the shark, for having had sufficient food they had somewhat recovered their spirits. Still I wished that the shark would take its departure, but it kept on swimming alongside the boat, and as the breeze freshened it made faster way to keep up with us. Brown at last proposed shooting it, for our powder, being in a metal flask, had kept dry, but Mr Griffiths objected to any being expended for the purpose. It was a hundred to one that the shark would be killed, he said, and every charge might be of value. Still, as no flying-fish had been caught, the men cried out that they must have the shark, and Mr Griffiths at length allowed Brown, who was a good shot, to try and hit it in a vital part. Just, however, as he stood up with the musket in his hands the shark dived and disappeared.

“Ah, ha, Jack Shark know what you going to do. Him know eberyting,” said Sam Coal.

Shortly after this the sun sank amid a bank of black clouds, and darkness came down on the world of waters, the weather again looking very threatening. I was awakened by a splash of water in my face. On sitting up, though a heavy sea was running, I found that the boat was still keeping on her course. The sail had been reefed, but it was as much as we could carry. Again and again the sea broke on board. The sleepers were all aroused, and we had to bale as fast as we could.

Presently the mate said, “We must heave her to, lads. Get the raft rigged.”

We soon had this done, but as we were rounding to a heavy sea came rolling up, and breaking on board, nearly carried Sam Coal over the side. The raft was hove into the water, and we lay head to wind as before, with the oar apeak. This did not prevent the seas from occasionally breaking on board, though they came with less violence than they would otherwise have done; but the boat was severely strained and shattered as they beat against her, and she now began to leak in a way which gave us just cause for alarm.

We spent the night baling as hard as we could, all striving to save our lives; but we hoped almost against hope that we should succeed.

At last some of the men, as before, began to despair, saying that it was as well to die now as a few hours later, and that it would be better to give in and let the boat sink, but seeing the mate and doctor calm and composed as ever, I tried to imitate their example.

“God wants us to labour on, lads,” cried Mr Griffiths. “He’ll help us if we do. Gales in these latitudes never last long. Perhaps to-morrow we shall have a fine day and catch some more flying-fish, or maybe we are not far off from an island and we shall be able to stretch our legs and find plenty of cocoanuts, and perhaps yams and pigs. We shall soon have a fire alight and something cooking before it, and then won’t we eat, boys!”

This sort of talk had a good effect upon the men, and they no longer had any thought of giving in. Still, the night went by very slowly. Sleeping, even if we had had time, with the water washing into the boat, was next to impossible.

Daylight came back at last, and as the sun rose the clouds dispersed, the wind rapidly dropped, and the sea went down. In a short time the mate ordered the raft to be got on board, and we ran on as before. We were very nearly starving, for we had had nothing to eat since we had devoured the raw flying-fish on the previous day.

“The doctor’s got some biscuit,” said one of the men, and they at once all cried out, begging that they might have it. The mate, however, would only give us a quarter of a biscuit each, with a little water. It just served to stay the gnawings of hunger, but as the day grew on we wanted food as much as ever, and our spirits again sank.

For the first time I began to think that I should not survive, even if the mate and Dr Cockle did. Though they had eaten no more than any of us, they endured their sufferings better. By this time we were a scarecrow crew, our hair long, our faces wan, our bodies shrunk, and our skin tanned to a yellow by the hot sun. At last the men entreated that they might have the remainder of the biscuit, declaring that they were ready to die after they had had one good meal if we could not catch any more flying-fish.

“No, lads,” said Mr Griffiths; “I know what is best for you. Your lives are committed to my charge, and I’ll not yield to your wishes. See, while you have been talking the water has been coming into the boat. Turn to and bale away.”

They obeyed, though with scowling countenances. The mate had both the guns in the stern-sheets, and he and the doctor looked as if they were prepared to resist violence. The men knew also that Jim and I would have sided with the officers. The wind had dropped, and with a gentle breeze we were gliding on, when suddenly, not ten yards off, a number of flying-fish rose out of the water and came towards the boat. Some struck the sail, and others we beat back with our hands.

“I told you not to despair, lads,” said Mr Griffiths. “Thank God for what He has sent us!”

I believe we all did so most heartily. The mate allowed all the fish we had caught to be eaten. I heard the doctor ask him why he did so, as we might catch no more till the next day.

“I’ll tell you presently,” he answered.

We had finished our meal, with just a small piece of biscuit apiece and a quarter of a pint of water, when the mate stood up, and, shading his eyes, gazed ahead.

“I would not say so before, lads, for fear of disappointing you, but I now tell you that we’re in sight of land. It is not very large, and may not be inhabited; it may have no cocoanuts or other vegetables on it, but it will give us room to stretch our legs, and we may be able to catch as many fish as we want off it.”

“Thank God!” burst from the lips of most of the crew, and I and some others knelt down to return thanks to Him who had thus far preserved us, while we prayed that we might be brought in time to a place of safety.

We all now wanted to stand up and see the land. The mate told us to sit quiet, but he allowed each one of us at a time to rise to our feet and take a look ahead. A blue irregular line could just be distinguished above the horizon, clear and defined. That it was land none of us had any doubt. A fair breeze carried us along at the rate of four or five knots an hour. In less than a couple of hours we might hope to be on shore, but the sun was sinking, and it would be dark, unless the breeze freshened, before we could reach it.

In a short time the wind fell, on which our hopes of landing before night were disappointed. We got out the oars, however, and pulled on.

“We must be careful, lads,” said the mate, after we had rowed some distance.

“Most of these islands are surrounded by coral reefs, and we may run upon one of them in the dark and knock the boat to pieces. We must heave-to, shortly, and wait for daylight.”

Some of the men grumbled at this, and asserted that the noise of the surf upon the reefs would give us sufficient notice when we were approaching them, but the mate was firm.

“I will not risk the safety of the boat for the sake of getting on shore a few hours earlier,” he said.

We all, however, had the satisfaction of taking another look at the land and assuring ourselves that it was land before darkness came on. Mr Griffiths then ordered us to lay in our oars, and except two who were to keep watch and bale out the water which leaked into the boat, to lie down and go to sleep.

I don’t think many of us did sleep. We were all thinking too much about getting on shore in the morning to care for rest. We forgot that before that time another gale might spring up and drive us off the land, or dash the boat a hopeless wreck upon the coral reef.

Chapter Twenty Six.

More startling adventures.

The night passed by, and as dawn at length broke, the mate rousing up all hands, we hoisted the sail, and again stood towards the land. The sea was smooth, and the wind light and fair.

As we glided on, the mate told Brown to stand up in the bows and keep a look-out for reefs. As we approached the land we could see trees on the shore and some on the hill, so that we had no doubt that we should find fresh water. It was a question, however, whether or not it was inhabited, and, if so, whether the natives would prove friendly or hostile. The mate told the doctor that he believed it was one of the most north-western of the Caroline group, the natives of which are generally more friendly to strangers than the inhabitants of the islands farther south; still, they are perfect savages, and it would be dangerous to trust them. We could, however, see no smoke or other signs of the country being inhabited.

We had not gone far, when Brown sang out, “Starboard! Hard a-starboard! A reef ahead!”

On this the mate, luffing up, ordered us to lower the sail. It was done in an instant, and not a moment too soon, for we saw close abeam a coral reef not two feet under the surface.

“We may be thankful that we didn’t stand on during the night,” said Mr Griffiths to the doctor.

We now got out the oars and pulled cautiously on. We soon found ourselves in a channel, with coral reefs on either side, all of them just below the surface; and as the passage twisted and turned in all directions, it required the greatest possible caution to thread our way through it.

We might well be thankful not only that we did not stand on during the night, but that we had not driven farther south during the gale while we rode to the raft. Nothing could have preserved the boat from being dashed to pieces. At length we got clear of the encircling reef, and found ourselves in a broad expanse of perfectly smooth water. The rocks rising directly out of it formed the shore. We had to pull along them some distance to find a convenient landing-place. At last a beautiful bay opened out, with a sandy beach, the ground rising gradually from it, covered with cocoanut-trees.

On seeing it, led by Brown, we uttered a cheer, and giving way with a will ran the boat’s keel on the beach. He jumped out first, and we all followed, without thinking of savages, and only very grateful to find ourselves once more on firm ground. Led by the mate and the doctor, we fell on our knees, and I believe with grateful hearts returned thanks to God for our safety.

We were hurrying up to the trees with our eyes fixed on the cocoanuts which hung temptingly from them, when the mate called to us to be cautious, for though we had seen no natives, there might be some in the neighbourhood, who might come suddenly down and attack us while we were engaged in obtaining the cocoanuts.

He and the doctor then proceeded with their muskets in their hands a little way in advance, while under Brown’s directions we prepared to get down the nuts. Miles Soper, Sam Coal, and Jim were the best climbers, but without assistance, weak as we all were, they found that they could not swarm up the trees. We therefore got some ropes from the boat, and Soper soon twisted one of them into a grummet, or hoop, round the tree, with sufficient space for his body inside it; then shoving the opposite side of the grummet above him, and holding on with his knees, he worked his way up the smooth trunk. Coal did the same on another tree, but Jim, after making the attempt, had to give up.

“I never tried that sort of thing before, and can’t manage it,” he said, coming down and ready to cry for weakness.

“Look out there!” shouted Sam Coal, who was the first to reach the top of his tree; and he threw down a cocoanut, and then another, and another, but they all broke as they touched the ground.

“I say, that’ll never do!” cried Brown, as he picked up one of them, while Horner and I got hold of the other two. “You must hang them round your neck somehow. We want the juice, which is the best part.”

Coal, on this, fastened three or four together in a handkerchief; Soper had in the meantime done the same, and they descended with four cocoanuts apiece. Horner and I had run with those we had picked up to Mr Griffiths and the doctor, munching a portion as we went, while Brown divided his among the other men, who were as eager to eat them as we were. So we found were the mate and the doctor. They tasted delicious to us, so long accustomed to salt or raw fish; but still more refreshing was the milk, which we got on tearing off the outer rind by cutting holes in the eyes with our knives. The cocoanuts, indeed, served us as meat and drink.

All this time the doctor and mate had seen no signs of inhabitants, and as we were all far too weak to think of exploring the country, we sat down in the shade of the cocoanut-trees to rest. We talked a little to each other for a short time, and first one dropped off to sleep, then another. Mr Griffiths himself didn’t long keep his eyes open, though I fancy I heard him tell Brown that we must set a watch, lest any natives should come suddenly down upon us. The mate and the doctor had both been awake during the whole of the last night in the boat—no wonder that they went to sleep.

At last I opened my eyes, and sitting up, looked about me, trying to recollect where I was, and what had happened. This I soon did. My companions lay scattered around me on the ground. In front was the sea, and the two sides of the bay were formed by moderately high cliffs. Behind us was a grove of cocoanut-trees, extending along the shore to the cliffs, and beyond them I could see a hill, which formed the farther end of the valley, opening out on the bay. Every one was asleep, and I was thankful that while in that condition we had not been discovered by savages, who might have been tempted to massacre the whole of us. I was glad that I at all events was now awake. I didn’t, however, like to arouse my companions, so I got up noiselessly, and to stretch my legs walked through the palm-grove. On my way I found a cocoanut fallen to the ground, and as I felt hungry, having taken off the rind, I sucked the milk, and then breaking the shell, ate as much of the fruit as I felt inclined to take. This restored my strength, and I went on till I got beyond the trees, which extended to no great distance up the valley. Farther on the ground was tolerably open, with here and there a few trees and bushes growing by the side of a stream which ran through the valley, and formed a small lake, without any outlet that I could discover.

A number of birds, some of which I took to be pigeons, were flying about, but I saw no four-legged creatures of any sort. The birds were so tame that they came flying about me, and perched on the boughs without showing any signs of fear.

“This is a beautiful spot,” I thought to myself. “How thankful I am that we reached it! We shall have plenty of food, and if there are no natives we can remain as long as we like till we are all strong again, and Mr Griffiths determines to pursue the voyage.”

I was stopping, looking about, when I saw something move on the top of the hill at the farther end of the valley. The object stopped, and then I made out distinctly against the sky the figure of a man. He was too far off to enable me to make out how he was dressed, or whether he was a native or a white man. He stopped for some time, as if he was looking down into the valley, and I fancied that he might have seen me, for I was in an open spot, away from any trees or shrubs. At last I beckoned to him, to show that my companions and I wished to be friends with the natives.

He took no notice of my signals, but stood looking down into the valley as before.

At first I thought of going towards him, but then it struck me that others might appear, and that I might be taken prisoner, or perhaps killed, and that I ought to go back and tell Mr Griffiths what I had seen. I found him and the doctor awake.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the former. “I had hoped that there were no natives on the island. If the person you saw had been a white man he would have come down to us immediately. I suspect that he must be a native. We must look out for a visit from others, and keep a more careful watch than heretofore.”

He and the doctor agreed to return with me, and if the person was still where I had seen him, to try and open up a friendly communication with him and any others who might appear.

Rousing up Brown and the rest of the people, and telling them where we were going, we set off. On our getting to the spot where I had been when I saw the man, he had disappeared. We, however, went on past a little lake, and along the bank of a stream, looking out very carefully on either side lest the natives might come down from the cliffs and cut us off. No one appeared; and as it was getting late, Mr Griffiths thought it wise to return.

It was almost dark by the time we reached the palm-grove. We found that Soper and Coal had in the meantime collected some more cocoanuts; and that Brown, with the rest of the men, had obtained some large clams and other shell-fish from the rocks. They were now lighting a fire to cook them, while Jim had brought a kettle of water from the lake. We had thus materials for a hearty meal, of which we all partook with good appetites. We had been unable to do anything to the boat during the day, but Mr Griffiths remarked that our first care must be to put her to rights, that we might go out fishing in her, and afterwards make a voyage to some place where we might find a vessel to take us home. The mate said that we might either sail northward again to Guam, or westward to the Pellew Islands, the inhabitants of which were said to be friendly, and thence on to the Philippines. Various opinions were expressed, but nothing was decided.

We had now to prepare for the night. Notwithstanding the sleep we had had during the day, we all felt that a longer rest was necessary to restore our strength. Mr Griffiths, however, insisted that a watch should be kept, as now that we had discovered the island to be inhabited, it would be folly to allow ourselves to be caught unawares at night. Though the weather was warm, as we had had no time to put up a shelter of any sort, the fire was found pleasant; we therefore agreed not to let it go out during the night. It was settled that the doctor should keep the first watch, Mr Griffiths the middle, and I was to have the third with Jim. Brown kept it with the doctor, and Soper with the mate. Our arrangements being made, we lay down to pass the night.

It appeared to me that I had been asleep only a few minutes, when Mr Griffiths called me up, and Jim and I, taking the muskets, began our watch. The mate told me that the doctor’s and his watches had passed quietly away, and they had not heard any sounds to indicate that any natives were near. As we were not obliged to keep close to the fire, and as there was a bright moon in the sky to enable us to see our way, I proposed to Jim that we should go through the grove, where, should any natives approach in the morning, we should discover them sooner on that side than we should by remaining at the camp. He agreed, and without difficulty we made our way through the trees, which stood apart, with little or no undergrowth. The scene which presented itself to us as we got out of the grove was very beautiful. The silver moon and the surrounding trees were reflected in the calm waters of the lake, while the outline of the hills on either side appeared sharp and distinct against the sky. Finding a clear piece of ground not far from the shore of the lake, Jim and I walked up and down, keeping a look-out now to one side, now to the other, as also up the valley.

We had taken several turns, when Jim exclaimed, “Hillo! Look there!”

Gazing up in the direction to which he pointed, I saw distinctly against the sky the figure of a man. How he was dressed it was impossible to say; still, he had on clothes of some sort.

“He’s not a native savage, at all events,” said Jim. “We’ll hail him, and if he’s an Englishman he’ll answer.”

We shouted at the top of our voices, but no reply came, and the figure disappeared.

“That’s strange,” said Jim; “I thought he would have come down and had a talk with us, whoever he is. Can’t we try and find him?”

“We mustn’t both leave our post,” I answered; “but if you stop here I’ll try and get up to where he was standing, and unless he has run away he can’t be far off.”

Jim didn’t like my going, but I persuaded him to stop, and hurried across the valley. When I got to the foot of the cliff I could find no way up it, and, after searching about, had to abandon the attempt.

I returned to where I had left Jim, and we resumed our walk, thinking that perhaps the figure would again appear.

“Perhaps if he sees us he won’t show himself,” said Jim. “Wouldn’t it be better to go and stay under the trees? And then perhaps he’ll come back.”

We did as Jim proposed, keeping our eyes in the direction of the cliff, but we looked in vain for the reappearance of the stranger.

“He guesses that we are watching for him,” said Jim. “Perhaps if we were to shout again he would come back. If he’s a white man he’ll understand us, and know that we are friends.”

“There can be no harm in shouting,” I answered, “though he may be a native and there may be others with him; they would have come down before this and attacked us, had they had a mind to do so.”

We accordingly went from under the trees, and standing in the open ground, I shouted out—

“Hillo, stranger, we’re friends, and want to have a talk with you. We have just come here for a day or two, and intend to be off again on our voyage.”

Jim then said much the same sort of thing, and as his voice was even louder than mine, we made sure that the stranger must have heard us. He didn’t, however, show himself, though we sometimes shouted together, sometimes singly. At last we heard voices in the cocoanut grove.

“I hope that no enemies have got down between us and the sea,” I said. “We had no business to come so far away from the camp.”

We stood with our muskets ready, watching the wood. In a short time our anxiety was relieved by the appearance of the doctor and Mr Griffiths.

“Why, lads, what made you shout out in that fashion?” asked the mate. “We fancied you wanted help.”

We told him of the man we had seen on the cliffs.

“It’s very extraordinary,” said the doctor; “I don’t think he can be a native, or he would not have shown himself in that way. He must be some white man who has been left by himself on the island, and has lost his wits, as often happens under such circumstances. He’s been accustomed to see savages visit the island, and has kept out of their way to save himself from being killed or made a slave of. He had not the sense to distinguish between us and them.”

“I believe you are right,” said Mr Griffiths. “We must take means to get hold of him, both for his own sake and ours. He’ll soon come round, supposing he’s an Englishman, when he finds himself among countrymen, and he’ll be able to show us where to get provisions if the island produces any. He can’t have lived always on cocoanuts and shell-fish.”

By this time the dawn began to appear, and after waiting a little longer we all returned to camp, and roused up the men to prepare for breakfast. Miles Soper and Sam Coal again climbed the trees to get some cocoanuts. Some of the men went down to the shore to collect shell-fish. Others made up the fire, while the mate and the doctor examined the boat to ascertain the damage she had received, and to see how she could best be repaired.

“We have a few nails, and we must try to find some substance which will answer the purpose of pitch,” observed the mate. “Doctor, I dare say you’ll help us. We will strengthen her with additional planks, and get a strake put on above her gunwale. It will be a work of toil to cut the planks, but it must be done, and she will then be fit to go anywhere.”

At breakfast the mate told the men of his intentions. They all agreed to do their best to carry them out.

We had first, however, to search for provisions. Not knowing whether there might be savages on the island, even supposing that the man we had seen was not one, the mate did not like to leave the boat unprotected. He therefore ordered Brown and one of the men to remain by her while the rest of us proceeded together to explore the island.

The mate would not allow us to separate until we had ascertained whether or not there were inhabitants besides the man we had seen on the island.

One musket was left with Brown, the mate carried the other, and we set off, keeping up the stream I have before described towards the end of the valley. We looked out on either side for the stranger, but he didn’t appear. Some of the men declared that we had not really seen any one, and that we had mistaken a small tree or shrub for a man; but Jim and I were positive, and the doctor, at all events, believed us.

On reaching the top of the hill, we looked down into a large hollow, with water at the bottom, dark rocks forming its sides, grown over with creepers, huge ferns, and various other plants. The doctor said that it was the crater of a long extinct volcano, and that the whole island was volcanic. There were many other hills out of which smoke was rising. The doctor said that this was an active volcano; indeed, the country in that direction presented a very different aspect from the part where we had landed. It was black and barren, with only here and there a few green spots. We therefore turned to the east, the direction which promised us a better chance of finding roots or fruits, or vegetable productions of some sort.

The strange thing was, that though the island appeared fertile, not a single habitation or hut could we discover. The doctor supposed that this was on account of the occasional outbreak of the volcano, and that the people from the neighbouring islands were afraid to take up their residence on it.

We now descended the hill, and went along another valley, of course looking out all the time for the stranger.

We were passing a small grove near a hollow in the side of a hill, which was partly concealed by trees, when we heard a cock crow just as an English cock would do. At once that sound made my thoughts, as it did those of the others, probably, rush back to our far-distant homes.

“If there’s a cock, there must be hens and a hen-roost hereabouts,” observed Miles Soper, hurrying in the direction whence the sounds proceeded.

We followed; there, sure enough, sheltered by the hill, and under the shade of the trees, was not only a hen-house of good size, but a hut scarcely bigger than it was neatly built and thatched with palm-leaves.

“It must be the residence of the stranger. He himself can’t be far off,” said the doctor.

The hut was just large enough to hold one man. It had a door formed of thin poles lashed together with sennit. At the farther end was a bedstead covered with rough matting, and in the centre a small table, with a three-legged stool.

No one had any longer any doubt that we had seen a man, or that this must be his abode, and that he must be a white man, but whether English or not was doubtful. Miles Soper examined the matting, and as he was looking about he found a knife on a shelf close to the bed. Taking it up, he examined it with a curious eye, opening and shutting it, and turning it round and round.

“Well, that’s queer, but I think I’ve seen this knife before,” he said. “If the owner is the man I guess he is I am glad.”

“Who do you suppose he is?” I inquired, eagerly.

“Well, Peter, that’s what I don’t want to say just yet. I must make sure first,” he answered.

“Can he be my brother Jack?” I exclaimed, my breath coming and going fast in my anxiety.

“Well then, Peter, I’ll tell you. Jack knew how to make matting just like this, because he learnt the way on board the Harriet, and so did I. He had a knife which, if this isn’t it, is the fellow to it, so you see that I have some reason to think that the man who built this hut, and lives in it, is he. But then again, you know, I may be mistaken.

“Why, if he is Jack, he should run away from us puzzles me. If he couldn’t see our faces he must have known by our dress that we were English or American, and that there was no reason for him to hide himself. There are many men who know how to make this sort of matting, and there are many knives just like this, and that’s the reason why I can’t tell you whether he’s Jack or not. But if Mr Griffiths will let me I’ll go on alone and look for him, and when he sees who I am he’ll come fast enough to me, and you may depend on it, Peter, if it’s he I’ll bring him back with a lighter heart than I’ve had for many a day.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The lost one found at last.

I wanted to accompany Soper in his search for the stranger.

“No, no, Peter,” he answered; “if he is Jack he’ll know me; but he won’t know you; and if he’s grown queer by living all alone on an island, as has happened to some poor fellows, he’ll get out of our way if he sees two together.”

The doctor assented to the wisdom of this, and advised me to be contented and remain by while Soper set off himself. The rest of the party were meanwhile examining the hen-roost.

The fowls were mostly of the English breed, which made us suppose that they had been landed from some English vessel. We were confirmed in this belief by discovering an old hen-coop, in which they had probably been washed ashore. There were other pieces of wreckage scattered about, but the hut itself was composed entirely of the products of the island.

At last the doctor proposed that we should proceed onwards, as the stranger, whoever he was, would not be likely to come back if he saw us near his hut. I, however, believed that it must be Jack, and, notwithstanding the doubts that Soper had expressed, begged that I might be allowed to remain behind that I might the sooner meet him. Mr Griffiths gave me leave to stay if I wished it. I thought that Soper was more likely to bring him back to the hut than to follow the rest of the party.

As soon as they had gone I closed the door and sat down on the three-legged stool. I should have been glad if I had had a book to read to employ my thoughts, but the hut contained only some cocoanuts cut in two for holding water, some long skewers, which had apparently been used for roasting birds, a small nut fixed in a stand to serve as an egg-cup, and a little wooden spoon. There were also shells, some clams, and others of different shapes. Two or three of these would serve as cups and plates. I could judge from this what had been the food of the solitary inhabitant of the hut. This didn’t look as if he were out of his mind.

The time appeared to go by very slowly. I remembered my disappointment at South’s Island when I heard the mysterious knocks on the bottom of the boat, and I began to fear that after all the stranger might not prove to be Jack.

I was now sorry that I had not accompanied the rest of the party—at all events the time would not have appeared so long if I had been walking and looking out for Jack. At length I determined to get up and to go out and try and find my companions—perhaps Soper and the stranger were all this time with them, though I knew they would come back and look for me. I rose and went to the window, which had a view right down the valley, probably that the inmate might watch anybody coming in that direction.

I couldn’t see any object moving, and I turned towards the door, intending to go out, when the sound of voices reached my ears. I listened. One of the speakers was Miles Soper, the other spoke so indistinctly that I could not make out what he said.

I opened the door and saw two persons coming through the grove. One was, as I expected, Soper; the other a strange-looking being with long hair, his skin tanned of a deep brown, his dress composed of an old jacket and trousers, patched or rather covered over with leaves, while his feet and head were destitute of covering.

I stood gazing at him for a few seconds, unable to trace in his countenance any of the features of my brother Jack, which I fancied I recollected.

“What, don’t you know one another?” exclaimed Soper. “This is Jack Trawl and no other—the only Jack Trawl I ever knew. Come, Jack, rouse up, that’s your brother Peter Trawl. Give him your fist, man. He’s been talking about you, and looking for you everywhere we’ve been.”

The stranger stopped and gazed eagerly in my face.

“What, are you my little brother Peter?” he exclaimed. “How are Mary, and father, and mother, and Nancy?”

I knew from this that he was Jack, and springing forward, took both his hands, and looked earnestly in his face.

“Yes, I am Peter, and I know you are Jack. Mary was well when I left home long ago, though you wouldn’t know her now, and Nancy is with her.”

I didn’t like at first to tell Jack that father and mother were dead, but it had to come out at last, and it seemed for a time to do away with the happiness he and I felt at meeting; for he was happy, though he looked so strange and talked so curiously. He couldn’t get out his words at first, but we sat down, he on the bed, I on the stool, and Miles Soper on the table, Miles drawing him out better than I could, and he telling us how he had come upon the island.

He had been on board the Harriet, as I had believed, from what King George had told me, and had escaped from her with Captain Barber in the boat. They had had a long voyage, and suffered dreadfully, missing Guam, for which they had steered, just as we had done, and been driven south. The other men died, one and then another, till at last only Captain Barber and he had been left.

The captain was in a dying state when the boat was driven on the reef, and Jack could not tell how he had managed to reach the shore. He found himself at last in the very bay where we had landed. He had just strength enough to crawl up to the palm-grove, where he found some cocoanuts on the ground, and managing to eat one of them he regained his strength.

He looked about for the old captain, but could nowhere find him, and supposed that he was drowned when the boat went to pieces. He didn’t want to die, he said, so he got some shell-fish and cocoanuts, and now and then caught some birds, which were very tame. He had learnt how to get a light from King George’s people on “Strong’s” Island, and after a few days he managed to make a fire and cooked the shell-fish. He found some roots, but was afraid to eat them for fear they might be poisonous.

It was very melancholy work living thus alone, and some times for days together he scarcely knew what he was about. At last, however, came a furious storm, and as he went down to the beach he saw a ship driving towards the island. He knew that there were reefs all around it, so he feared that she would be knocked to pieces and bring no help to him.

His fears proved true; the ship struck at a distance from where he was. He made his way down to the nearest point to where she was, hoping that some of the crew might reach the shore alive, but the only thing of any size which had come ashore was a hen-coop and some fowls lashed to some gratings and some spars. His idea was that the people had been trying to make a raft, but that the ship had gone to pieces before they could finish it, and the raft had been driven on shore by itself. He secured the hen-coop and fowls, most of which were alive, and carried them up to where he had built a hut for himself. Shortly afterwards, seeing three canoes full of wild-looking natives coming near the shore, he collected all his fowls and carried them away right up to the spot where he had built his present hut. He there lay concealed, as he was afraid of falling into the hands of the natives after the way in which he had seen his shipmates murdered at “Strong’s” Island, as he thought the savages would treat him in the same way. This idea seemed to have upset his mind. He was nearly starved, for he would not kill any of his fowls because they were the only living beings that seemed to care for him.

At last he ventured out from his hiding-place, and, creeping cautiously on, saw the savages sailing away in their canoes. They had nearly stripped the trees of cocoanuts, and found his hut and pulled it to pieces. Why they had gone so suddenly he could not tell, but on looking towards the burning mountain it was spurting out fire and smoke, and he concluded that they had gone away from being frightened at it. His mind was now more at rest. He employed himself in building his hut and the hen-roosts, where his fowls might be safe from hawks or such-like birds, or any animals which might be in the island. He had seen wild cats at some of those he had touched at, and knew that if they found out his fowl they would soon put an end to them. He had plenty to do to find food for his poultry. He got shell-fish and berries, roots and cocoanuts, and watched what they seemed to like best. They soon became so tame that they would come and sit on his shoulders and knees and run about between his feet. What seemed to have upset him was another visit from the savages some months afterwards, when he was nearly caught. Though they pursued him they didn’t discover his hen-roost or hut, but after that he was always fancying they would come and kill him. When he saw our boat he thought we must be some savages, and yet he said he couldn’t help coming down to have a look at us, though it was so long since he had heard a word of English spoken he didn’t understand what was said. Fortunately, Miles Soper had passed close to the place where he was hiding. At length, when he heard his own name shouted in a voice which he recollected, he came out, and at once knew his old messmate. He could not at first understand that I had grown into a big fellow, and had come to look for him, though he told Miles Soper that he should know me at once if I were like what I had been when he went to sea. When Miles told him that Mr Griffiths and Dr Cockle were with me—the gentlemen father had put on board their ship at the time he had joined the Lapwing—he seemed to have no doubt on the matter, and by degrees, with Miles speaking soothingly to him, the balance of his mind seemed gradually to be restored. He still found, however, a great difficulty in speaking; he had been so long without uttering a word except when he talked to his poultry. He was almost all to rights when Mr Griffiths and the doctor and the other men came back. They seemed very much pleased at seeing Jack, and all shook him warmly by the hand. The doctor and Mr Griffiths told him that they remembered him well when he was a young lad, first going to sea, little thinking that from that day to this he should be knocking about the world far away from home. He looked very shy and reserved, and seemed inclined to keep close to Miles Soper and me, but in other respects he was as much in his senses as any of us. The doctor had found several roots and fruits, which he said were wholesome, and would serve us as food, and Jack offered to catch as many birds as we wanted, begging that we wouldn’t touch his poultry. The doctor promised that they should not be molested while we remained on the island, but said to me—

“You must persuade your brother to let us have them for sea-stock when we go away; they will afford us sufficient provisions to enable us to reach the ‘Pellew’ Islands or Manilla, with the help of the birds and fish we may salt.”

When Mr Griffiths was about to go away, Jack asked that Miles Soper and I might stay to keep him company, promising to go down to the boat the next morning. To this Mr Griffiths agreed, and Soper and I remained behind with Jack. When they had gone Jack said—

“I haven’t food for all the party, but I can give you a good supper,” and he showed us his store-room at the back of the hut, in which he had several cocoanuts, some birds dried in the sun, and a dozen eggs.

He showed us a sort of trap he used for catching the birds without frightening the rest. He quickly got a fire from a split log in the way I have before described, and with the help of some fresh water and the milk of the cocoanuts we had a very good meal. He had a supply of mats like those on his bed, and with these he rigged us up a place for sleeping in when it was time to lie down.

I felt happier than I had been for a long time. My hope of finding Brother Jack was realised, and now my great wish was to return home with him to Mary. I forgot for the moment that we were on a remote island, and that we had only a small boat to carry us to civilised lands.

When we got up the next morning Jack seemed more refreshed and better able to talk than on the previous evening. As soon as we had had breakfast, which was very much like supper, we set off to join the rest of the party at the bay. We found them all busily employed, some in caulking the boat, others in splitting a tree to form planks.

We fortunately had a couple of axes with us, which were of great service, and while Soper and I lent a hand Jack went down to collect shell-fish, which he did much more rapidly than we could, being well accustomed to it.

The weather was so fine that we required only a very slight hut, which we formed partly of the boat’s sails and partly of the boughs and stems of small trees.

Jack showed us a way up to the top of the cliff, and here Mr Griffiths erected a flagstaff with a whift, which we had in the boat, increased in size by a couple of handkerchiefs. This was large enough to attract the attention of any vessel passing near the island, but Mr Griffiths said that he believed, owing to the surrounding reefs, none would intentionally approach.

We were all anxious to get the boat finished as soon as possible and commence our voyage. We had many reasons for being in a hurry, though we might have lived very well on the island for months together, but the burning mountain might again burst forth and overwhelm us, and the savages might return in large numbers and either kill us or make us prisoners, for as we had only two muskets and a scanty supply of ammunition, we could scarcely hope to beat them off should they prove hostile. Mr Griffiths and the doctor talked the matter over.

“One thing is certain,” observed the mate, “the sooner we’re away while the fine weather lasts the better, but at the same time it won’t do to start until we have fitted the boat thoroughly for sea. We have a long trip before us, and if we’re caught in a gale we shall have reason to regret it if we don’t take the trouble to fit our boat in the best way we can.”

It took a long time, first with our axes to split up the planks, and then to smooth them with our knives. We had next to shape out additional timbers to strengthen the boat, as to which also to fix the planks to. We likewise decked over the fore and aft parts, both to keep out the sea and to prevent our provisions from getting wet. The doctor searched everywhere for some sort of resin which might serve to caulk our boat.

He at last found some which he thought might answer, but as we had only a small iron pot to boil it in, we had to go without our soup or our hot water till the pot was again thoroughly cleaned out. It answered the purpose, however, better than we had expected, and with mosses and dried grass we made up a substance which served instead of oakum. Jack worked as hard as any of us, and was very useful in catching a number of birds, which he salted and dried in the sun.

At length one day, when nearly all our preparations were concluded, the mate said, “And now, Jack Trawl, we must get you to bring your poultry-yard down. We shall not have room for all the fowl, in the boat but I think we can cut down and repair the old hen-coop to hold a good many, and we must kill and salt the rest.”

“What I kill my fowl—my old companions!” said Jack. “What! Cannot we let them live? They’ll soon find food for themselves; they do that pretty well already, and I couldn’t bear to see their necks wrung.”

“I wish we were able to do without them,” said the mate; “but our lives are of more value than those of the fowl. I can enter into your feelings, and we will not ask you to kill any nor to eat them afterwards unless you change your mind. Look you here, Jack; if the savages came to the island they’d kill the fowl fast enough, and perhaps our lives may depend on our having them.”

The doctor then said something to the same effect, and at last Jack was talked over to allow some of his fowl to be killed at once, and dried and salted like the other birds.

We brought the hen-coop down to the beach, and by dint of hard work cut it away so as to hold two dozen fowl closely packed. At night, when the birds had gone to roost, Miles, Coal, Jack, and I went up and took the others while roosting. What a cackling and screeching the poor creatures made on finding themselves hauled off their perches and having their legs tied! The noise they made might have been heard over half the island.

We brought them down and stowed them away in the hen-coop. Jack, accompanied by Jim, had before collected a good supply of seeds, which might serve them as food with the help of the cocoanuts and scraps of fish which we might leave. Mr Griffiths and the doctor had arranged to start the next morning. All hands had agreed to do as they proposed, which was to be up at daylight, and as soon as we had breakfasted launch the boat and go on board.

We lay down, as we hoped, for the last time in our hut. As the island was known to be uninhabited it was no longer thought necessary to keep a watch. All of us slept like tops, recollecting that we should not for many days get another thorough night’s rest.

I was the first to wake, and, calling up Jim, he and I agreed to go to the lake and fill our pot with water to boil for breakfast, knowing that the rest would light the fire as soon as they were aroused ready for it. There was just a single streak in the eastern sky, which showed us that it would soon be daylight, and we knew our way so well through the grove that we didn’t think it worth while stopping till then. We carried the pot on a stick between us, and as we had to pass among the trees, of course we could not do so as fast as if it had been daylight. It took us some little time before we could reach the place where we could dip the pot in and get the water pure. We filled it, and set off again on our way back. We had just reached the grove of cocoanut-trees. I happened to look up at the hill where I had seen Jack the morning after our arrival, when I saw against the sky the forms of well-nigh a dozen savages.

I rubbed my eyes for a moment, as I at first thought it might be fancy, and then whispered to Jim to look in the same direction and then tell me what he saw.

“Savages,” he answered, “no doubt about that.”

“Then we must rouse up the rest and be prepared for them,” I said.

We ran on among the trees, to which we were close, hoping that we hadn’t been seen. Still I thought that the savages must know that we were on the island. We didn’t like to abandon our pot, though we spilled some of the water as we hurried along. Our friends were still fast asleep.

“Mr Griffiths! Dr Cockle! The savages have landed and are on the hill out there,” Jim and I cried out.

They started to their feet in a moment, and Jack and the rest of the men jumped up on hearing our voices. The mate seemed satisfied that what we said was true.

“Then, lads,” he said, “we will launch the boat at once; we must at all events avoid a fight, and we can’t tell how they’ll behave if we remain.”

Jack was about the most eager to get the boat in the water, and Horner looked not a little frightened. We soon had her afloat, and then as quickly as we could, running backwards and forwards, put the cargo on board.

The doctor and mate were still on shore, seeing that nothing had been left behind, when loud shrieks reached our ears, and a score or more of tattooed savages, flourishing their war clubs, burst out of the grove and rushed towards us.

“Quick, doctor,” cried the mate. “Get on board, and I’ll follow you.”

He stood, as he spoke, with his musket in his hand pointed towards the savages, and then slowly retreated, while Dr Cockle sprang on board. We had our oars ready to shove off as soon as the mate was safe.

“Come on, Mr Griffiths, come on,” cried several others.

The savages were scarcely a dozen yards from us as the mate threw himself over the bows, and we quickly shoved the boat into deep water, while the savages stood yelling and heaving stones at us from the beach.

Just, however, as we got the boat’s head to sea we saw, coming round a point to the eastward, four or five large canoes. It seemed impossible that we could escape them.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Escape from the Island and the events which followed.

“Give way, lads! Give way!” shouted Mr Griffiths; “if the worst comes we must fight for it, and try to save our lives, but I want, if we can, to avoid fighting.” The men bent to their oars; the wind was ahead, so that it was useless to hoist the sail. The savages on shore howled and shrieked as they saw us getting off, and hurled stones at us. The big double canoes came round the point, two more appearing astern. They were close on a wind, and rapidly skimming the water.

“There’s an outlet from the bay to the westward, I marked it yesterday, we will make for it,” said Mr Griffiths.

The canoes were to the eastward, but it seemed very doubtful whether we could reach the outlet the mate spoke of before they would be up with us. We pulled for our lives, for there could be no doubt, from the behaviour of the savages on shore,—how those in the canoes would be inclined to treat us. While the mate steered, the doctor and I got the muskets ready; the rest of the crew were rowing, Horner helping the stroke oar. On the canoes came, nearer and nearer. We observed the sea breaking over the reef, but there was a clear channel between it and the shore. The savages had left the beach and were rushing towards the point which they knew we must pass; probably, as we supposed, to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing us overtaken and massacred. As the mate altered our course to steer for the channel, we found the wind on our starboard bow; should it shift a point or two more, it would come right ahead, and even the canoes, though they sail closer to the wind than any ordinary craft, would be unable to get through it; but they were already within one hundred fathoms of us, and coming on rapidly. I counted seven of them. One took the lead of the rest, and was coming up hand over hand with us. We could see the warriors on the raised deck dancing and leaping and flourishing their clubs, and hear them shouting and shrieking like their companions on shore. I looked anxiously at the channel. Soper was pulling bow oar. The mate told Horner to take it, and directed Soper to keep a look-out for reefs ahead. The leading canoe was now within fifty fathoms astern.

“Give them a shot, doctor,” said the mate; “but fire over their heads. It will show them that we are armed, but I don’t want to kill any one.”

“Ay, ay!” answered the doctor; and shouting to the savages to make them understand what he was about to do, he fired. The first shot seemed to have no effect. Still the big canoe came on. We were as far from the passage as we were from them. Our men were straining every nerve, and could make the boat go no faster. The doctor waited till I had reloaded the first musket. He again fired, still aiming high, as the mate told him to do. The next instant down came the yard and sail of the canoe. The bullet must have cut the slings right in two.

“It was a chance shot, and a fortunate one,” said the doctor, as he saw its effect. The canoe still glided on, but the next, unable to alter her course, ran right into her, and the others, also coming up, were thrown into confusion. Our men cheered as they saw what had happened. The channel was reached before our pursuers could get clear of each other. Then on they came again. Before, however, they had come far, the wind shifted a point and then blew right ahead. First one lowered her sail, and then another and another, while we pulled through the channel, Soper keeping a bright look-out for sunken rocks. I caught sight of the savages on shore rushing along the beach, but we had passed the point before they had gained it, and there they stood shrieking, shouting, and gesticulating at us. We pulled away in the wind’s eye, knowing that we should thus have a better chance of keeping ahead of our pursuers. They had not yet, however, given up the chase. We saw them at length coming through the channel urged on by their paddles. They could thus move but slowly. Once outside, however, they might again hoist their sails, and, by standing first on one tack and then on the other, come up with us.

As we got away from the island we found the wind blowing steadily from the southward, while in shore it still came from the westward. This gave us a great advantage.

“We’ll hoist the sail, lads,” said Mr Griffiths, “and see if a whale-boat can beat a double canoe.”

The men, who were streaming from every pore, gladly obeyed. The mast was set up in an instant, the sail hoisted, and “Young Hopeful,” as the doctor called our boat, glided rapidly over the dancing waters.

We had made good way before we saw the sails of the canoes once more hoisted, standing, as far as we could make out, for the north-west.

Now we had got the wind, it would take them a long time to come up with us. The wind was too fresh to allow the oars to be of any use. We trusted, however, to the good providence of God to carry us clear. All that we would do was to sit quiet and hope that the wind would continue steady. We could see the canoes in the north-east hull down, and we hoped that we might keep ahead till night should hide us from their sight. The mate said he was sure that they would not then attempt to follow us farther.

“But, I say, is any one hungry?” exclaimed Horner. “We’ve had no breakfast, you’ll remember.”

We had all been too excited to think of eating, but the mention of food excited our appetites, and the mate told the doctor to serve out provisions.

The occupation of eating assisted to pass the time, and to raise our spirits. The mate told us that he and the doctor had determined to steer for the Pellew Islands, the inhabitants of which, though uncivilised, were supposed to be of a mild disposition, and likely to treat us kindly. Even had we intended to steer for Guam, the canoes in that direction would have prevented us doing so.

From the Pellew Islands we should have a long voyage round to Manilla. When once there we should be sure of finding European vessels on board of which we should be able to obtain a passage to some English settlement. Every now and then, while we were eating, I took a look at the canoes, but the sight of them didn’t spoil my appetite, nor that of the rest of us, as far as I could judge.

“They are getting no nearer,” I observed.

“Wait till they come about,” said Horner; “they’ll then be up with us fast enough, and this may be the last meal we shall ever eat.”

“Haul in the slack of that, you young croaker!” cried the mate, in an angry tone. “You would like to make the others as much afraid as you are yourself.”

Horner could not say he was not afraid, for he looked it. The breeze freshened, and the boat made good way in spite of being heavily laden, standing up well to all the sail we could set. For another hour or more we could see the canoes.

At last the mate, standing up, took a look at them and then cried—

“Hurrah! They have gone about, and are steering for the land.”

Just as the sun set they disappeared, and we had no longer any fear of being followed. The mate now set a regular watch;—the rest of us lay down as we best could along the thwarts, or at the bottom of the boat, with some of Jack’s matting for pillows. We were rather crowded, to be sure, but we were thankful to have escaped our enemies, and hoped, in spite of its length, that we should have a prosperous voyage.

Day after day we sailed on. Mr Griffiths maintained good discipline among us. Everything was done with as much regularity as if we were aboard ship. He got us to spin yarns and sing songs. I thus heard more of Jack’s adventures than I ever since have been able to get out of him. He corroborated all that Miles Soper had told me, and added much more. Sam Coal told us how he had once been a slave in the Southern States of America, and made his escape, and being followed, was nearly caught, and how a kind Quaker sheltered him, at the risk of his own life, and got him away on board a ship, where he found that he had not changed much for the better in some respects; but then, as he said—

“Dis nigger feel dat he was a free man, and dat make up for all de rest.”

The wind was fair and the sea calm. Our chief fear was that we might run short of water, so Mr Griffiths thought it wise to put us upon an allowance at once. Several times flying-fish fell aboard, which we didn’t despise, although we had to eat them raw, or rather dried in the sun. If we had had fuel we might have managed to make a fire and cook them, but in our hurry to get off we had come away without any spare wood.

“Never mind, lads,” said the mate; “we’ll get some at the Pellew Islands, and after that we’ll have a hot meal every other day at least.”

Brown was always on the look-out with his harpoon, ready to strike any large fish which might come near us, but they seemed to know what we were about, and kept at a respectful distance. Now and then a shark would come up and have a look at us, and the men would call him all manner of names. One day, as we were running along at the rate of about five knots an hour, we saw a black fin coming up astern; it sheered off under the counter and then floated up abreast of us, just coming near enough to show us its wicked eye. It kept too far off, however, for Brown to strike it, or it might have paid dearly for its curiosity. At last, cocking its eye, it gave a turn of its tail, and off it went like a shot, followed by our roars of laughter.

“Tend on it, Jack Shark find dat we not going to make dinner for him dis day!” cried Sam Coal, “so he tink better go look out sumber else.”

Such were the trifling incidents which afforded us amusement and assisted to keep up our spirits. It was trying work, thus to sit all day and day after day in an open boat with nothing to do, and unable to move about freely. We were very thankful, however, to be favoured by such fine weather.

At last Mr Griffiths stood up in the stern-sheets, and, after shading his eyes for some time—for the sun had already passed the zenith, said quietly, “Lads, we have made a good landfall. I’m much mistaken if we have not the Pellew Islands in sight. I make out a dozen or more blue hillocks rising above the horizon. Sit quiet, however, for you won’t see them just yet. We shall have to heave-to to-night outside the reef which surrounds them, but I hope we shall get ashore in the morning.”

This news cheered us up, for we were beginning to get somewhat downcast, and some of us thought that we must have passed the islands altogether, and might make no other land till we reached the Philippines. We ran on till dark, by which time we could make out one large island and a number of smaller ones, some to the northward and some to the southward, with a reef marked by a line of white foam surrounding them. As it would be dangerous to attempt looking for a passage through the reef except in daylight, we hove-to, and the watch below lay down—or “turned in,” as we used to call it—rejoicing in the hope of setting our feet on dry ground the next morning, and getting a plentiful supply of provisions. I had to keep the middle watch with Jim. I took good care not to let my eyes close, for we were at no great distance from the reef, and I knew the danger of being drifted on it. Now I looked to windward to make sure that no vessel was approaching to run us down, now at the reef to find out whether we were drifting nearer it than was safe. After a long silence Jim spoke to me.

“There’s something on my mind, Peter,” he said. “I’m afraid that now you have found your brother Jack you’ll not be caring for me as you used to do, for the whole of the last day you have not opened your lips to me, while you have been talking away to him.”

“Don’t let such an idea rest on your mind, Jim,” I answered. “I very naturally talked to Jack, for of course I wanted to hear everything he had been about since he first went to sea, and it’s only lately I have been able to get him to say much. I don’t think that anything will make me forget your affection for me. Though Jack is my brother, you’ve been more than a brother, and as brothers we shall remain till the end of life.”

In this way I did my best to satisfy Jim’s mind. It hadn’t before occurred to me that there was any spice of jealousy in him, and I determined in future to do my best to prevent him having any such feeling. We talked on just as we used to do after that.

The wind was light, and except a slight swell coming from the eastward, the sea was perfectly smooth. If it hadn’t been for the talking I should have found it a hard matter to keep my eyes open. After I lay down, I had been for some time asleep, as I fancied, when I heard the mate cry—

“Out oars, lads! Pull for your lives!”

I jumped up in a moment.

The strong current into which the boat had got was carrying her along at the rate of five knots an hour towards the reef, over which the sea was breaking and rising up in a wall of white foam.

There was now not a breath of wind, but a much greater swell was coming in than before.

We all bent to our oars, and had good reason to be thankful that we had got them to help us, for a sailing vessel would very quickly have been dashed to pieces on the reef, and every soul aboard lost.

The mate headed the boat off from the shore in a diagonal course, so that we hoped soon to get out of the current. Still, notwithstanding all our efforts, we appeared to be drawing nearer and nearer the reef as the current swept us along, and I began to think that, notwithstanding all we had gone through, we were doomed to be lost at last. The mate, however, cheered us up.

Daylight soon broke. As the sun rose the wind increased, and presently, a fresh breeze springing up, he hauled aft the sheet, and with the help of the oars the boat moved quickly along till we got out of the current.

We were now able to venture close enough to the reef to look out for a safe opening. At last we found one a little to the southward of the largest island, and hauling up, we steered for it.

The sea broke on either side of the passage, which was large enough for a good-sized vessel to venture through. We stood on, keeping a look-out for dangers ahead.

We were soon inside, where the water was perfectly smooth. Seeing a snug little harbour, we ran for it. As we approached, we saw a number of natives coming down, darkish-skinned fellows, though not so black as those of the Caroline Islands all of them without a stitch of clothing on except a loin cloth; but they were pleasant-looking, and we saw no weapons among them.

The mate, however, kept the muskets concealed in the stern-sheets, ready for use in case they were only acting treacherously, and should suddenly rush down upon us with clubs and spears. Still, as we got nearer, and waved our hands, they showed no inclination to attack us, and made every sign to let us understand that they wished to be friends.

We therefore lowered the sail, and pulled the boat gently towards the beach. On this they came down, and when we jumped out, helped us to haul her up. There was one man who seemed to be the chief. He came up and shook hands with Mr Griffiths, the doctor, and me, and then ordered six of his people to stay by the boat, as we supposed to guard her. He made no objection when the mate and the doctor went back to get the muskets, but seemed to think it very natural that they should wish to be armed amongst so many strangers.

The other people were in the meantime making friends with the rest of our party. The chief now invited us up to his house. It was built of trunks of small trees and bamboo canes, and thatched with palm-leaves, much in the same style as the huts of other South Sea islanders, though of a fair size. It was also very clean, and the floors were covered with mats. He begged us to sit down near him, while he squatted on a mat at one end of the room.

As we could only talk by signs we didn’t say much. Presently a number of girls appeared, bringing clay dishes, with fish and fowl and vegetables. As soon as they were placed on the ground, he told us to fall to, and a very good meal we enjoyed, after the uncooked food we had lived on so long.

The mate made signs that we had come from the eastward, and were bound west for the Philippines, of which he seemed to have heard.

After dinner he took us down to the shore, and showed us some fine large canoes, with the stems and sterns well carved. They were used for going about between the islands, but I don’t think they could have done much in a heavy sea. Some were large enough to hold thirty or forty men. He then had a look at our boat, and seemed to wonder that we had come so far in her.

The mate explained to him that, though she was shorter, she had much higher sides, and was much lighter built than his canoes. From the way he behaved we had no doubts as to his friendly intentions, or any anxiety about the men who were attended to by other natives.

In the evening he gave us another feast, and then took us to a clean new hut, which by his signs we understood we were to occupy. From the way he behaved we agreed that, though he looked liked a native savage, he was as civilised a gentleman as we could wish to meet. The rest of our party were billeted in huts close to us, and from the sounds of laughter which came from them we guessed that they and their hosts were mightily amused with each other. The chief, after making signs to us to lie down and go to sleep, took his leave, and we were left alone.

“I hope our fellows will behave well, and not get into any quarrel with the natives,” observed the doctor.

“I don’t think there’s any chance of that, though it would be a serious matter if they did,” answered Mr Griffiths.

“If you’ll give me leave, sir, I’ll go and speak to them,” I said. “I’m sure Jim and my brother Jack will behave properly, and so I should think would Brown.”

“It doesn’t do always to trust men,” said the mate. “Just tell them to be careful. I would rather that we had been all together, but it won’t do to show that we’re suspicious of the natives.”

I accordingly got up, and, directed by the sounds I heard, went to the other huts. I found Jack and Jim in one of them, with a number of natives sitting round them, examining their dresses and trying to imitate their way of speaking.

I advised them to let their friends know that they were sleepy, and wanted to lie down. As soon as they did this, the natives got up in the politest way possible, and spread mats for them at one side of the room. In the next hut I found Miles Soper and Sam Coal. I said to them what I had said before to Jack and Jim, and I then went on to another hut, the natives in each behaving in precisely the same manner.

When I told the mate, he was perfectly satisfied, and said that we must trust the natives. We were not mistaken. Early the next morning a plentiful meal was brought us, and during our stay on the island we were treated with the greatest kindness by these mild and courteous people. The doctor said that they were Malays, though very unlike many of their brethren scattered about the Indian seas.

Having recovered completely from the effects of being cramped up so long in the boat, and the unwholesome food we had lived on, we were anxious to prosecute our voyage.

The chief looked very sorrowful when the mate told him we must be going, and that we should be thankful to him for provisions and water for the voyage. When he told his people, they brought us down fowl and vegetables enough to fill the boat. We showed them our hen-coop, in which we could keep a number of the fowl alive, but that we wanted food for them. Off they ran, and quickly came back with a good supply.

By this time we could understand each other wonderfully well, helping out what we said by signs. The chief gave us all a grand feast the last night of our stay, and the next morning, having shaken hands with all round, we went aboard, and once more put to sea. The natives at the same time came off in their canoes, and accompanied us some way outside the reef; then, with shouts and waving of hands, they wished us good-bye.

We had a long passage before us, but we were in good health and spirits, and we hoped to perform it in safety. We had to keep a sharp look-out at night, for, as the mate told us, there were some small islands between the Pellew and the Philippines, and that, he not being certain of their exact position, we might run upon them.

For a whole week we had fine weather, though, as the wind was light, we didn’t make much way. At the end of that time clouds began to gather in the horizon, and soon covered the whole sky, while the wind shifted to the north-west, and in a short time was blowing a heavy gale. The sea got up, and the water every now and then, notwithstanding our high sides, broke aboard, and we had to take to baling. Night came on, and matters grew worse.

We all had confidence in Mr Griffiths’s skill; and as he had, by his good seamanship, preserved our lives before, we hoped that we should again escape. At length he determined to try his former plan, and, heaving the boat to, we cast out a raft, formed by the oars, and rode to it. The gale, however, increased, and seemed likely to turn into a regular typhoon.

There was no sleep for any of us that night; all hands had to keep baling, while a heavier sea than we had yet encountered broke aboard and carried away a large portion of our provisions, besides drowning all the fowl in the hen-coop. Most of us, I suspect, began to think that we should never see another sunrise. It seemed a wonder, indeed, that the boat escaped being knocked to pieces. Had it continued long, we must have gone down. Towards morning, however, the wind moderated, and before noon we were able to haul the raft aboard and once more make sail. But there we were on the wide ocean, with but scanty provisions and a sorely battered boat.

The weather still looked unsettled, and we feared that we should have another bad night of it. The greater part of the day had gone by, when Brown, who was at the helm while the mate was taking some rest, suddenly exclaimed—

“A sail! A sail! She’s standing this way.”

We all looked out to the northward, and there made out a large vessel steering directly for us.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

On board our old ship—Her voyage through eastern seas.

The doctor awoke Mr Griffiths to tell him the good news. He at once hove the boat to. We sat eagerly watching the stranger. She could not possibly at present see us, and might alter her course before she came near enough to do so. Her topsails rose above the horizon, then in a short time her courses were seen, and then her hull itself as she came on swiftly before the breeze. I saw Mr Griffiths several times rub his eyes, then he stood up and looked fixedly at her.

“Brown,” he said, “did you ever see that ship before?”

“Well, I was thinking that the same sail-maker cut her topsails that cut the Intrepid’s; but there’s no wonder in that,” answered Brown.

“What do you say to that white patch in the head of her foresail?” asked the mate. “It looks to me like one we put in when we were last at the Sandwich Islands. To be sure it’s where the sail is likely to get worn, and another vessel may have had one put in like it, still, the Intrepid’s foresail had just such a patch as that.”

“What! Do you mean to say that she’s the Intrepid?” exclaimed the doctor, interrupting him.

“I mean to say that she’s very like her, if she’s not her,” answered the mate.

We all of us now looked with even greater eagerness than before at the approaching vessel.

“Let draw the foresail,” cried the mate.

We stood on so that we might be in the best possible position for running alongside the whaler, for such she was, as soon as she hove-to.

“We’re seen!—we’re seen!” shouted several of our crew.

We waved our hats, and shouted.

“She is the Intrepid!” cried Mr Griffiths.

Presently she came to the wind, and we, lowering our sail and getting out our oars, were soon alongside her. There stood Captain Hawkins—there the second mate, with many other faces we knew. I never saw people look so astonished as we sprang up the side, while our boat was hooked on and hoisted on board.

“Why, Griffiths!—Cockle! Where have you come from?” exclaimed Captain Hawkins. “I had given you up for lost long ago.”

They gave a brief account of our adventures, but there was not much time for talking, for we had not been aboard five minutes before all hands were employed in shortening sail, and the gale came down upon us with even greater strength than on the previous night. Had we been exposed to it in our open boat there would have been little chance of our escape. We had thus much reason to be thankful to Heaven that we had got aboard in time.

There being plenty of sea room, the Intrepid was hove-to. Even as it was, the sea broke aboard and carried away one of her boats and did other damage. She had been nearly wrecked on the reef during the gale when we were on the island; and Captain Hawkins, believing that we had been lost, stood for Guam, where he had been detained for want of proper workmen and fresh hands. Had it not been for this she would long before have been on her homeward voyage.

For some time I felt very strange on board, often when half asleep fancying myself still in the boat, and the air below seemed close and oppressive.

The mate declared that he had caught cold from sleeping in a bed after not having been in one for so many months.

The doctor suggested that his bed might have been damp. However, the gale being over, the sun came out brightly, and he soon got rid of his chill.

The captain took no more notice of me than he did before, and did not even speak to Jack. His idea was to keep us at a proper distance, I suppose. He had heard, I have no doubt, of our adventures from Dr Cockle or the mate. It mattered very little to us, though I was afraid that he might take it into his head to turn Jack out of the ship at some place or other, on the plea that he did not belong to her.

I advised my brother, therefore, to keep out of his sight as much as possible, especially when in harbour. Jim and I agreed that if he was sent ashore we would go also, wherever it might be.

“So will I,” said Miles Soper, who had heard us talking about the matter.

“And I no stop eider, and den he lose four good hands. He no like dat,” said Sam Coal.

Brown, hearing from Jim of my apprehensions, said he would go likewise if the captain attempted to play any tricks of that sort.

Three days after the gale we hove-to off three small islands surrounded by a reef. Brown, Miles Soper, two Africans and the New Zealander, the second mate and I, were sent on shore to catch turtle. We hauled the boat up and waited till the evening, at which time the creatures land to lay their eggs.

Darkness approached, and we concealed ourselves behind some rocks, and watched for their coming. Presently one landed, and crawled slowly up the beach. Sam declared that she was as big as the boat. She was certainly an enormous creature. Then another and another came ashore, and commenced scraping away in the sand to make holes for their eggs. We waited till some thirty or forty had come ashore.

“Now is your time,” cried the mate; and rushing out, grasping the handspikes with which we were armed, we got between them and the sea, and turned them over on their backs, where they lay kicking their legs, unable to move. We had brought ropes to assist us in dragging them down to the water and hauling them on board. We had turned a dozen or more, when I said to Jim.

“We mustn’t let that big one go we first saw land.”

She and the other turtles still on their feet, had taken the alarm, and were scuttling down the beach. We made her out and attempted to turn her, but that was more than we could do.

“She’ll be off,” cried Jim.

We hove the bight of a rope over her head.

“Hold on, Peter!” he cried; and he and I attempted to haul the turtle back, all the time shouting for help, for she was getting closer and closer to the water. At last in she got, dragging us after her. We could not stop her before, and there was very little chance of our doing so now.

“Let her go, Jim,” I cried out.

“We shall lose the rope,” he answered, still holding on.

We were already up to our middles in the water.

“It’s of no use. Let go! Let go!” I cried out, “or we shall be dragged away to sea!”

Supposing that he would do as I told him, I let go at the same moment, when what was my dismay to see Jim dragged away out of his depth.

I swam off to him, still shouting loudly. Presently Soper and Sam Coal came up, and seeing what was happening, dashed into the water. Our united strength, however, could not stop the turtle, and Sam, who had a sharp knife in his pocket, drawing it, cut the rope, and we got Jim back to shore.

The mate rated Jim for losing the rope, though Brown and the rest declared that he had behaved very pluckily, and that if help had come in time we should have saved the turtle. As it was we had turned more than we could carry off.

Having been ordered not to attempt to regain the ship during the night, we turned the boat up and slept under it, while a couple of hands remained outside to watch the turtles and see that they did not manage to get on their feet again and escape.

In the morning we loaded the boat, and pulled back with our prizes.

The mate said nothing about the lost rope, as he knew the notion Brown and the rest had formed of Jim’s courage.

We sighted after this several small islands, and then made the coast of New Guinea.

The captain, seeing a good place for landing, sent a boat ashore with the doctor and most of us who had been engaged in catching turtle.

It seemed a beautiful country, with magnificent trees, and birds flying about in numbers among them.

“This is a perfect paradise,” said the doctor, as we approached the beach.

Just then a number of natives came rushing out from the forest, brandishing clubs and spears. They were the ugliest set of people I ever saw, their bodies nearly naked and their heads covered with hair frizzled out like huge mops. They had also bows at their backs, but they did not point their arrows at us.

The doctor and mate agreed that it would be folly to land amongst them, so we lay on our oars while the mate held up bottles and bits of iron hoops, beads and knives, and a few old clothes, to show them that we wished to trade. After a considerable time they seemed to understand what we wanted, and some of them going away returned with numbers of stuffed birds of a delicate yellow with long tails. We made signs that only those who wanted to trade must come near us. At last several came wading into the water bringing their birds. They set a high price on them, and we only bought a dozen or so. As the rest of the people behaved in as threatening a manner as before, as soon as the trading was over we pulled off, not wishing to risk an encounter with them.

The doctor said that the birds were birds of paradise, and that they were such as the ladies of England wore in their hats. The curious thing was that none of the birds had feet.

“Of course not,” said the second mate, when I pointed this out to him; “they say that the birds come down from the skies and live in the air, and as they never perch, they don’t want feet. That’s why they’re called birds of paradise.”

The doctor laughed. “That’s a very old notion,” he remarked, “but it’s a wrong one notwithstanding, and has long since been exploded. They have legs and claws like other birds, though the natives cut them off and dry the birds as these have been over a hot fire. It’s the only way they have of preserving them.”

The captain said we were very right not to land, as the natives might have been tempted to cut us off for the sake of possessing themselves of the articles in our boat.

As we sailed along the coast the country seemed to be thickly populated, and the boat was frequently sent to try and land, but we always met with the same inhospitable reception. The moment we drew near the shore the black-skinned natives would rush down, apparently to prevent our landing.

This was a great disappointment, for the captain was anxious to obtain fresh provisions, as several of the men, from having lived a long time on salt meat, were suffering from scurvy. Curiously enough, we, who had been in the boat, were free from it. At one place, however, we traded with the natives, and bought several more of the stuffed paradise birds, and a number of live lories, which we kept in cages, and beautiful little creatures they were. Our hope was to carry them safely home, but, either from improper food or change of climate, they all shortly died.

Rounding New Guinea, and passing the island of Mysole, we came to a small island called Gely, at the south-east end of Gillolo, lying exactly under the equator. It contains a magnificent and secure harbour, in which we brought up. There being an abundance of good water, and trees from which spars can be cut, it is an excellent place for repairing damages. The second mate said that those suffering from scurvy would, now have an opportunity of being cured.

The plan he proposed was to bury them up to their necks in the sand, and to leave them there for some hours. The doctor was unwilling to try the experiment, though he did not deny that it might be effectual. Two of our men suffering from the complaint were, however, perfectly willing to submit to the remedy, and, our boats having to go on shore to fill the water-casks, we carried them with us. Holes were dug, and the poor fellows, being stripped naked, were covered up side by side in the warm sand, leaving only their heads above the surface, so that they could not possibly extricate themselves. The captain, I should have said, approved of the plan, having before seen it tried with success; but the doctor, declaring that he would have nothing to do with the matter, went with Jack and another man in an opposite direction. Horner and I had charge of the watering party. The stream from which we filled our casks was at some distance from the place where the men were buried. I undertook to see to the casks being filled if Horner would remain by the men. We had just finished our work and were rolling the casks down to the boat when Horner came rushing up, with his eyes staring and his hair almost on end.

“What’s the matter? What has happened?” I asked, thinking he had gone out of his mind.

“I can’t bear it!” he exclaimed. “It’s too dreadful. I couldn’t help it.”

“What is dreadful? What could you not help?” I inquired.

“The brutes of crocodiles. Poor fellows,” he stammered out. “There won’t be a bit of them left presently!” and he pointed to where we had buried our poor shipmates, and where he ought to have been watching.

The men and I set off running to the spot. A dreadful sight met our eyes. The body of one man lay half eaten on the sand. A huge crocodile was dragging off the other. He had dragged it under the water before we could reach the spot. We could do nothing but shout at the crocodiles. Horner confessed that he had gone to a distance for a short time, during which the brutes had landed and killed the two men. We returned very sad to the boat. As for Horner, it was a long time before he could get over the horror he felt for his neglect of duty. Several canoes filled with natives came into the harbour from Gillolo, bringing potatoes and other vegetables. One of them brought a number of clam-shells of various sizes. One which we hoisted on board weighed four hundred-weight, and we afterwards saw on shore one which must have weighed a quarter of a ton. The natives use them as tubs; I saw a woman bathing a child in one. The meat of the creature when fried is very palatable. I also obtained some beautiful specimens of coral, which I wanted to carry home to Mary and my Shetland relations. I bought also two gallons of nutmegs for an old file, and a large number of shells for some old clothes. The harbour swarmed with sharks, which prevented us from bathing. We here cut some splendid spars for the use of the ship. I may mention that the inner harbour, from its perfect security, has obtained the name of “Abraham’s Bosom.” Were it not for the sharks and crocodiles the place would be perfect.

All the crew having recovered from scurvy, and the ship being refitted, we once more put to sea. The weather was delightful, and we sailed on over the calm ocean with a light breeze.

We had to keep a constant look-out for rocks and reefs.

I can assert, though it is often denied, that when passing under the lee of the Spice Islands, the scent which came off from the shore was perfectly delicious. Whether this arises from the flowers of the cloves and nutmegs, or from the nature of the soil, I cannot determine.

Though we generally had a light breeze, we were sometimes completely becalmed, on which occasions, when near shore, we ran the risk of being driven on the rocks by the currents, and more than once we had all the boats towing ahead to keep her off them till the breeze should spring up. We continued our course, passing to the eastward of Ceram and Banda, and steering for Timor, to the north-west of Australia. We had other dangers besides calms and currents. We had just left the Serwatty Islands astern when the wind dropped, and we lay becalmed.

Though there was little chance of catching whales, we always kept a look-out for them from the masthead, as we could stow one or two more away. We were most of us on deck whistling for a breeze, when the look-out aloft shouted that he saw three craft stealing up from behind the island to the eastward. The second mate went up to have a look at them through his glass, and when he returned on deck he reported that they were three large proas, pulling, he should say, twenty oars or more, and full of men, and that he had no doubt they were pirates. Those seas, we knew, were infested with such gentry—generally Malays, the most bloodthirsty and cruel of their race. Many a merchant vessel has been captured by them and sunk, all hands being killed.

“Whatever they are, we must be prepared for them!” cried Captain Hawkins. “I’ll trust to you, lads, to fight to the last; and I tell you that if they once get alongside us we shall find it a difficult job to keep them off. We will have the arms on deck, Mr Griffiths, for if we don’t get a breeze, as they pull fast, they’ll soon be up to us.”

All the muskets were at once brought up and arranged in order; our two guns were loaded, and the armourer and carpenter set to work to sharpen the blubber-spades, harpoons, and spears. We had thus no lack of weapons; our high bulwarks also gave us an advantage; but the pirates, we knew, would probably out-number us by ten to one.

However, we did not lose heart; Captain Hawkins looked cool and determined, and the mates imitated his example. I didn’t think about myself, but the fear came over me that, after all, Jack might be killed, and that I should not have the happiness of taking him home.

As the pirates approached, we made all necessary preparations for defending ourselves. Muskets and ammunition were served out to the men most accustomed to firearms; the others had the blubber-spades and spears put into their hands. The two mates took charge of the guns, which were loaded to their muzzles, and matches were got ready for firing them. The doctor provided himself with a couple of muskets and a sword. The captain told him he must not run the risk of being wounded, as he might be required to bind up the hurts of the rest of us. He laughed, and said that the first thing to be done was to drive back our enemies should they attempt to board the ship.

The pirates came closer and closer. The captain looked anxiously round the horizon, for though, like a brave man, he was prepared to defend his ship to the last, he had no wish for a fight. As I looked over the sides I saw some cats-paws playing along the surface of the water. The pirates by this time were not a quarter of a mile astern. Presently the lighter canvas, which had hung down against the masts, bulged out, and then the topsails filled.

“All hands trim sails!” shouted the captain.

The breeze came from the eastward; the yards were squared, and the Intrepid began to move through the water. She glided on but slowly; the pirates were still gaining on us. The wind, however, freshened.

As we watched our pursuers, first one raised a mast and a long taper yard, then another, and they were soon under all sail standing after us. The breeze increased; we gave a cheer, hoping soon to get well ahead of them. Still on they came, and it seemed very doubtful whether we should succeed. I believe that some of the crew would rather have had a fight than have escaped without it.

The pirates, by keeping their oars moving, still gained on us. To look at the captain, one might have supposed that it was a matter of indifference to him whether they came alongside or not, but our cargo was too valuable to risk the chance of being lost. We had soon studding-sails rigged below and aloft. Again the wind dropped, and the pirates were now almost within musket shot.

“We will slew round one of our guns, and run it through the after port, Griffiths,” said the captain. “A shot or two will teach the rascals what to expect should they come up to us.”

Just, however, as we had got the gun run out the wind again freshened. The Intrepid, deep in the water though she was, showed that she had not lost her power of sailing. Though the pirates were straining every nerve, we once more drew ahead of them. The more the breeze increased the faster we left them astern, and by the time the sun had set we had got fully four miles ahead, but still by going aloft we could see them following, evidently hoping that we should be again becalmed, and that they might get up with us. During the night we continued our course for Timor. At the usual hour the watch below turned in, though the captain remained on deck, and a sharp look-out was kept astern. However, as long as the breeze continued we had no fear of being overtaken.

It was my morning watch. As soon as it was daylight I went aloft, and saw the proas the same distance off that they had been at nightfall. I told Mr Griffiths when I came below.

“The rascals still expect to catch us,” he said, “but we must hope that they’ll be disappointed. However, we’re prepared for them.”

For some hours the breeze continued steady. Soon after noon it again fell, and our pursuers crept closer to us. It was somewhat exciting, and kept us all alive, though it did not spoil our appetites. The whole of the day they were in sight, but when the wind freshened up again in the evening we once more distanced them. The night passed as the former had done. We could not tell when we went below what moment we might be roused up to fight for our lives. I for one did not sleep the worse for that.

The breeze was pretty steady during the middle watch, and I was not on deck again till it was broad daylight. The second mate, who had been aloft, reported that the pirates were still in sight, but farther off than they were the day before, and the breeze now freshening, their hulls sank beneath the horizon, and we fully expected to see no more of them. We sighted Timor about three weeks after leaving Gely, and in the evening brought up in a small bay, with a town on its shore, called Cushbab. Our object was to obtain vegetables and buffalo meat.

The natives are Malays, and talk Portuguese. Nearly all those we met on shore carried creeses, or long, sharp knives, in their belt, which they use on the slightest provocation. Every boy we saw had a cock under his arm. The people seemed to spend all their time in cock-fighting. They are very fond of the birds, which are of enormous size; considerably larger than any English cocks. Being unable to obtain any buffaloes here, we got under way, and anchored in another bay some way to the west, where we obtained twelve animals.

At first they were very wild when we got them on board, but in a few hours became tame, and would eat out of our hands. They were destined, however, for the butcher’s knife. Some of the meat we ate fresh, but the larger quantity was salted down for sea stores. The unsalted meat kept for a very short time, and we had to throw a large piece overboard. The instant it reached the water up came two tiger sharks, which fought for it, seizing each other in the most ferocious manner possible, and struggling together, although there was enough for both of them.

After leaving Timor we steered along the south-east coast of Java, and then shaped a course across the Indian Ocean for the Cape of Good Hope. The wind was fair, the sea smooth, and I never remember enjoying a longer period of fine weather. In consequence of the light winds our passage was lengthened more than we had expected, and we were running short of provisions of all sorts. There were still two casks of bread left, each containing about four hundred-weight.

“Never mind,” observed the second mate, “we shall have enough to take us to the Cape.”

At length the first was finished, and we went below to get up the second. It was marked bread clearly enough, but when the carpenter knocked in the head, what was our dismay to find it full of new sails, it having been wrongly branded! The captain at once ordered a search to be made in the store-room for other provisions. The buffalo meat we had salted had long been exhausted, part of it having turned bad; and besides one cask of pork, which proved to be almost rancid, a couple of pounds of flour with a few other trifling articles, not a particle of food remained in the ship. Starvation stared us in the face.

Chapter Thirty.

The voyage home, and how it ended.

On hearing of the alarming scarcity of food on board, the captain called the crew aft.

“Lads,” he said, “I don’t want to hide anything from you. Should the wind shift to the westward, it may be a month or more before we reach the Cape, so if you wish to save your lives, you must at once be put on a short allowance of food and water. A quarter of a pint of water, two ounces of pork, and half an ounce of flour is all I can allow for each man, and the officers and I will share alike with you.”

Not a word was said in reply, and the men went forward with gloomy looks. To make the flour go farther we mixed whale oil with it, and, though nauseous in the extreme, it served to keep body and soul together.

At first the crew bore it pretty well, but they soon took to grumbling, saying that it was owing to the captain’s want of forethought in not laying in more provisions that we were reduced to this state.

Hitherto the wind had been fair, but any day it might change, and then, they asked, what would become of us? Most of them would have broken into open mutiny had not they known that the mates and doctor, Jack and I, Jim, and probably Brown and Soper, would have sided with the captain, though we felt that they were not altogether wrong in their accusation.

I heard the doctor tell Mr Griffiths that he was afraid the scurvy would again appear if we were kept long on our present food. Day after day we glided on across the smooth ocean with a cloudless sky, our food and water gradually decreasing.

We now often looked at each other, wondering what would be the end. At last, one night, when it was my middle watch on deck, Jim came aft to me.

“I’m afraid the men won’t stand it any longer,” he said. “They vow that if the captain don’t serve out more food and water they’ll take it. I know that it will be death to all of us if they do, or I would not tell on them. You let Mr Griffiths know; maybe he’ll bring them to a right mind. They don’t care for Jack or me, and Brown, Soper, and Sam seemed inclined to side with the rest. Jack says whatever you do he’ll do.”

“Thank you, Jim,” I answered. “You try to show them what folly they’ll commit if they attempt to do as they propose. They won’t succeed, for the captain is a determined man, and there’ll be bloodshed if they keep to their purpose.”

Jim went forward, and I took a turn on deck to consider what was best to be done. It was the second mate’s watch, and it had only just struck two bells. I did not wish to say anything to him. I waited for a little, and then asked the second mate to let me go below for a minute, for I could not quit the deck without his leave.

“You may go and turn in if you like,” he said. “There’s no chance of your being wanted on a night like this.”

“Thank you, sir,” I answered, and at once ran down to Mr Griffiths’s cabin.

He awoke when I touched his shoulder, and I told him in a low voice what I had heard.

“You have acted sensibly, Peter,” he answered. “I’ll be on deck in a moment. When the men see that we are prepared for them they’ll change their minds.”

I again went on deck, and he soon appeared, with a brace of pistols in his belt, followed by the captain and the doctor, with muskets in their hands.

At that moment up sprang from the fore-hatchway the greater part of the crew, evidently intending to make their way to the after store-room, where the provisions and water were kept.

“What are you about to do, lads?” shouted the captain. “Go below, every one of you, except the watch on deck, and don’t attempt to try this trick again.”

His tall figure holding a musket ready to fire cowed them in an instant, and they obeyed without uttering a word. The captain said that he should remain on deck, and told Mr Griffiths and the doctor that he would call them if they were wanted.

Some time afterwards, going forward, I found Jim, who told me that they had all turned in.

The night passed away without any disturbance. As soon as it was daylight the captain ordered me to go aloft and take a look round. I obeyed, though I felt so weak that I could scarcely climb the rigging. I glanced round the horizon, but no vessel could I see. A mist still hung over the water.

I was just about to come down when the sun rose, and at the same moment I made out over our quarter, away to the southward, a white sail, on which his rays were cast, standing on the same course that we were.

“Sail ho!” I shouted in a joyful tone, and pointed out in the direction in which I saw her.

The captain, immediately I came down, ordered me to rouse up all hands, and every sail the ship could carry being set, we edged down to the stranger, making a signal that we desired to speak her. She was an English barque, also bound for the Cape.

As we got close together, a boat being lowered, Mr Griffiths and I went on board and stated our wants. Her captain at once agreed to supply us with everything he could spare, and we soon had our boat loaded with a cask of bread, another of beef, and several other articles, and in addition a nautical almanack, for we had run out our last one within a week before this. We had a second trip to make, with casks to fill with water. As may be supposed, we had quenched our own thirst on our first visit. When we again got back we found the cook and two hands assisting him busily employed in preparing breakfast, and a right hearty one we had.

We kept our charitable friends in sight till we reached the Cape, by which time we had expended all the provisions with which they had furnished us.

In a few days, from the abundance of fresh meat and vegetables which we obtained from the shore, our health and strength returned, and I for one was eager once more to put to sea, that Jack and I might the sooner reach home. We had got so far on our way that it seemed to me as if we were almost there. We were, however, detained for several days refitting and provisioning the ship.

Once more, however, the men showed their mutinous disposition, for when they were ordered to heave up the anchor they refused to man the windlass, on the plea that they had had no liberty on shore. Though this was the case, there having been work for all hands on board, there was no real excuse for their conduct, as they were amply supplied with provisions, and had not been really over-worked.

“We shall see, my fine fellows,” exclaimed the captain, on seeing them doggedly standing with their arms folded in a group forward.

At once ordering his boat, which was pulled by Jack and Jim, Miles Soper and Brown, he went on shore. He soon returned, with the deputy captain of the port, who, stepping on board, called the men aft, and inquired what they had to complain of. As they were all silent, Captain McL— made them a speech, pointing out to them that they were fortunate in being aboard a well-found and well-provisioned ship.

“And, my lads,” he continued, “you need not have any fear of falling sick, for the captain has an ample supply for you of anti-scorbutics.”

As none of the mutineers had a notion what this long word meant, they were taken completely aback; and after staring at him and then at each other, first one and then another went forward to the windlass, and we soon had the ship under way.

Whenever during the voyage any of us talked about the matter, we always called Captain McL— “Old Anti-Scorbutic.” I felt happier than I had been for a long time when the ship’s head was directed northward, and as we had a fresh breeze the men declared that their friends at home had got hold of the tow-rope, and that we should soon be there.

On running down to Saint Helena we were followed for several days by some black whales of immense length. Sometimes they were so close to the ship’s side that we might have lanced them from the deck. The fourth day after we saw them the second mate and Horner took it into their heads wantonly to fire musket-shots at them. At last one of the poor creatures was hit, when it dived, the others following its example, and we saw them no more. The only object of interest we met with crossing the north-east trades was the passage through the Gulf Stream, or Sargasso Sea, as it is sometimes called. It was curious to find ourselves surrounded by thick masses of seaweed as far as the eye could reach on every side, so that no clear water could be seen for miles away. I can compare it to nothing else than to sailing through a farmyard covered with deep straw.

The first land we made was Fyal. Thence we ran across to Pico, where we obtained provisions and water. If we had got nothing else it would have been well, but the crew managed to smuggle on board a quantity of new rum, the effects of which were soon visible.

Leaving Pico, we shaped a course for old England. The wind was now freshening, and all sail was made, as the captain was in a hurry to get the voyage over. In the evening, when the watch was called, not a man came on deck, every one of them being drunk, while most of the men in the other watch, who had managed to slip down every now and then, were in no better condition. The captain, who had been ailing, was in bed. Mr Griffiths, the doctor and I, Jim and Brown, were the only sober ones. The second mate evidently did not know what he was about. Mr Griffiths advised him to turn in. I was very sorry to see my brother Jack nearly as bad as the rest, though he afterwards told me that, having been so long without spirits, they had had an unexpected effect upon him. We sober ones had to remain all night on deck, running off when a puff of wind struck the sails. It was a mercy that it didn’t come on to blow hard, for we could never have managed to shorten sail in time to save the spars. Indeed, very probably the masts would have gone. Brown, Jim, and I took it by turns to steer till morning broke, by which time some of the rest of the crew began to show signs of life. As we got into northern latitudes a strong north-easterly breeze made the weather feel bitterly cold to us, who had been for so long a time accustomed to a southern climate.

During all that period I had not worn shoes. For the sake of warmth I now wanted to put on a pair, but my feet had so increased in size that I could not find any large enough in the slop-locker.

At last the wind shifted to the south-west, and we ran before it up Channel.

The first object we made was the Owers light-vessel, about ninety miles from the Downs. Having made a signal for a pilot, one boarded us out of a cutter off Dungeness. How eagerly all of us plied the old fellow for news, though as he was a man of few words it was with difficulty that the captain or mates could pump much out of him. We remained but a few hours in the Downs to obtain provisions, of which we were again short, and thence proceeded to the Thames, where we dropped our anchor for the last time before going into dock to unload.

Jim and I, although we had been kept on board against our will and had never signed articles, found that we could claim wages. Though I had no reason to like Captain Hawkins, yet I felt that I ought to wish him good-bye.

To my surprise, he seemed very friendly, and said that if I ever wished to go to sea again he should be very glad to have me with him, as well as my brother and Jim. Poor man! He had made his last voyage, for I heard of his death shortly afterwards. I was very sorry to part from Mr Griffiths and Dr Cockle. They invited me to come and see them, both of them saying that they never intended again to go afloat, though I heard that Mr Griffiths got the command of a fine ship shortly afterwards; so I supposed that like many others similarly situated he was induced to change his mind and tempt once more the dangers of the ocean.

“We will meet again, Peter,” said Miles Soper; “and I hope that if you and Jack go to sea, we shall all be aboard the same ship.”

Brown said the same thing, but from that day to this I have never been able to learn what became of him. Such is often the case in a sea life. For years people are living on the most intimate terms, and separate never to meet again in this life.

After remaining a week in London for payment of our wages, Jim and I each received five-and-twenty pounds, Jack also obtaining nearly half that amount. Our first care before we set off for Portsmouth, to which we were eager to return, was, our clothes being worn out, to supply ourselves with decent suits of blue cloth and other necessaries.

At daylight the morning after we were free, carrying our bundles and the various treasures we had collected, a pretty load altogether, we went to the place from which the coach started for Portsmouth, and finding three seats on the top, off we set with light hearts, thinking of the friends we should meet on our arriving there. Jack confessed that he had forgotten the appearance of most of them, though he longed to see Mary and to give her the curiosities he had brought. We had a couple of parrots, three other beautifully coloured birds, a big basket of shells, and a whole bundle of bows, and arrows, and darts, and a lot of other things.

Rattling down the Portsmouth High Street, we at last dismounted and set off for Mr Gray’s house, where I fully expected I should still find Mary living. As we walked along, the boys gathered round us to look at our birds, and some asked where we had come from with so many curious things.

“From round the world,” answered Jim, “since we were last at home,” which was not a very definite answer.

In vain we looked, about expecting to see some old acquaintances, but all the faces we set eyes on were strange. No wonder, considering how long we had been away, while certainly no one would have recognised us. It was not quite an easy matter to find our way to Mr Gray’s house, and we had to stop every now and then while Jim and I consulted which turning to take, for we were ashamed to ask any one. At last, just as we got near it, we saw an old gentleman in a Quaker’s dress coming along the road. He just glanced at us, as other people had done; when I, looking hard at him, felt sure he must be Mr Gray. I nudged Jim’s shoulder.

“Yes, it’s he, I’m sure,” whispered Jim.

So I went up to him, and pulling off my hat said—

“Beg pardon, sir; may I be so bold as to ask if you are Mr Gray?”

“Gray is my name, young man,” he answered, looking somewhat surprised, “Who art thou?”

“Peter Trawl, sir; and this Jim Pulley, and here is my brother Jack.”

If the kind Quaker had ever been addicted to uttering exclamations of surprise he would have done so on this occasion, I suspect, judging from the expression of astonishment which came over his countenance.

“Peter Trawl! James Pulley! Why, it was reported that those two lads were lost in the North Sea years ago,” he said.

“We are the lads, sir, notwithstanding,” I answered; and I briefly narrated to him how we had been picked up by the Intrepid and carried off to the Pacific, and how I had there found my brother Jack.

“Verily, this is good news, and will cheer the heart of thy young sister, who has never ceased to believe that thou wouldst turn up again some day or other,” he said.

“Is Mary well, sir? Is she still with you?” I inquired, eagerly.

“Yes, Peter, thy sister is as one of my family. Though greatly pressed by her newly-found relatives in Shetland to go there and reside with them, she has always replied that she was sure thou wast alive, and that thou wouldst come back to Portsmouth to look for her and that it would grieve thee much not to find her.”

“How kind and thoughtful!” I exclaimed. “Do let me go on, sir, at once to see my young sister.”

“Stay, lad, stay,” he answered. “The surprise might be too great for her. I will go back to my house and tell her that thou hast returned home safe. Thou art so changed that she would not know thee, and therefore thou and thy companions may follow close behind.”

We saw Mr Gray go to his door and knock. It was opened by a woman-servant, who I was sure, when I caught sight of her countenance, was Nancy herself. She saw me at the same moment, and directly Mr Gray had entered, came out on the doorstep, and regarded me intently.

“Yes, I’m sure it is!” she exclaimed. “Peter, Peter, aren’t you Peter, now? I have not forgotten thy face, though thee be grown into a young man!” and she stretched out her arms, quite regardless of the passers-by, ready to give me such another embrace as she had bestowed on me when I went away. I could not restrain myself any longer, but, giving the things I was carrying to Jack, sprang up the steps.

“Here he is, Miss Mary, here he is!” cried Nancy, and I saw close behind her a tall, fair girl.

Nancy, however, had time to give me a kiss and a hug before I could disengage myself, and the next moment my sweet sister Mary had her arms round my neck, and, half crying, half laughing, was exclaiming—

“I knew you would come, I knew you would, Peter; I was sure you were not lost!”

My brother Jack and Jim were, meantime, staying outside, not liking to come in till they were summoned. Nancy did not recognise them, and thought that they were two shipmates who had accompanied me to carry my things.

At last, when I told Mary that I had not only come myself, but had brought back our brother Jack, she was eager to see him, though she was so young when he went away that she had no recollection of his countenance, and scarcely knew him from Jim.

Mary had let me into the parlour. I now went and beckoned them in. Nancy, when she knew who they were, welcomed them warmly, but did not bestow so affectionate a greeting on them as she had done on me. Jim stood outside the door while I brought Jack in. Though Mary kissed him, and told him how glad she was to see him, it was easy to see that she at first felt almost as if he were a stranger.

Mr Gray left us to ourselves for some time, and then all the family came in and welcomed us kindly, insisting that Jack should remain with me in the parlour, while Nancy took care of Jim in the kitchen, where he was much more it his ease than he would have been with strangers. Jack, indeed, looked, as he afterwards confessed to me he felt, like a fish out of water in the presence of so many young ladies.

Though I had twice written to Mary, and had directed my letters properly, neither had reached her; yet for all these fears she had not lost hope of seeing me.

After supper, Jack and I were going away, but Mr Gray insisted that we should remain, as he had had beds arranged for us in the house.

“I must not let you lads be exposed to the dangers and temptations of the town,” he said in a kind tone. “You must stay here till you go to sea again.”

Mary at once wrote to Mr Troil to tell him of my return, and of my having brought my brother Jack back with me.

While waiting for an answer, one day Jack and Jim and I were walking down the High Street, when we saw a large placard stating that the Thisbe frigate, commissioned by Captain Rogers, was in want of hands.

“I shouldn’t wonder but what he was my old skipper,” observed Jack. “And you fine young fellows couldn’t do better than join her,” exclaimed a petty officer, who was standing near, clapping Jack on the back.

“Why I think I know your face,” he added.

“Maybe. I’m Jack Trawl. I’m not ashamed of my name,” said my brother.

“Jack Trawl!” exclaimed the man-of-war’s man; “then you belong to the Lapwing. We all thought you were lost with the rest of the boat’s crew.”

“No, I wasn’t; Miles Soper and I escaped. Now I look at you, ain’t you Bill Bolton?”

“The same,” was the answer. “Tell us how it all happened.”

Jack in a few words told his old shipmate what is already known to the reader. While he was speaking, who should come up but Miles Soper himself, come down to Portsmouth to look out for a berth, accompanied by Sam Coal. The long and the short of it was that they all three agreed to enter aboard the Thisbe, and did their best to persuade Jim to follow their example.

I had no notion of doing so myself, for I knew that it would break Mary’s heart to part with me again so soon, and I feared, indeed, that she would not like Jack’s going. Still, taking all things into consideration, he could not do better I thought—for having been so long at sea, he felt, as he said, like a fish out of water among so many fine folks.

Jim made no reply, but drawing me aside, said—

“Peter, I can’t bear the thoughts of leaving you, and yet I know you wouldn’t like to ship before the mast again; but if I stay ashore what am I to do? I’ve no fancy to spending my days in a wherry, and haven’t got one if I had. I’ve taken a liking to Jack, and you’ve many friends, and can do without me, so if you don’t say no I’ll ship with the rest.”

I need not repeat what I said to Jim. I was sure that it was the best thing he could do, and advised him accordingly.

“I’m with you, mates,” he said, in a husky tone, going back to the rest, and away they all went together, while I returned to Mr Gray’s.

“I wish the lads had shipped on board a peaceable merchantman,” he observed when I told him, “but I can’t pretend to dictate to them. I am glad thou hast been better directed, Peter.”

Jack and Jim came to see us before the ship went out of harbour. Jack said he knew that he must work for his living, and that he would rather serve aboard a man-o’-war than do anything else.

“I’ll look after him as I used to do you, Peter,” said Jim. “And I hope some day we’ll come back with our pockets full of gold, and maybe bear up for wherever you’ve dropped your anchor.”

A few days after this a letter came from Mr Troil, inviting Mary, Jack, and me to Shetland. Mary was very unwilling to leave her kind friends, but Mr Gray said that it would be to our advantage, and advised Mary and me to go.

He was right, for when we arrived Mr Troil received us as relatives. Mary became like a second daughter to him. I assisted in managing his property, and in the course of a few years Maggie, to whom he left everything he possessed, became my wife, while Mary married the owner of a neighbouring estate.

Some few years after a small coaster came into the Voe. I went down to see what she had on board. A sailor-looking man, with a wooden leg, and a woman, stepped ashore.

“That’s him—that’s him!” I heard them exclaim, and in a moment I was shaking hands with Jim and Nancy, who had become his wife. He had got his discharge, and had come, he said, to settle near me. I several times heard from my brother Jack, who, after serving as bo’sun on board a line-of-battle ship, retired from the service with a pension, and joined our family circle in Shetland, where he married, and declared that he was too happy ever to go to sea again.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Pirate of the Mediterranean"

Chapter One.

Malta, which I have selected as the opening scene of the following story, is, from its historical recollections, its fine climate, and brilliant skies, a very interesting spot; although, for such beauty as its scenery possesses, it must be acknowledged that it is indebted very much more to art than to nature. Notwithstanding, however, the noise it has made in the world, and will, I suspect, should we ever be driven into a war with our vivacious continental neighbour, again make, it is but a rock some twenty miles long, and twelve broad, in the middle of the Mediterranean, with a smaller rock, Gozo, to the north of it, and was, probably, at one time of this planet’s existence, merely a continuation of Sicily or Italy’s toe, or a lump, as it were, kicked off into the middle of the sea. If, also, report speaks true, the very soil which gives verdure to its valleys, and nourishes its sweet-scented orange-groves, was imported from richer lands; yet, notwithstanding this, a larger number of inhabitants of every religion, colour, and costume, continue to exist on its surface, than on any similar-sized portion of the globe. But in its capital, Valetta, with its magnificent fortifications, and superb harbour, are centred its chief attractions, and which have gained for it a name imperishable on the page of history as the bulwark of Christendom, against the pagan hosts of the Saracens.

But as my tale is with the present rather than with the past, I will not stop to describe how, when it was called Mileta, Saint Paul landed on the island,—how the Vandals and Goths took possession of it, and were driven out by Belisarius,—how in 1530, the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem, driven away from Rhodes, here settled,—how they built a fortress which withstood the mighty army of the Turks, and how those gallant gentlemen hurled back the infidels defeated and disgraced,—how they at length degenerated, and its inhabitants, deceived by treachery from within and without their gates, yielded their liberty to the great enemy of Europe, Buonaparte, and were unmercifully ill-treated, and pillaged,—and how, in the year 1800, with the the aid of an English fleet and a small English army, they drove out their conquerors, and put themselves under the protection of Great Britain.

How Mr Cameron was first Civil Commissioner, and was succeeded by Sir Alexander Ball, a man justly endeared to the inhabitants as the sharer of their toils and victory,—how he was followed by Sir Hildebrand Oakes, after whom reigned, as their first Governor, for eleven years, commencing in 1813, Sir Thomas Maitland, called by irreverent lips, King Tom; a gallant soldier, and the terror of ill-doers, on whose decease the Marquis of Hastings and General Ponsonby successively became chiefs.

It was during the time that one of the three last-mentioned governors ruled the land, that the events I am about to narrate took place, and as it is in the capital, Valetta, and its magnificent harbour, that our scene more particularly lies, it is somewhat important that the reader should have them described to him.

Valetta is situated on that side of the island which faces the north-east, though towards the southern end of it. The harbour is of a very peculiar shape, and if the reader should not happen to possess a chart of it, he may form one by placing his left hand on the table, with the fingers separated as widely as possible from the middle finger: then let him bend up the third finger of his right hand, and place, widely apart, the tips of the others over the forefinger of his left hand. The middle finger of his left hand is Valetta, with Saint Elmo Castle on the nail, and its palaces and ramparts running along up to the knuckles. The space on the right is the Great Port, and on the left, Port Marsa Musceit, or the Quarantine Harbour. The tip of the little finger of the right hand is Port Ricasoli. On the bent-up third finger is the Bighi Palace, now a naval hospital, built by Napoleon as a residence for himself. The middle finger is the Burgh, with Port Saint Angelo at the end. The fore-finger is called Isola, with the Cotonera fortifications at the knuckle, and the thumb is denominated Carodino, where the Palatario is situated, while the spaces between each of the fingers are smaller harbours of great depth and security; and from Port Saint Angelo, numerous tiers of frowning batteries completely enfilade the entrance of the harbour—the approach to which is further defended by Forts Saint Elmo and Ricasoli. On the opposite side of Port Marsa Musceit, are two forts—Port Tigne at the entrance, and Fort Manuel; and there are several indentations, but of less depth and importance than those to the south. Besides the forts I have mentioned, the city is protected by the Floriana lines, and several other works. Indeed, it is said that there are sixty miles length of walls, which, in these economical times, are allowed slowly to crumble away. If our merchants value their trade with the East—if our rulers value our possession of India—if our philanthropists value the civilisation of the world, and the continuance of peace, let not Malta be neglected. To open the door is not the way to keep out a thief.

Valetta is a place of life, bustle, and animation. The Maltese are a busy people, given to gesticulation; and it is full of naval and military officers, and soldiers, and sailors, who are not addicted to quietude, especially the latter; and there are Greeks, and Moors, and Spaniards, and Italians, and Jews innumerable, congregated there, and priests and friars of all orders, who delight in the ringing of bells, so that silence is little known in this city of ramparts, steps, big guns, and churches. The streets are wide and handsome; those running along the middle finger, as I have described, are on a level, while those which lead up from the water are at right angles to them, and are occasionally steep, so that, in most instances, they consist of a broad flight of steps, the best known of which are the Nix Mangiare stairs, leading from the chief landing-place at the Great Port to the upper part of the town. The houses are balconied, lofty, and spacious, with terraces on the roofs, whence, in clear weather, Etna is visible; and where, in the cool of the evening, the inhabitants may enjoy the refreshing breeze from the sea, and behold it, in its intense blueness, dotted with white sails gliding in all directions over its surface. It is full of fine churches, the towers of which rise above the flat roofs of the palace-like houses, the whole surrounded by a broad walk, and a fringe of ramparts bristling with cannon.

It is to that part of the fortifications facing the mouth of the Great Port that I particularly wish to conduct the reader.

It was some four hours or so past noon when the boat of a British man-of-war ran in alongside the landing-place at the fort of Nix Mangiare stairs, and out of her stepped two persons, whose blue jackets, adorned with crown-and-anchor buttons, and the patches of white cloth on their cohars proclaimed them to belong to the exalted rank of midshipmen in the Royal Navy. But many might envy the free joyous laugh in which they indulged, seemingly on finding themselves on shore, and the light elastic tread with which they sprang up the long flight of steps before them, distancing, in a moment, several civilians and soldiers of various ranks, who, puffing and blowing, with handkerchiefs at their foreheads, were toiling upwards, while they arrived at the summit without even giving way to a gasp, and as cool, apparently, as when they landed. Their ears, as they went up, were saluted by—

“Yah hassare, carita—Nix mangiar these ten days, sar—Mi moder him die plague, sar! mi fader him die too,” and other pathetic cries and similar equally veracious assertions, from numerous cripples, deformed creatures, and children of all ages, in rags and tatters, who endeavoured to excite their compassion by exhibiting their wounds and scars. The two youths had time to put their hands in their pockets, and to distribute a few pence to the wretched-looking beings on their way; both pocket and heart, if that were possible, being made lighter thereby. On reaching the top of the flight of stairs, without stopping to contemplate the height they had ascended, they turned to the right, and took the way along the ramparts towards Fort Saint Elmo. There seemed not to have been the slightest necessity for their hurry, as they appeared to have come on shore simply to take a walk, for they now slackened their pace, and proceeded on side by side.

“Well, I’m so glad, Duff, that you have joined us,” exclaimed the one who appeared to be somewhat the eldest. “Who’d have thought it, when we parted four years ago at old Railton’s that we were next to meet out here. I didn’t think you would have got leave to enter the service.”

“Neither did I expect to get afloat, and still less to become your messmate, when you, lucky dog that I thought you, left school. I moped on there for nearly another year, and then wrote to my governor and told him that if he didn’t let me go to sea I should never be fit for anything. At last he believed that I was in earnest, and with a light heart I turned my back upon Brook-green, and shipped on board the old Rodney. But, I say, old fellow, what sort of a chap is our skipper? He looks like a taut hand.”

“There is not a better fellow afloat,” was the answer. “He’s none of your milk-and-water chaps who’ll let butter melt in their mouths, of that you may be assured; but he knows what ought to be done, and what man can do; and he makes them do it too. There’s no shirking work or being slack in stays when he carries on the duty, and there’s not a smarter ship in the service, nor a happier one either, though he won’t allow an idler on board. The fact is, my boy, both officers and men know that no one can shirk their work, so it comes easy to all, and we have more leave and less punishment than nearly any other vessel on the station.

“But, I say, Jack Raby, is it true, that he makes the midshipmen do the duty of topmen?” asked the youngest of the two.

“I believe you, my boy,” answered Jack Raby. “He makes all the youngsters lie out in the topsail-yards, and hand the canvas in fine style, ay, and black down the rigging at times too. By Jove, he’s the fellow to make your kid-glove-wearing gentlemen dip their hands in the tar-bucket, and keep them there, if he sees they are in any way squeamish about it.”

“By jingo, he seems to be somewhat of a Tartar,” exclaimed the midshipman called Duff, with a half-doubtful expression of countenance, as if his new shipmate was practising on his credulity.

“Not a bit of it,” was the rejoinder. “Let me tell you, that you’ll soon find that your slack captains are the worst to sail with. They let every one do as they like till all hands begin to take liberties, and the hard work falls on the most willing, and they then suddenly haul up, and there is six times more flogging and desertion than in a strict ship, and she soon becomes a regular hell afloat. I hate your honey-mouthed, easy-going skippers, who simper out, ‘Please, my good men, have the goodness to brace round the foreyard when the ship’s taken aback.’ No, no—give me a man who knows how to command men. Depend on it. Duff, you’ll like Captain Fleetwood before you’ve sailed with him a week, if you are worth your salt, mind you, though.”

By this time they had reached an angle of the ramparts, where, jumping up on the banquette, they could enjoy a good view up the harbour.

“There,” exclaimed Raby, pointing to a fine man-of-war brig, which lay at the mouth of the dockyard creek just off Fort Saint Angelo. “Isn’t the Ione a beauty now?”

“Yes, she is, indeed; and a fine craft, I dare say, in every respect,” answered Duff.

“Oh, there’s nothing can come up to her!” exclaimed Jack Raby, warming with his subject. “She’ll sail round almost any ship in the fleet; and I only wish, with Charlie Fleetwood to command her, and her present crew, we could fall in with an enemy twice her size. We should thrash him, I’d stake my existence on it, and bring him in as a prize before long.”

“Glorious!” exclaimed the other youth, catching the enthusiasm of his companion. “It’s a pity the war is over. I’m afraid there’s no chance of any fun of that sort.”

“Oh, you don’t know—something may come out of this row between the Greeks and the Turks; and we, at all events, shall have some amusement in looking after them, and cruising up the Archipelago—where I hear we are to be sent, as soon as we are ready for sea.”

Jack Raby was the speaker.

“How soon will that be?” asked his companion. “We might sail to-morrow, I should have thought.”

“Why, you see, there are more reasons than one for our not being ready,” observed Jack. “And I suspect the skipper himself is in no hurry to get away; for, don’t you go and talk about it now, but the fact is, he has been and fallen desperately in love with a sweetly pretty girl, who, from what I can observe, likes him not a little in return, so he’ll be very sorry to get out of sight of her smiles; at least, I know that I should be loath to be beyond hailing distance if I were in his place. Let me give you a piece of advice, Duff; don’t go and fall in love. It is a very inconvenient condition for a midshipman to be in, let me tell you.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Duff. “At least, till I am a lieutenant. However, I felt rather queer about the region of the brisket the other night, when I was dancing with that pretty little Maltese girl, with the black eyes, and cherry lips, though we neither of us could understand a word the other said, and I didn’t know what was to come of it. Fortunately, next morning, the sensation had gone off again, and I got out of the scrape. But the fact is, since I grew up (the rogue was scarcely fifteen), I have been so little on shore, that I have had no time to lose my heart.”

Jack Raby, who was a year older, and therefore considered himself a man at all events, burst into a loud fit of laughter, in which his companion joined him, at the absurdity of their conversation; of which, although they had spoken in earnest, they were both somewhat conscious. “But I say, old fellow, without any more humbug about love and such like bosh, just look at the dear old craft! how beautifully she sits on the water—what a graceful sheer she has—and how well her sixteen guns look run out, like dogs from their kennels, all ready to bite. You should see her under weigh though, and how beautiful she looks with her canvas spread! You’d know her for a man-of-war twenty miles off by the cut of her royals. See, what square yards she’s got! and how well her masts stand. How light she looks aloft—and yet everything that is required—not a block too large—and yet everything works as easy as possible. On deck, too, you’ll find there’s no jim-crack nonsense about her—everything is for service, and intended to last; and yet, where there is any brass or varnished wood, it’s kept as bright and clean as can be. There isn’t a ship on the station can come up to us in reefing or furling; and, let them say what they like in other ships, there isn’t a happier berth, or a better set of fellows to be found, on board any of them—take my word for it, Duff.”

“Well, from all you say, I haven’t a doubt but that I shall like the little Ione very much,” observed the other. “And, at all events, I wouldn’t mind a worse ship, for the sake of being with you. But, I say, who is the young lady your skipper—I may now, though, call him our skipper—has fallen in love with?”

“A Miss Garden. She is very young, and very fair, and very bright and lively. I’m not surprised at any one’s admiring her! it’s much more wonderful that everybody doesn’t fall in love with her over head and ears: for my part, though I’ve only seen her two or three times, I’m ready to fight and die for her, too, if it were necessary.”

“Oh, of course! that we should all be ready to do, as in duty bound, for our skipper’s wife, and much more for the lady of his love,” observed Duff; “but I want to know who she is?”

“I was going to tell you. She has no father nor mother; and her only living relation, that I know of, is an old colonel Gauntlett, on whose protection she is entirely thrown. He is rather a grumpy old chap, they say—but she has no help for it; and he takes her about wherever he goes. He has got some money—but he hates the navy, and swears she shall never marry a sailor, or if she does he’ll cut her off with a farthing. He came out here some months ago, and has never let any one with a blue jacket come inside his door; but, somehow or other, Captain Fleetwood got introduced to her, and as he was in mufti, the old chap didn’t know he was in the navy, and told him he should be happy to make his acquaintance. He did not find out his mistake for some time; and when he did—my eyes, what a rage he was in! He did not mind it so much, though, afterwards, as he is going away in a few days, and thought the captain and his niece were not likely to meet again; but the skipper, you see, is not the man to let the grass grow under his feet in making love, more than in anything else, and in the mean time he had managed to come it pretty strong with Miss Garden. How it will end I can’t say—I only know that our captain is the last man in the world to yield up a lady if he loves her, and believes she loves him—he’d as soon think of striking his flag to an enemy while he had got a shot in the locker; so, I suppose, he’ll either win over the old cove, or run off with her, and snap his fingers at him—he doesn’t care for his money;—and, to my idea, that would be the best way to settle it.”

“So I think,” observed the other youngster. “I’ve made up my mind, when I want to marry, if I cannot get the old one’s consent, to take French leave, and settle the matter in an offhand way. But where do you say the grumpy colonel and his pretty niece are going to; for the captain must look sharp after her, or he’ll be carrying her away somewhere inland, out of sight of salt water, where he can’t get at her.”

“No fear of that; the old dragon has too great an opinion of his own soldiership not to fancy that he can keep guard over his ward,” observed Raby. “But we’ll see if a sailor can’t weather on him. Nothing I should like so much as to help the skipper, and I only hope he may ask me. He hasn’t much time to lose, either; for we heard that the colonel and his niece were bound shortly for Cephalonia, or one of the Ionian Islands, where he has got an appointment. If we were ordered there also, we might find an opportunity; but, you see, the captain won’t have the chances of meeting her without being observed, which he has here, and a hundred to one the uncle claps half a dozen lobsters as sentries over her, if he sees the Ione come off the place.”

“Then I should be for carrying her off at once, if I were the captain, and letting the old lion growl away without her,” exclaimed Duff; and the two midshipmen walked on fully persuading themselves into the hope, that they should be called upon to assist their captain in running away with Miss Garden.

There were few people abroad to interrupt their conversation; for the heat of the sun kept most of the Maltese within doors. As the Italians, or Spaniards, I forget which, observe, none but dogs and Englishmen walk the streets when the sun shines in summer. There were, however, sentries on duty, and a few seamen belonging to men of war; or merchantmen of various nations would pass by; and here and there a cowled priest, a woman in the dark faldetta, a ragged beggar boy—or an old gentleman in three-cornered hat, a bag-wig, riding on a donkey, with a big red cotton umbrella over his head, would appear from one of the neighbouring streets, as necessity called him forth.

On the two happy youths went, careless of the heat, till they reached that part of the ramparts called the lower Barraca. It is a broad open space directly above the water, where stands a conspicuous object from the sea, in the form of a Grecian temple, a monument to the memory of that excellent man, and brave officer, Sir Alexander Ball, one of Lord Nelson’s most steemed captains. As they reached the spot, they encountered a person, who was apparently about to descend the way they had come; he was a man of about forty years old, with a countenance slightly weather-beaten, and hands which showed that they were no strangers to ropes and tar, and there was an undeniable roll in his gait, which betrayed the seaman, though his costume was that of a denizen of the shore; he wore a long, swallow-tailed, black coat, a round beaver hat, and a coloured waistcoat; but the wide duck trousers, and low shoes were those of a thorough salt. Jack Raby looked at him earnestly, and then held out his hand, which was shaken warmly by the other.

“What, Bowse, as I live,” he exclaimed; “what has brought you to Malta, old fellow? I thought you were snugly housed at home with Mrs Bowse, and had given up the sea altogether.”

“Well, sir, so did I think too, and for a time I was comfortable enough; but at last I began to wish to have a look at the blue water again; and I grew sick, and then sicker, till I felt that nothing but a sniff of the salt air would do me good. You know, sir, when I was bo’sun of the jolly little Dart, your first ship, I took to learning navigation, and was no bad hand at it. Ah! I loved that craft, and nothing but having that windfall of a fortune would have made me leave her. Well, as I was saying, when I wished to go to sea again, I turned in my mind that I could not do better with my money than take a share of a merchantman, and go master of her. No sooner said than done. Up I went to London, where I knew a respectable shipowner. He was glad enough to favour my wishes, for he knew he could trust me; and I soon became part owner and master of the Zodiac, a fine brig, of a hundred and sixty tons. I have made two voyages in her, and am now bound to the eastward to Cephalonia and Zante. I sail to-morrow or next day, according to circumstances. If you’ll step up here, sir, I think you’ll see her, for we’ve hauled out ready for a start, as soon as my passengers come on board.”

As the master of the merchantman spoke, he advanced to a part of the ramparts over which they could look down upon the great harbour, where, some way below the custom-house, was seen a merchant brig, laden and ready for sea.

“She’s as fine a sea boat as ever floated, I can assure you, sir. It’s a pleasure to be her master,” he continued, as he pointed with pride to her. Every good seaman is fond of his vessel, and overlooks her faults, whatever they may be, as a good husband does those of his wife.

“I am heartily glad of your success, Bowse, I can assure you,” said the midshipman warmly; “I owe you much; for you gave me my first lessons in seamanship, and I shall never forget them. You must come and dine with us to-morrow, and I shall introduce you as my friend, Captain Bowse.”

“No, sir—no, pray don’t do so,” answered the mariner; “I’ve served on board a man-of-war, and I know my place and rank better. Captains of king’s ships, if you please, sir,—but masters of merchantmen. I know the difference between a collier and a seventy-four, I think. But I’ll dine with your mess, sir, with much pleasure, if I don’t go to sea to-morrow.”

“We shall expect you, then, if we see the Zodiac still in the harbour,” said Raby. “I see you’ve got a spy-glass there, let me take a squint at her. You carry six guns, I observe; and I must say I like the look of your craft.”

“Very necessary, too, in the places to which we trade,” answered the master. “Those Greek chaps among the islands don’t scruple to plunder any vessels they may find unarmed, particularly in these times; but the truth is, two of those are quakers—their look is much worse than their bite. However, between this and Cephalonia there’s no danger.”

“Why, you know, if any pirates attacked you, and were caught, you’d have the satisfaction of having them strung up by King Tom, like those chaps yonder,” said Raby. “By the bye, Duff, did you ever observe King Tom’s Rubber of Whist?”

“No,” answered Duff. “What do you mean?”

“Take that glass, and look at the outer bastion of Port Ricasoli. What do you see there?”

“Four figures, which are hanging by their necks from gibbets,” answered Duff. “What are they?”

“Those are four Englishmen,—at least, one, by the way, was a Yankee, their master,—who turned pirates, and tried to scuttle another English brig, and to drown the people. It’s too long a story to tell you now. But old King Tom got hold of them, and treated them as you see.”

“That fellow, Delano, the Yankee master, was a terrible villain,” observed Captain Bowse, shuddering. “It was not the first black deed of the sort he had done, either. One doesn’t know what punishment is bad enough for such scoundrels. It’s a hundredfold worse when such-like acts are done by our countrymen, than when Greeks or Moors do them, because one does not expect anything better from their hands. But I see, sir, you are casting an eye at one of those strange-looking native crafts standing in for the land with the sea breeze.”

Raby had the telescope at his eye, and he was pointing it towards a sail which was rapidly approaching the shore. So broad and lofty was the canvass, that the hull looked like the small car of a balloon, in comparison to it, as if just gliding over the surface of the blue and unruffled sea.

The view both up and down the harbour, and in every direction, was very interesting. Directly facing them was Port Ricasoli, with its tiers of guns threatening any invader, and the black, wave-washed rocks at its base. A little to the right, in a sort of bay between it and Port Saint Angelo, appeared the white and elegant buildings of the Naval Hospital; and further on, towering upwards from the water, the last-mentioned fort, with its numerous rows of heavy guns, having behind it the Dockyard creek, or Galley harbour, where, in the days of yore, the far-famed galleys of the knights were drawn up, and secure from attack. On either side were white stone walls and buttresses, glittering in the sunshine; overhead a sky of intense blueness; and below, a mirror-like expanse of waters, reflecting the same cerulean hue, on which floated innumerable crafts, of all shapes, sizes, and rigs, from the proud line-of-battle ship which had triumphantly borne the flag of England through the battle and the breeze, to the little caique with its great big eyes in its bow and strange-shaped stem and high outlandish stern, filled with its swarthy, skirmish crew of vociferating natives. Among the merchantmen, the ensigns of all nations might be seen—the stars and stripes of Uncle Sam’s freedom-loving people alongside the black lowering eagle of Russia; the cross of the Christian Greek, and the crescent of the infidel Turk; there was the banner of the Pope, and of Sardinia, and of various other Italian States; but outnumbering them all, by far, was the red flag of Britain. Far out to the eastward, where the sky and sea formed the horizon, there was a slight, gauze-like, whitish haze, through which could be seen the lofty canvas of several vessels, rising, as it were, like spirits from the watery deep, and just catching the rays of the sun declining in the opposite direction, which gave an unusual brilliancy to their wide-spread sails. But the craft which most attracted the attention of our friends was the one Raby had been looking at.

He pointed her out to his brother midshipman, and handed him the telescope.

“What do you think of her?” he asked. “She is a rum one to look at, isn’t she?”

Duff burst into a fit of laughter.

“Why, if the fellows haven’t set their jib right between the long poking yards of their foresail and mainsail,” he exclaimed, “I never did see such an odd rig as that before. What in the world is she?”

“That’s what they call a speronara in these parts, sir,” answered Bowse; “but you’ll see rummer rigs than that before long, when you go up the Archipelago. You see that wide spread of canvass is made by crossing her two latine sails, and setting their jib as a topsail between them. They can lower that down, and haul their wind in an instant. These sails, to my mind, are very good where light airs and smooth seas prevail, though they would not answer in our northern latitudes; and they require a good many more people to handle them than we could spare for the work. They reef their canvas, not like fore-and-aft sails in general, by the foot, but by the leach along to the yard. There’s no doubt, however, though they have an outlandish look, that they sail well on a wind, and not badly before it, too, as we see by the craft below us there.”

Onward gracefully glided the speronara—such is the name given to the craft which ply between Malta and Sicily with goods and passengers, and from some port in the latter island she seemed to have come, from the direction in which she appeared. On she came very rapidly, considering the light breeze; she was evidently a very fast craft of her class. She came abreast of Fort Saint Elmo, and soon after took in her outlandish topsail, as Duff called, just before she passed close under the spot where our friends were posted, so that they could look directly down on her deck. She seemed to be full of men habited in the long blue caps and striped shirt of Mediterranean mariners, with light-blue trowsers, and a red sash round the waist. She was of considerable size, and, what is unusual with craft of her description, she was decked fore-and-aft, though her between-decks must have been inconveniently low. There was a place sunk aft where stood the helmsman holding his long tiller, and on either side were arranged, ready for use, several long sweeps; but the wind was at present sufficient to impel the vessel along without their aid. Thus much was seen as she ran up the harbour. She passed close to the Zodiac, the mate of which, by his gestures, seemed to be speaking to the crew, and scolding them for the risk they ran of getting foul of her, and they then appeared to be uncertain where to bring up. At last she crossed over to the Ione, and finally rounding to, took in her foresail, and dropped her anchor off the custom-house.

The midshipmen and their companion soon got tired of looking down upon the harbour. Captain Bowse was obliged to part from them, as he had business to transact; and they finally agreed, as they had still a couple of hours of daylight, to hire a couple of horses of old Salvatore, in the Palace-square, and to take a gallop into the country, as a preparation for a grand ball which was to take place that evening at the Auberge de Provence, and where Raby promised Jemmy Duff he would point him out Miss Garden. Away hurried the two happy youngsters, without casting another thought on the speronara. I, however, particularly wish my readers not to forget her, and also to remember the man-of-war brig, and the merchantman, as both are destined to play a conspicuous part in the following narrative.

Chapter Two.

The speronara would, on a near inspection by a nautical eye, appear somewhat different to the general run of vessels of her rig and build. There was evidently the greatest attention paid to her ropes, spars, and oars. They were of the best hemp and toughest wood; not a stranded or even worn sheet or halyard was to be seen; every spar was sound, and her canvas was new and strong. Her crew, or those who sent her out of port, seemed to consider that much might depend on her speed and capability of keeping the sea.

If, however, she was employed in carrying passengers between Sicily and Malta, it was very natural that her owners should make her appear as seaworthy as possible, to induce people to trust their lives and property in her. We will suppose her still outside the port, soon after Jack Raby and his companions first saw her. Evidently the most important person on board was a young man of very pleasing exterior. He was rather tall than otherwise, and though slight, possessed a breadth of chest which gave promise of great strength and activity. His complexion was sunburnt, if not dark by nature, and his lip, which betokened scorn and firmness, and gave an unattractive expression to his countenance, was shaded by a thick curling moustache. His features were decidedly regular and handsome; and had they been otherwise, his large, flashing, dark eye would have challenged observation. His age was probably about two or three-and-thirty—he might have been younger—and he was certainly a very remarkable person. Those who saw him even but for a moment, went away fancying that they had been long acquainted with his features. His costume at once betrayed his nation; for he wore the red fez, the embroidered jacket and full white kilt, and richly-worked leggings and slippers of the Greek, and the cast of his countenance made one also conclude that he belonged to that nation. The only other person on board dressed in the Greek costume, was evidently some years younger, and was neither so tall nor so strongly built as his companion. His countenance was decidedly handsome, and what would be called aristocratic. It was very grave, and, indeed, melancholy in the extreme; and an accurate observer of character might have divined, from the form of his mouth and expression of his eyes, that he was sadly in want of firmness and decision in his actions, which idea, probably, would not have been very far from the truth. His dress, though the materials were good, was as plain as the costume he wore would allow; but it could not be otherwise than elegant and handsome, and it sat well upon his graceful figure.

Those two persons were earnestly engaged in conversation with another, who appeared to be the master of the vessel, and they were standing leaning over the side, away from the rest of the people on board.

“Remember, now,” observed the principal Greek to the master, “you are to be ready to weigh and make sail at a moment’s notice; it may be to-night, even—it may be tomorrow or on the following day—I cannot say, but you must be prepared.”

“Signor, si,” answered the master in a tone of deep respect. “I will take care to obey your commands to the letter; but I am afraid there may be some difficulty with the authorities at the custom-house. They once suspected me of smuggling, though I was as innocent as the babe unborn, and they may detain me.”

“You know the consequences,” returned the Greek, with a fierce look; “I will listen to no excuse if anything miscarries, so look to it!”

“It is a dangerous expedition you go on, signore,” observed the Sicilian master.

“Dangerous!” exclaimed the Greek, in a tone of contempt. “Danger is the food we live on, the air we breathe; without it life would lose half its zest. I’ll tell you what, my friend, he is but a base-born slave who knows not how to live, and fears to die. Give me a life of activity and excitement, and when that ceases death will be welcome.”

“You, signore, are the best judge of your own taste,” answered the Sicilian; “for my part, I am content to make an honest livelihood by trading between my native city of Syracuse and yonder good port of Valetta, where, please the holy saints, we shall drop our anchor in the course of ten minutes.”

“And anything else by which you may turn a colonna,” muttered the Greek.

The speronara continued in her course, and as she came off Fort Ricasoli, the other person habited as a Greek, who had not hitherto spoken, observed the four figures suspended on the southern bastion.

“Holy Virgin, what are those?” he exclaimed in Italian.

“Those, signore,” answered the padrone, as the master of the speronara was called, with particular emphasis, “are pirates.”

“Pirates!” ejaculated the young man, while a shudder ran through his frame.

“Si, signore, pirates,” answered the padrone, with a significant look. “They had a short life of it after they had committed the acts for which they were condemned. They had reached Smyrna with their booty, when they were captured by the British and brought back here.”

“An awful lesson to others to be more careful how they manage affairs,” observed the principal Greek, laughing. “Now, I dare say, if the truth was known, those fellows blundered terribly. It’s always the case when people get into the clutches of the law.”

The other Greek shuddered and turned his head aside. “It is not a pleasant sight,” he observed.

“Oh! those English are terrible fellows for punishing those engaged in any little transaction of that sort,” said the padrone. “They are good people, though.”

“They are remarkably conceited,” said the Greek, twirling his moustache—“they believe that they can make the whole world obey them; but it is time that we should look about us. Ah! steer near that merchant-brig there, in the mouth of the harbour, I should like to have a look at her that I might know her again.”

The man at the helm put it so much to port, that the end of one of the long tapering yards of the speronara nearly got foul of the Zodiac’s fore-yard.

“What the deuce are you lubbers about, that you cannot keep yourself clear of your neighbours?” sung out Bowse’s mate, from the main rigging. “I’ll teach you better manners if I catch you at sea, that’s all.”

“The Englishman seems angry,” said the Greek, laughing. “That brig, though, looks as if she had a valuable cargo on board. I must learn more about her.”

Conversation was now put a stop to, in consequence of the caution necessary for steering into a thickly-crowded harbour, and the hurry of bringing up.

She dropped her anchor among a number of similarly-rigged craft, close inshore, where she lay exciting little or no observation, except that a few boatmen saw her, and were calculating their prospects of having to transport her passengers or merchandise to the landing-place.

As soon as her sails were stowed, which was speedily done, the health-boat came alongside, and as it appeared she had come from Sicily, pratique was immediately given her. She was next visited by the custom-house boat. The officer, for some reason or other, seemed to consider that there was something suspicious about her, for he examined her papers very minutely, and read them over more than once, but was at last obliged to pass them as correct. The vessel next underwent a strict search, but nothing contraband was found on board her, and at last he took his departure, even then casting back a look of doubt at her, as if he was not thoroughly convinced that all was right.

During these proceedings the Greek sat in the after part of the vessel, maintaining a perfect silence, while he played with the handle of a short poniard which he wore in his sash.

“You appear to be suspected, my friend,” he observed to the master, as soon as the officers had gone.

“So it seems, signore,” he answered. “The fact is, once upon a time, I had a few bales of goods on board, which I contrived to land without paying the duties, and I have ever since been watched as if I were a smuggler.”

“It was clumsy in you to be discovered,” observed the Greek. “In the present instance I might find it inconvenient.”

A man in a small boat, who had been paddling quietly at a little distance from the speronara, as soon as the government officials had left her, darted alongside.

“Ah! Signor Sandro, welcome back to Malta,” he exclaimed, addressing the master of the little vessel. “I have not seen you here for a long time.”

“Not the less welcome I hope, Manuel,” said the master.

“Few are who remember their friends and pay well,” said the boatman. “How can I best serve you, signore?”

“By landing my passengers, and giving them all the information they may require,” said the master. “Hark you, Manuel—put your head nearer—my boy’s life is answerable for their safety—so, as you love me, take care that they get into no trouble. They seek a passage to some part of their own country on board a merchantman, and have come here to look for one to suit them.”

“I understand clearly, signor,” said the boatman, significantly. “But who are they? What is their calling, or occupation?”

“Oh! mother of Heaven, don’t ask me!” answered the padrone, with a terrified look. “They may overhear you. It is not my business to put questions to them. It is enough that they pay well, and do not wish to be known. Besides, they would not scruple to cut my throat if they were offended—and most assuredly their friends would string up my poor boy, if anything went wrong with them. Even now, look at the captain—I mean the best dressed of the two. How he is playing with the hilt of his dagger there. He is meditating sticking it into my ribs because I am talking so long to you. I tell you, you must watch over their safety; and, in the name of the saints, aid them to get away as fast as possible—for, till they are out of the place, I shall not feel my head secure on my shoulders.”

“Oh! I understand. They are political offenders disguised as Greeks, who do not wish their movements to be known;” said the sharp-witted boatman, jumping at a conclusion. “I’ll undertake to serve you and them—not forgetting myself—and, I trust, that they will make it worth my while.”

“No fear of that,” the padrone was saying, when the Greek’s voice summoned him aft.

“What were you saying to the boatman?” he asked in an angry tone.

“I was making arrangements with him to take you on shore, signor, and do your bidding,” was the answer.

“Well, he may land me at once,” said the Greek. “Paolo, do you remain on board till I send for you, and let not a man quit the vessel on any excuse,” he whispered. “Such provisions as they require, the boatman can bring off for them, and I will manage to make him faithful.”

The Greek, without further remarks, swung himself over the side of the vessel and took his seat in Manuel’s boat.

“Hist, Manuel,” he said, in the lingua Franca, well understood by the Maltese boatmen; “you are debating in your mind whether you will inform the authorities that a suspicious character has landed on the island, and get a reward from them, or whether you will take the chance of pocketing what my generosity may induce me to bestow. Now, mark me, my honest friend. In the first place, I could get you hung for a little transaction, of which you know.”

The boatman started, and looked round with a suspicious glance.

“Que diavolo, who can this be?” he muttered.

“In the second, remember the English do not detain a man on bare suspicions, and but shabbily reward an informer. On the other hand, twenty colonati are yours, if you do my bidding. I do not want an answer—you are not a fool. Now row on shore as fast as you can.”

The Greek was a judge of character; and he seemed not to be altogether unacquainted with Manuel, the boatman. The boat ran into the public landing-place, and he stepped on shore with an independent and fearless air, where he mingled among the busy and motley throng who crowded the quay. The boatman, Manuel, sat in his boat a little distance from the shore, watching him, and ready, apparently, to obey his orders when he should be required.

The Greek proceeded onward through the lower parts of the town, eyeing those he passed with a quick keen glance, which seemed to read their very thoughts. People were too much accustomed to see the varied costumes of the East to regard him with unusual curiosity, or to incommode him in his progress by stopping to stare at him; at the same time that many remarked him as he slowly sauntered on and wondered whence he had come. He seemed to have nothing more to do than to amuse himself by viewing the city, though he had certainly not selected the most interesting or cleanest quarter. He apparently was a stranger to the place, by the way in which he hesitated at each crossing, which turning he should take, till he had carefully deciphered the name on the wall. Now he stopped to look into a shop, then to gaze up at the windows of a house as if he expected to see some one there, and then to throw a copper to some importunate beggar. He walked with an air of so much independence and nonchalance, indeed, at times, almost of haughtiness, that it was difficult to suppose he had the slightest apprehension of danger. Not a person, however, who, passed him, escaped his scrutiny; and even when he appeared to stop carelessly, or for the sake of considering the way he was to take, he cast a hurried glance behind him to satisfy himself that no one was acting the spy on his movements. He had evidently seen enough to convince him that the vessel, in which he had come, was in bad odour, and he naturally concluded that her passengers would be narrowly watched. Of the crowds who passed, not a human being seemed to know him, and if he was in reality particularly observed, it was done so cleverly and so cautiously, that with all his ingenuity, he failed to discover whether such was the case or not. He had already traversed a number of streets—ascending several flights of steps and descending others—when, at the corner of a narrow lane, his eye fell on a squalid-looking beggar who was lustily calling on the passers-by, in the name of all the saints, to preserve him from starvation. A broad-brimmed hat with a crown similar to those worn by Italian bandits, but sadly battered and brown with age and dirt, was worn slouchingly on his head, so as almost to hide his features, which were further concealed by a handkerchief tied under his chin, and a black patch over one of his eyes. A tattered cloak, the cast-off finery of a dandy of the palmy days of the old Knights of Malta, covered his shoulders, as did, in part, his legs, a pair of blue cloth trousers, through which his knees obtruded, and which were fringed with torn stripes at the feet. Such of his features as were visible were as ill-favoured as well could be. His voice, too, had a peculiarly disagreeable tone, as in the lingua Franca of the Maltese mendicants he begged for alms.

This interesting personage was supporting himself carelessly on a pair of crutches, while he rested on one foot, and stretched forth the palm of his right hand to grasp whatever might be put into it. The Greek stopped and put his hand into his pocket to draw out a piece of money, while he did so narrowly eyeing the beggar. The man’s voice changed instantly that he saw the stranger looking at him; from a half whining yet impudent tone, it began to sink and tremble with alarm, and finally he became perfectly mute and forgetful of his calling.

“I thought you would know me,” said the Greek. “And you must remember I never forget those I have once seen either as friends or foes.”

“No, signor, I perceive you do not,” replied the beggar, trembling with alarm. “Have mercy on me.”

“That depends upon yourself,” said the stranger. “At present, you deserve no mercy at my hands; but I will now give you an opportunity of serving me; and if you do so faithfully, I will overlook the past.”

“You are very generous, signor—you always were,” exclaimed the beggar, trying to fall down and embrace his knees, which the Greek prevented. “I will go to any part of the world. I will go through fire and water to serve you.”

“You have not to go far to perform my directions; but I want faithfulness in the discharge of the duty I shall impose on you,” said the Greek, sternly. “And, mark me, Giacomo—if you play me false, as you have done others, I will find you out, and finish your worthless life with as little compunction as I would that of a rabid dog.”

“Si, signor capitan, I very well know that you are not a man to be trifled with,” answered the beggar, bowing his head.

“Tell me what you want, and by the Holy Virgin and all the saints in heaven I will perform the work faithfully.”

“Your oath is superfluous, as you would break it for a copper-piece, so don’t insult me with it,” replied the Greek, scornfully. “But, listen: there is a certain Jew—Aaron Bannech by name—his office—his den—the place where he cheats, and robs, and lies, is beneath the Albergo—in the Strada. Do you hear?”

“Si, signor, si,—I know the place—I know the man,” said the beggar, hastily.

“You know him; it is well that you should—you are an admirable pair. He would sell his soul for a dollar, and would then try to cheat the devil out of it. You are a meaner knave. Half that sum would buy you. You both are useful to me, though. Hasten to him, and tell him that I am here. Say that he must clear out his den of visitors, clerks, or other prying knaves, and that I will be with him in half an hour. When you have done this, go down to the port, and learn what vessels are about to sail, shortly, for the eastward, with all particulars about them—their cargoes—armed force—and number of men—also what ships are expected to arrive shortly from the same quarter. Having gleaned this information, which you well know how to do, come up with it to the residence of the Jew. Listen, also, if anything is said about the Speronara Volante, from Syracuse, by which I arrived. Alessandro is her master—or, if any remarks are made respecting me. I am, probably, unnoticed; but it is as well to be cautious.”

“I will strictly obey your directions, signor,” said the beggar. “Have you further orders?”

“No—you may go. I have been talking to you too long already, and may have been observed.”

“Rest assured of my fidelity,” said the beggar, hobbling off up the street on his crutches, at a far more rapid rate than he was generally wont to move.

No sooner, however, had he got out of sight of the Greek, than he slackened his pace.

“Now, I wonder what I should get by denouncing him to the authorities,” he muttered to himself. “They are stingy in rewarding informers though, and he, probably, will pay better; besides, as he says, he may get me hung by a word; and if I get him into trouble, some of his friends are certain to avenge him. After all, too, he would probably make his story good, and I should not be believed. You can never catch those Greeks asleep; their wit is so keen, and they twist, and turn, and double in such a manner, that if they get into a scrape, they are certain of working their way out of it. No, it won’t do. I must keep to my word, and be honest with him. Curse him! Here am I a beggar on crutches, and a far greater rogue lords it over me as if he were a prince.”

So the beggar hobbled on towards the house of the Jew to fulfil his mission. I am afraid that there are too many people in the world like Giacomo, the Maltese beggar, who are honest as long only as it suits their purpose.

Chapter Three.

The Greek, little dreaming of the danger to which he was exposed, or, at all events, little fearing it, turned on his heel, and retraced his steps for some part of the distance he had come. His air was more buoyant and independent than before.

“So much for business,” he muttered. “And now for amusement. We’ll try what this brave city can afford. Let me see, I passed a tratoria or a caffè but just now; I’ll look in there, and learn what is going forward!”

He soon reached the place he spoke of; and throwing open the folding-doors at the entrance, entered with his usual careless air, and took his seat at a marble table, which chanced to be unoccupied. There was a billiard-table in the room beyond, and upstairs were more secret apartments, where games of chance were, at times, played.

The place was full of persons of all descriptions. English and Maltese, and others of various nations. Those belonging to the army and navy, were either of inferior rank, or were harum-scarum fellows, who cared not at all with whom they associated. There were, also, masters and mates of merchantmen, Frenchmen and Italians; and there was a representative, indeed, to be found of almost all the people dwelling on the shores of the Mediterranean, as also, of more distant nations. Some were smoking, and others drinking; but the greater number were idling about, laughing and talking, as if they had come there to kill time; and when, by chance, any pause occurred, the noise of the billiard balls was heard, and the cry of the marker from the next room. The Greek seemed to excite less observation even here than in the street, except from two or three of his countrymen, who were in the room, and who eyed him narrowly. He rose and sauntered into the billiard-room, perhaps to avoid their scrutiny, perhaps simply to amuse himself by looking on at the game. He soon, however, returned, and ordering some coffee, he took up a Maltese newspaper, which appeared to afford him considerable interest.

“Ah! here we have a complete list of all the vessels about to sail from this port,” he muttered to himself. “It will serve to compare with old Bannech’s and Giacomo’s account,” and taking out a pocket-book he quickly copied the list. “And let me see,” he continued. “What have we here? A ball to-night at the Auberge de Provence. By Saint Genario; it will be a good amusement to go there. I shall pick up not a little useful information of what is going forward in the great world, what way the wheel is next to turn, and how those English are going to act with regard to Greece,—whether we are to have a loan or an army to assist us. Heaven defend us from the latter, and afford us good pickings from the first. But, with regard to this ball. A stranger, I suppose, would not be admitted without an introduction. They are, I know, of old, very suspicious in this place. Well, I must make old Bannech settle that matter also for me. He must forge some good introductions, if he cannot procure them for me in any other way. He is well able to do so, for he keeps his hand in at the work, and knows everybody here and elsewhere.”

While he sat meditating and sipping his coffee, the three Greeks, at another table, continued eyeing him narrowly, and, at the same time, whispering among themselves. If he was conscious that their glances were fixed on him, he stood the scrutiny admirably, without the slightest change of colour, nor did his eye quail in the least. Looking suddenly up, however, he appeared first to discover that their eyes were turned towards him. Immediately rising, with a bland smile, he walked up to them.

“You seem to know me, gentlemen,” he observed, with a courteous tone, in pure Romaic. “Unfortunately, I do not enjoy the same happiness. Will you inform me where it was we met?”

“Pardon, sir, for our rudeness,” answered one of the three, rather abashed. “We mistook you for another person—we were trying to recollect where we had seen you.”

“It is not impossible that you may have met me before, if you have been in Italy, in which country I have resided for some years; or lately in Sicily,” answered the Greek. “In the fair city of Valetta you could not have seen me, as I only landed an hour ago from the last-mentioned island, and in our native Greece, I have not been since the days of my early boyhood, though I am on the very point of returning thither.”

“Then, clearly, we are mistaken,” replied another of the three. “We, ourselves, arrived here only yesterday from Greece, after encountering numerous hardships and dangers. Among others, when off the southern end of Cerigo, our vessel was boarded by a rascally pirate, manned, too, by our own countrymen, who robbed us of everything we possessed, which they could carry off, and we fully believe they would have sunk the ship, and murdered us, had not a British man-of-war hove in sight, and made them sheer off before they had completed their work.”

“I dare say they would,” replied the Greek, quietly. “Such gentry, I have heard, generally consider that the only safe plan of avoiding detection, and the troublesome affair of a trial, and perhaps a very disagreeable result, is to stop the mouths of those they plunder beneath the waves, lest they should afterwards tell inconvenient tales of them. If they thought you had escaped, they would take very good care another time not to commit such a blunder.”

“Why, it was certainly from no leniency on the part of the villains that we were not drowned, for they had bored holes in our ship’s bottom, and thought we should have sunk at once; but, fortunately, a fresh breeze brought up the man-of-war alongside of us before we went down, and her people stopped the leak, and saw us safely into port.”

“I regret to hear this account you give me,” said the stranger, in a sympathising tone; “though I congratulate you on your narrow escape,—I may call it miraculous. You are far more fortunate than the generality of people who fall into the hands of those gentry, I should think. I was in hopes that our countrymen, since the commencement of the glorious struggle to throw off the foul Turkish yoke, had abandoned all their malpractices, and had joined heart and hand in the great cause against the common enemy. I, too, am personally interested; as I am about to embark on board some merchant vessel for the East and may fare as badly as you have done, if not worse. Do you know any particulars of the pirate who attacked you? I should like to learn all about him, that we may, if possible, avoid the vessel if we see her at a distance.”

“It was dark when she boarded us, so that we had not an opportunity of scrutinising her near,” answered the person addressed, who was evidently, by his costume and appearance, a Greek merchant, and, as it afterwards appeared, the two younger men with him were his sons. “Our misfortune happened in this way. We sailed, you must know, on board a Neapolitan brigantine from Athens, bound to Syracuse. The first part of our voyage was performed in safety; but when some ten miles or so to the south of Cerigo, we lay becalmed the whole day. Our captain and the mariners set to work to pray to those accursed little images they call their saints, for a breeze; and, at last, it came; but to prove what sort of characters their saints are, at the same time appeared in the north east, a large polacca brig, of a very rakish look, stealing round the east end of the island. The stranger brought the wind up with her, and, as she neared us, the captain, who had been eyeing her earnestly, grew into a state of great trepidation, and began to pray harder than ever; but this time his saints would not listen to him. He wrung his hands, and beat his breast, and said that the stranger had a very suspicious look, and that he did not like it at all. After stamping on the deck, and weeping, and tearing his hair for some time, in which he was imitated by most of his crew, he bethought himself of getting more sail on his craft, and of trying to escape from the enemy, if enemy she were. A wild boar might as well try to outstrip the fleet hunter. The stranger came up with us hand over hand; our only hope of getting away from him was in the coming darkness. At last the seamen managed to set all the sail the vessel could carry, and, with the wind right aft, we began to glide through the water. On, however, came the stranger after us; if we wished to get away, he did not intend that we should do so, and all of a sudden he yawed to port, and let fly a bow chaser right at us; the shot did not hit us, but it frightened our captain excessively—for it flew directly over our heads. I verily believe, if we had not stopped him, he would have let fly everything, and waited patiently to be robbed and murdered. We caught hold of him, and urged him to be calm, and that we might yet have a chance of escaping. The breeze freshened, and we held on, and, though the stranger still continued to overhaul us, he did not come up so fast as at first. Every instant, too, it was growing dark; and as there was no moon shining, we hoped, by hauling our wind, to slip away from him, if we could contrive to run on without being hit till darkness had completely set in. He, however, seemed in a hurry, and again yawing, let fly another shot at us; though his gunnery was not particularly good—for he again missed us—it had the effect of setting the Neapolitan master and his crew dancing like madmen; they leaped and jumped, and twisted and turned, and tore their hair, and prayed and swore, all in the same breath. They prayed for themselves, and swore at their enemies, and at their own hard fate should they be taken; for they all had a venture on board, I believe. Though two shots had missed, it was not to be expected that all should have such ill-luck, and accordingly, when the brig yawed a third time and fired, down came our fore-topsail by the run. If the crew had been in a fright before, when they were not hit, it must be supposed that they were now in a complete paroxysm of terror; their first impulse was to let fly all the tacks and sheets, and to jam down the helm, so as to let the vessel fly up into the wind; their next was to rush below to put on their best clothes, and the very little money they had in their pockets, and then to fall to again at praying and beating their breasts. Cowardly fools that they were; had they held on like men, as matters turned out, we should have escaped being plundered at all. In ten minutes after the last shot had created such confusion on board, a boat pulled alongside, and a dozen fellows in Greek dresses jumped over the bulwarks down upon our decks. We three, my sons and I, sat aft as dignified as Turks, and as all the crew were below, there was not the slightest show of resistance. Our countrymen—for such I am sorry to say they were—seemed inclined to be civil to us, but vowed they would punish the Neapolitans for making them expend the three shots, and they forthwith began plundering the vessel; and hauling out the master from his berth, into which he had crept, they made him point out whatever was most valuable on board—brightening his wits up every now and then with a rope’s end. How the poor fellow did howl! but he deserved it; for he was an arrant coward. The leader of the pirates who boarded us was a very polite young man: he told us, that he should be sorry to be under the necessity of cutting our throats, or of otherwise sending us out of the world; but that he was afraid he should be compelled to do so, except we would consent to come on board his vessel, where he would make us take the vow of secrecy, and re-land us in Greece. He told us that he was in earnest, and would give us till the last moment to consider on the subject before he quitted the vessel. By this we concluded that he intended to murder all hands in cold blood, or to sink the brigantine. It is very extraordinary, and I hope that you will pardon me the remark, but he bore a very striking resemblance to you, except that he looked younger, and it was this circumstance that first attracted our attention to you.”

The Greek stranger who had been standing against the wall, with his arms folded and his legs crossed in an easy attitude during this narrative, at different parts indulging in a slight smile, now laughed outright. “An extraordinary coincidence as you say, my friend, though I confess that I would rather not bear so striking a resemblance to the cut-throat gentleman you describe. The consequences at times might be unpleasant; and I trust that no relative of mine—no younger brother nor cousin, has turned his hand to so disreputable an occupation. Men of the first families, it is true, have become pirates, especially in these disordered times; but they usually make war only against their natural enemies, the Turks or Moors. I cannot solve the mystery; however, I am very interested in your tale—pray go on with it.”

“Before I say another word, I must entreat your pardon for the remark I just made,” said the Greek merchant; “I was compelled to do so to account for our apparent rudeness.”

“Oh, certainly, my friend,” said the stranger, “I pardon you with all my heart. Nothing was more natural—only I must beg that you will not repeat the observation to any one else. The consequences you know might be unpleasant, as it might create disagreeable suspicions in men’s minds as to the rectitude of my character; but pray continue your tale.”

It must be remembered that although there were numbers of people within earshot, as this conversation was carried on in the Romaic, none of them understood it, which was, perhaps, fortunate for our stranger friend, as it would certainly have drawn their attention towards him; and if a man happens to be unknown in a place, the slightest shade of suspicion thrown on him, is sufficient to blacken his character to the darkest tint.

The Greek rubbed his red cap off and on his head two or three times to brighten his recollection, and then continued—

“While the pirates were ransacking below, their vessel ran alongside, and our decks were soon crowded with a cut-throat set of fellows, who speedily joined their comrades in the work of plunder, and in transporting everything they considered of value to their own ship. It is extraordinary with what rapidity bales and packages were handed out of one vessel into the other. The rascals must have been well accustomed to the work. Everything was done with the greatest regularity; their young leader directing all their movements. It did not take them a quarter of the time to unload that it had taken to load the vessel. Such discrimination, too, as the villains showed in selecting the most valuable merchandise.

“In the midst of the work, however, a cry was raised that a strange sail was in sight, right to windward, bearing down on us. With all their avidity for booty, the fellows had kept their eyes about them in the dark. Their leader sprang on board his own vessel to have a clearer view. He was convinced that the strange vessel was an enemy to him at all events, though a friend to us; and calm and collected as if he was enjoying a game of play, he issued his orders. The first was to tell his people to quit the brigantine, and to make sail on the brig. The second, part of which I heard, made my heart sink within me, and my blood run cold. He did not seem to think it had reached our ears,—indeed, I believe he had forgotten all about us; the words were—

“‘Sink her—drown the people. No help for it—patience; we should otherwise be suspected.’

“Directly afterwards, several men with carpenters’ instruments for boring holes, went below, and quickly returning, knocked our boat to pieces, and jumped on board their own vessel. As soon as all the pirates had quitted us, the brig sheered off. Just as she did so, I heard some one exclaim—

“‘Our countrymen, our dear compatriots, where are they? We have forgotten them.’ However, I don’t think their regret for us could have been very great, for the next moment they fired a broadside slap into our hull, between wind and water, to try to make us sink the faster; and, making all sail, stood away from us as fast as a rattling breeze would carry them. Two of the crew had been knocked on the head by the pirates, and their broadside killed two more. The master and the survivors were utterly incapacitated from helping themselves; so we three Greeks, with the black cook, feeling some wish to preserve our lives, rigged the pumps which had escaped destruction, and set to work to keep the water from gaining enough on her to send us to the bottom. This we found we could easily do; and the cook, going below, was able to plug several of the holes, which had been very imperfectly bored. Some of the crew, also, at last recovered their senses and assisted us in our labours; so that we continued to keep the craft afloat till the vessel, which had frightened away the pirates, came up to us. She proved to be the British brig-of-war, the Cockroach, and a boat immediately came on board to learn what all the firing was about. Our condition proved the truth of our story; and we entreated the officer who boarded us not to desert us, as the sacrifice of our lives would have been the inevitable consequence; whereas, the improbabilities of his catching the pirate were very great. The British are a very humane people, I will say that for them; and the captain of the brig accordingly sent two boats’ crews on board us, with the carpenter and his crew, and they plugged the holes, and thrummed a sail, and got it under our bottom. Some manned the pumps, to which they quickly drove the Neapolitans with a rope’s end; and next morning we made sail for Zante, which we reached in safety, escorted by our preservers, who immediately afterwards started again in search of the pirate.”

“Did they fall in with him, do you know?” asked the Greek, carelessly.

“Can you catch a sunbeam?” said the first speaker. “She must be a fast craft to come up with him. They say nothing can catch him.”

“What, then, you learnt who your friend was?” said the stranger.

“Oh, yes! we heard a good deal about him in Zante. He is the very terror of all honest, quiet-going traders in those parts.”

“And who is this formidable, light-heeled gentleman, may I ask?” said the stranger.

“No other than that daring devil, Zappa,” said the merchant. “You have heard of him, doubtless?”

“I think I have somewhere heard his name mentioned,” said the stranger. “But has he already established so terrific a name for himself? You described him as very young.”

“Ay, but old in crime. A man who murders all his captives, and sinks every ship he plunders, soon gets his name up in the world. It is one of the various methods to gain notoriety. Each man to his taste.”

“You are right, my friend,” said the stranger, stretching out his arms and yawning; “there are many methods by which a man may gain an elevated position; and your friend, Signor Zappa, as you call him, seems to have chosen a very certain one, at least, if he falls into the hands of the governor of this island; who, judging from the specimens I saw hanging up at the entrance of the port, treats such gentry with no slight distinction, by placing them in the most conspicuous posts within his jurisdiction.”

“You joke merrily on the subject; but it is no laughing matter to those who have been robbed and nearly murdered,” said the Greek merchant. “I only wish I could get the villains in my power, I would hang them all without mercy, as high as Haman.”

“I dare say you do,” said the stranger, smiling. “Such is but a natural impulse. Yet, as I have not suffered, I cannot enter quite so warmly into your feelings. However, I am grateful to you for your account; and I shall take very good care to keep out of the way of your friend Zappa. May I ask, by the way, the appearance and name of the vessel commanded by this renowned cut-throat?”

“Certainly,” said the merchant, “though, as I said, it was nearly dark when he boarded us; but I should describe her as a rakish polacca brig, of about two hundred and fifty tons burden; and from what we learnt afterwards, we discovered that she must be the celebrated Sea Hawk. It is said that she is so fleet that nothing could ever catch her, and that she comes up with everything she chases; so that, my friend, you may not avoid her quite so easily as you may wish.”

“It is something to know what she is like; and, if we cannot run from her, we must fight her,” returned the stranger. “However, before we part, let me assure you that I shall be most happy to be of any service to you in my power. When do you again sail from hence?”

“In a few days our mission here will be concluded. We then return to our beloved Greece,” replied the merchant.

“What! and run the risk of being chased by the Sea Hawk, and of falling into the hands of that rogue, Zappa!” exclaimed the stranger. “However, as, by the law of chances, you could scarcely encounter him twice, I should much like to accompany you, for I should then consider myself safe from him. By what vessel do you go?”

“A Venetian merchant schooner, the Floriana. She sails hence in four days; and, as she has a rich cargo, she is well-armed and has plenty of men—so we need not fear Zappa or any other pirate.”

“Just as I should wish. I will look out for her, depend on it,” exclaimed the stranger, quickly. “But I must, for the present, wish you farewell, gentlemen. I have an appointment, and I have already overstayed my time.”

Saying this, the stranger bowed to his new acquaintance; and throwing down his reckoning with a haughty air, quitted the coffee-house.

“He seems an honestly fair spoken gentleman,” said one of the young Greeks to his father. “He will be a great addition to our society on board.”

“I am not quite so certain of that,” replied the more sagacious merchant. “Fair spoken he is without doubt; but for honesty, why you know the safe rule is to look upon all men as knaves till you find them otherwise. Therefore, my sons, never consider a stranger honest, or you may discover, when too late, that he is a rogue. Now, though it is doubtless fancy, I cannot help thinking that our friend there bears a very striking resemblance to the pirate Zappa.”

Chapter Four.

There is an old saying, that, “Give a dog a bad name, it is sure to stick by him.” On this account I suppose it is that Jews are always considered rogues. I am very far from saying that they really are so invariably, or even generally. On the contrary, I believe that there are a great number of very honest, generous, kind-hearted, hard-working people among them in all countries where they enjoy the privileges of free men.

That, in those times and countries where they have been treated as worse than slaves, despised, insulted, and robbed on every occasion, they should have become, what they are often described as being, is not only not surprising, but is according to the laws which govern mankind. Tyranny and wrong, invariably make the people, who submit to them, grow mean, treacherous, and false. Cut off from all honourable pursuits, they have recourse to such as are within their power; and thus the Jews, who were unable to hold even land in their possession, became the money-makers; and, consequently, moneylenders of the world—and, as they were frequently pillaged and deprived by extortion of their wealth, they naturally endeavoured to regain, by every means left to them, that of which they had been robbed.

Now, though there are many Jews whose upright conduct is sufficient to retrieve the characters of their whole people, such cannot be said for the old Maltese Jew, Aaron Bannech. He was a rogue ingrain. To lie, cheat, and rob, where he could do so without risk of detection, was his occupation and delight. Lying, cheating, and robbery, were in him a second nature. He considered them not only lawful, but praiseworthy employments. He could not help lying and cheating if he tried. By so doing, he had heaped up hoards of wealth—he had raised himself from abject penury, and how could he be expected to persuade his conscience, or what stood him in place of one, that he had not been acting rightly. True his gold was of no real use to him—he had no one to enjoy it with him—he had no relative to whom he could leave it. Some might say that it would serve to repurchase Judea for his people; but he cared no more for Judea than he did for Home. He would not have parted with a sixpence to rebuild Jerusalem, unless he could have got a very large interest for his money—indeed he would probably have required very sufficient security, before he would have consented to part with it. His appearance was far from peculiar or striking as he sat in a dingy underground den, which he appeared to have burrowed out for himself beneath the groaning walls of one of the old mansions of Valetta. He had sharp, ferrety eyes, a hooked nose, and a long, dirty, grey beard; indeed, no difference could be discerned between him and his countrymen employed in selling old clothes in London. He wore a brown cap on his head, anila, long serge overcoat, the colour of which it was impossible to determine; and a pair of slippers, which had once been yellow, but were now stained with many a varied tinge. The chamber in which he sat was fitted up with a desk, and a table covered with packages of papers and account-books, two high stools, and three or four rickety chairs. He was by himself, waiting in expectation of the arrival of the Greek. The time appointed had already passed, and he was beginning to think that some accident must have occurred to his acquaintance. Ten minutes more elapsed—his suspicions increased.

“Can the myrmidons of the law have got hold of him?” he muttered. “That rascal Giacomo—he may have informed, and will receive the reward which ought to be mine. If I dared, I would secure the prize at once—but then, I suspect, before long, the amount will be increased. Yes, it must be. The fruit is not yet ripe for plucking.”

He stopped, either to chuckle at his own wit, or to calculate the sum he might expect for betraying the man who trusted him. His virtuous meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the Greek. His manner was as free and joyous as ever. He addressed the Jew in Italian, with a remarkably pure accent.

“Ah! my dear correspondent—my noble friend—my prince of money-lenders, how fares it with you? Still at the old trade of coining gold, eh? Well, we must all live either by fraud or force; cunning or strength are the weapons put by nature into our hands. To some she gives one; to others the latter: nature is most impartial. To the lion she gives claws and teeth; to the horse his hoofs and fleetness. To a woman, beauty and softness; to a man, strength and courage. She intends all these attributes to be employed. So, friend Bannech, you live by fraud, and I by force. Is it not so?”

“I cannot dispute the correctness of your assertion: for, to say the truth, you have spoken so rapidly, that my poor comprehension could not follow you, noble signor,” said the Jew, bending low, and placing a chair for his visitor. “But may I inquire what thus unexpectedly brings you to Malta?”

“Pleasure, Bannech—pleasure, and, perhaps, the hopes of a little profit,” said the Greek, laughing. “Now, though I may not just yet tell you what brings me to Malta, I will tell you a little more of my history than you are at present acquainted with. Know, then, most worthy Jew, that I am, by name, Argiri Caramitzo, a patriot Greek chief, or prince, call me, of Graditza. That I have been educated in Italy—that years have passed since I set foot in my native land—and that I am now hastening thither to join in the noble struggle to emancipate Greece from the thraldom of the infidel Turk. I have travelled from that city of learning and piety, Pisa, to Naples, thence to Syracuse; and from that ancient city, I have crossed the sea hither. All this you must remember, Bannech, should you be questioned.”

“I will not forget it, most noble prince,” said the Jew, bending his head. “I like the story much. It has a probability about it which cannot fail to make it be believed—an essential point too frequently overlooked by bunglers in lying.”

“I am glad you like it,” observed the Greek, or prince—as we may now call him. He took no notice of the last, not very flattering, observation of the Jew. “But now, Bannech, I wish to know what vessels are sailing hence for Greece, as I desire, you must remember, to secure a passage by one of them.”

The Jew looked at him for a moment, doubting whether he was in earnest.

“Oh, I understand,” he said at length. “Why, there are several sailing in the course of a few days, but the one which will best suit your purpose quits the harbour to-morrow. She carries passengers—one of whom an English colonel is said to be rich, so he will doubtless have a store of gold on board. He has a daughter or niece with him, who is reported handsome. If she was, by chance, to fall into the hands of such gentry, as we wot of, she would gain them a large amount for her ransom. The vessel I speak of is the Zodiac, John Bowse, master.”

“I passed her as we entered the harbour,” remarked the Greek. “I will go on board this very evening. But I wish to know more about her passengers. Could not they be induced to carry a large amount of gold with them? It would be very convenient. Tell me, how can I become acquainted with them?”

The Jew shook his head.

“I do not know how it can be managed. These English people, with their proud manners, do not like making the acquaintance of foreigners of whose history they are ignorant.”

“Do not tell me that it cannot be done,” exclaimed the Greek impatiently. “I tell you, signor, that you must find means of doing it. Surely a Greek prince would not be refused admittance into the best society of an insignificant island dependency like this.”

“There are a great many arrant rogues bearing that title,” said the Jew, his eyes twinkling as he spoke. “And among the English here the rank alone does not bear much weight. You should have letters of introduction, and how they are to be procured, I cannot say.”

“How they are to be procured! Why, forge them to be sure, my friend,” exclaimed the Greek. “Nothing is so easy. Come, come, you are well accustomed to the work, I know.”

“Oh, father Abraham, suppose I was to be discovered!” ejaculated the Jew. “My credit would be gone, and I should be completely ruined and undone.”

“Oh, no fear of that, while your wits are as keen as at present,” said the Greek. “Come, has not the colonel some acquaintance or other in Italy, who would be likely to introduce a distinguished foreigner, his friend, visiting the island, or do you know of some other person to whom a letter of introduction might be addressed?”

The Jew meditated for some time, and if with any other sensation than that of grasping avarice, and all its accompanying hopes and fears, it was with that of admiration for the Greek’s daring and versatility of talent. He was thinking of the value of which they might be to himself.

“I have it,” he exclaimed. “There is a client of mine, a young spendthrift, who has lived much in Italy, and many of whose acquaintance I know. Stay, I have a letter by me from his friend the Count Montebello of Florence. He shall be your introducer. Do you know him?”

“I know nothing of him,” said the Greek, “make me a friend of his friend. It will be safer and will be sufficient.”

“Excellent, excellent,” exclaimed the Jew, chuckling at the thoughts of the fraud. “You should have been bred a lawyer instead of a sailor, prince. Now, remember, this client of mine is acquainted with Colonel Gauntlett, and is, indeed, a suitor of his niece’s, for the sake of the money he expects she will receive from her uncle. You will know how to talk to him.”

“Admirable! My plan must prosper. There is a ball, too, I understand to-night, at which I suppose all the principal people in the place will be present, and among them, the colonel, his niece, and my new friend. I must be prepared for the occasion; so, friend Bannech, send for the best tailor in the place forthwith; for it will never do to appear in this barbarian costume.”

The Greek having thus fully concocted his plan, overruled all the objections thrown out by the Jew, and, as he was a man of action, he insisted on a tailor being instantly sent for. In ten minutes afterwards the well-known artist Paolo Muhajiar made his appearance, and, though he was somewhat astounded at the shortness of the time allowed him to rig the Greek stranger in a suit of mufti, a show of some broad gold pieces overcame all difficulties, and he promised to set every hand at his establishment on to the work.

Little did the honest Paolo dream, as with a profound bow, he gathered up his measures and patterns, and took his departure, who was the distinguished foreigner for whom he was about to labour. The Greek desiring the Jew to detain the beggar Giacomo till his return, with a triumphant look soon after set out to inspect the good brig the Zodiac.

Argiri Caramitzo was a man who hated inactivity; he was never happy except he was in motion, and never contented unless he had a prospect of change before him. Born in England, he would have been a universal philanthropist or a radical reformer, or an inventor of patent machines, or, in late days, a railroad projector; he would have employed his time in haranguing popular assemblies on the rights of man, and the freedom of religion, and he would have been a loud advocate of the cause of the Poles, and Greeks, and Hungarians; but, as he happened to have been born in Greece, he cared not a jot for the Greeks, and employed his talents, sharpened by use, in making a fortune in the way most clearly open to him, and most suited to his taste.

He now hurried down to the quay, off which he saw Manuel at his post, waiting for his return. He beckoned him to approach, and, taking his seat, ordered him to pull alongside the English brig the Zodiac; he soon stood on her deck, to the no small astonishment of Captain Bowse, who had just before got on board. It may be supposed that they would have had no little difficulty in understanding each other; but there is a lingua Franca used in the Mediterranean, which all mariners, who traverse that sea, very quickly pick up; and, what with that and the aid of signs, they made themselves tolerably intelligible to each other; at all events the Greek learned all he wished to know; even before he had spoken, his quick glance had made him acquainted with the armament of the vessel, and her probable seaworthy qualities. His foot, too, as he walked aft, happened to strike one of the carronades, the look of which he considered suspicious, and he smiled as he found that it was of wood. He soon made known his object in visiting the ship; he was looking out for a passage to Greece by some vessel shortly to sail thither, and, as the appearance of the Zodiac pleased him, he should like to engage a cabin on board her.

“Cannot, though, receive you on board, sir; sorry for it: but all my accommodation is taken up by an English colonel and his family, and he would not allow anybody else on board, even if it was the Pope himself,” answered Captain Bowse.

“But I am not at all particular as to the sort of accommodation you can find for me,” urged the Greek. “I have been at sea before, and can rough it as well as any of you mariners.”

“No matter, Mr Prince; the colonel would not allow any stranger on board, so, with all the will in the world to serve you, I cannot do it.”

“But suppose the colonel should not object, would you then receive me?” asked the stranger.

“That would alter the case, sir, and we would rig you up the best berth we could manage,” answered Captain Bowse.

“So far, so good,” said the Greek. “About the passage-money we shall not disagree; but tell me of what does your cargo consist? I have the greatest horror of sleeping over gunpowder, or anything likely to explode.”

“Oh, we have no gunpowder except a few charges for our guns there; but we have some cases of muskets consigned to a merchant at Cephalonia, and which will, I suspect, soon find their way over to your friends on the main; and we have besides an assortment of hard goods, and of silks and clothes, and cottons, and such things, indeed, as would only be shipped in a sound ship—high up in Lloyd’s list, let me tell you, sir. There isn’t a finer craft out of London than the Zodiac, and none but a good ship would have weathered the gale we fell in with t’other day, though, as it was, we met with a little damage, which made us put in here to repair.”

“I have no doubt of the Zodiac’s good qualities, and I hope that I may yet have the satisfaction of proving them,” said the Greek, as he stepped over the side. “Adieu, captain; a prosperous voyage whether I sail with you or not.”

Chapter Five.

A grand ball was taking place at the Auberge de Provence, in the Strada Reale, at Valetta. All the rank and fashion of the city were assembled. They consisted of the naval, military, and civil officers of the crown stationed there, their wives and daughters; a few English visitors attracted to the island to recruit their health, or to indulge their curiosity; and some foreigners, illustrious and otherwise, who had come there chiefly on the latter account; though a small portion might have been travelling diplomatists or scientific savants. Few ball-rooms could display a larger number of glittering uniforms, both naval, military, and consular; and there was a very fair proportion of beauty among the younger ladies, and diamonds among the dowagers. The soldiers certainly took the lead. They consider that possession is nine parts of the law; and thus as they live in the island, while their naval brethren are merely visitors, they could not help feeling their superiority. Captains of line-of-battle ships and frigates are, of course, however, held in high consideration by the fair sex; but midshipmen were sadly at a discount; and even lieutenants, unless they happened to have handles to their names, or uncles in the ministry, were very little thought of. Such was the case at the time of which I write. I suspect very little alteration has, since then, taken place.

So our two young friends, Jack Raby and Jemmy Duff, seemed to feel as they sauntered into the ball-room, and cast their eyes round in a somewhat unusually bashful manner, in search of any young lady who would deign to bestow a bow on them, and accept them as partners. At last, Jemmy Duff exchanged a nod and a smile with the little Maltese girl who had before attracted him, and he was soon, according to his own fashion, engaged in making desperate love to her, evidently as much to her amusement as to his satisfaction. Poor Raby stood looking on, and could scarcely help feeling jealous at his friend’s good fortune; for not a single lady did he know in the room, when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He looked up, and a bright smile irradiated his countenance as he saw who it was.

“What, Raby, don’t you intend to show some of these fair ladies how well the Ione lads can kick their heels?”

The speaker was a young, intelligent-looking man, with a complexion which would have been fair, had it not been sunburnt, with thick, light, curling hair. He was strongly but gracefully made, of the ordinary height, and would have been by every one considered good looking; his forehead and mouth were decidedly handsome, the latter expressing great firmness, at the same time a great amiability of disposition. His dress was that of a commander in the navy.

“I can’t get a partner, sir,” answered the midshipman; “I don’t know a lady in the room.”

“Oh! we will soon find you one. I must not have my boys thought to be misanthropic.”

“Captain Fleetwood,” said a lady near, “can you introduce a partner to my niece?”

“Oh, certainly,” answered the officer, seizing Jack Raby by the arm, “allow me to introduce Mr Raby, of her Majesty’s brig Ione, who will be happy to dance the next quadrille with you.”

The young lady to whom he spoke, smiled, and said she should be very happy; but the aunt made a wry face, and observed that she intended to have asked him to introduce his friend, Major White of the —.

“I hope my young friend, Raby, will do as well. He is a nephew of Lord —,” observed Captain Fleetwood, in a slightly satirical tone. “I will bring up White, in tow, to your ladyship, as soon as I can sight him.”

Captain Fleetwood was always more thoroughly nautical in his mode of expression at Malta than in any other place.

“Oh, certainly, I am most happy to know any of your officers, especially a nephew of Lord —, whose brother is a great friend of my husband’s cousin.”

Captain Fleetwood might have made a rejoinder; but at that moment his eye glanced towards the door, at which was entering a stout, oldish gentleman, in plain clothes, and hanging on his arm, a fair, young, and very pretty and interesting girl. He instantly hurried forward, and claimed her hand for the next dance, which, with one of the sweetest possible smiles, she promised to give him, while the old gentleman, though he nodded to him, evidently regarded him with far from amiable feelings.

The young officer, however, who appeared accustomed to the old man’s surly looks, and indifferent to them, remained by her side, and engaged her in an animated conversation. At last her companion lost all patience, and tugging at her arm, he exclaimed—

“Come along, Ada, we must look for a seat somewhere till the dancing begins, for I cannot undertake to stand on my legs all night. Captain Fleetwood, you will find Miss Garden at the farther end of the room, probably, when you wish to claim her hand for the next quadrille; but as she is soon to commence a long sea voyage, I cannot allow her to fatigue herself by dancing much this evening.”

Colonel Gauntlett, for the speaker was the uncle of Ada Garden, said this in a grave, cold tone, sufficient to freeze the heart of any ordinary lover; and, pressing his niece’s arm as if to prevent her from escaping, he dragged her through the crowd towards a seat which he found vacant.

“Ada,” said the colonel, as he walked on, “I will not have you intimate with any of those sea officers. I cannot bear them, from the highest to the lowest. One of them had the impertinence to interfere between me and a lady to whom I was paying my addresses. By Jove, miss, he carried her off before my eyes. I have hated them ever since, with their easy-going, devil-me-care ways.”

“But surely, uncle, you would not make all suffer for the fault of one; and I suppose your rival loved the lady,” urged Ada.

“Love her, I suppose he did love her; but he had no business to do so, I tell you. I already looked upon her as my wife!” exclaimed the colonel, stamping down his stick vehemently on the floor, and speaking so loud that several people must have heard him.

“But did the lady confess her affection for you, uncle?” asked his niece.

“Confess her love!—why, ay, no—that is, I never asked her; or, rather, she took it into her head to refuse me altogether.”

Fleetwood was about to follow, but he suddenly stopped.

“It will only enrage the old man, and excite suspicions in his mind. Perhaps he will insult me to get rid of me altogether,—I had better not.”

Ada found herself seated next to Lady Marmion, with whose niece Jack Raby was dancing. Her attention was easily riveted by the praises which her ladyship lavished on Captain Fleetwood, and the secret of her affection, if secret it could be called, was easily penetrated by the astute dame.

“Now, my dear, you know I like him, though I do not like the navy in general. Their coats smell of tar and cockroaches, and their conversation is all about their ships and their adventures at sea and on shore; and then you know they are generally so poor, that it is dangerous to let a girl talk to them. Captain Fleetwood is not very rich, I believe; but then he has prospects, and they should be taken into consideration.”

“I really do not know,” said Ada. “It never occurred to me to calculate the fortunes of the gentlemen with whom I am acquainted.”

“Oh, you will grow more prudent, my dear, some day,” observed her ladyship. “But who can that particularly handsome man be walking this way, with Captain Dunnup? By the way, my dear, I should recommend you to keep that Captain Dunnup at a distance. I gave Jane the same advice, for you know he has entirely run through his property; and they say, besides, that he is completely in the hands of the Jews. Dear me, here he comes with the stranger.”

As she spoke, two gentlemen were advancing towards the spot where she and Ada Garden were sitting. The one she alluded to was a dissipated-looking young man, though with a well-bred air, and rather handsome. The other was decidedly so—indeed, he might well have been considered the handsomest man in the room. There was a noble and independent air, and a free-born grace about him—so all the ladies declared—which would have made him anywhere distinguished. His features were dark, and of the purest classical model; his eyes were large and sparkling, and a long silky black moustache shaded his lip. His costume was simple and correct, from his well-fitting black coat to his trousers, which showed off the shape of his handsome leg, and his silk stockings, and low, well-polished shoes. The most severe critic could not have found the slightest fault with him, except perhaps that his coat shone too much, as if it was just out of the tailor’s hands.

“Permit me to introduce to your ladyship, my friend, Prince Argiri Caramitzo,” said Captain Dunnup, advancing and presenting the stranger, who bowed gracefully.

“And may I, Miss Garden, be allowed to introduce him to you?” he continued. “Although a Greek, he speaks Italian like a native, in which language I know that you, also, are a proficient.”

Both ladies bowed their heads, and signified their pleasure in knowing the Prince Caramitzo. He, in his turn, in very pure Italian, expressed his still greater gratification at the honour he enjoyed.

While he was speaking, Dunnup caught Colonel Gauntlett’s eye fixed on him, and it occurred to him that he should introduce his friend. He accordingly took him up, and introduced him in form.

“The prince is going eastward, colonel, and as you will probably meet again in the classic land of Greece, if you do not rather journey together, I feel that you should become acquainted.”

As Colonel Gauntlett rather liked the look of the stranger, he condescended to be civil to him; but as he did not speak a word of Romaic, and as his Italian was very indifferent, and his French worse, Argiri Caramitzo could scarcely understand what he said. He, however, made a polite speech full of complimentary phrases in return, and then, bowing, went back to talk to the ladies.

The handsome stranger judged that he should more speedily gain all the information he required from the niece, and might afterwards, through her, if he found it requisite, persuade the colonel to do what he desired. He found on his return that Miss Garden had been led out to dance by Captain Fleetwood, so he sat himself down to play the agreeable to Lady Marmion, and to glean from her much which he wished to know about the politics of Valetta, and which she was too happy to impart.

We, however, must follow Captain Fleetwood and Miss Garden. There was no doubt of their being lovers, by the confiding way in which she rested on his arm, and glanced up into his face as he spoke; and the look of proud happiness with which he regarded her, and seemed to defy the world to venture on the experiment of tearing her from him. Everybody observed it but Colonel Gauntlett, and he remained obstinately blind to what had taken place.

“My beloved Ada, this is the last time that I may have an opportunity of speaking to you,” said Fleetwood, as, the dance being over, he led her to an open balcony which looked out on the moonlit harbour. “You know how ardently I love you, and that willingly would I sacrifice all the prospect of your uncle’s property, if he would give his consent to our union; but I would not urge you to act in opposition to his wishes—yet there is a time when obedience ceases to be a duty, and that time must come when he obstinately refuses to give you to me.”

“He will not, he cannot do so, when he knows how dearly, how deeply you love me.” She spoke according to the dictates of her own heart; nor was she, however, wrong.

“Then this very night, or to-morrow morning, before you sail, I will ask you from him, and as soon as I pay off the Ione, which I shall probably do in the course of two months, I will come back and claim you. Shall I do so, dearest?”

“Oh, yes! do, Charles. It is the only way, and, believe me, whatever is the result, I will be faithful to you. While you claim me, I will never marry another.”

“I cannot ask more, and yet I could not demand less without contemplating an event which would wring my heart with anguish,” exclaimed Fleetwood, pressing her hand to his lips. “I think, however, we may before that time again meet—I expect to be sent to Greece, and shall contrive to visit Cephalonia.”

For some time longer the lovers talked on without taking note of its flight, when they were disagreeably interrupted by the voice of the colonel inquiring for Ada.

“Come here, miss,” he exclaimed. “Here has been Prince Caramitzo waiting for the last quarter of an hour to lead you out to dance, and you were nowhere to be found—I will not have it.” And he looked a black thundercloud at Fleetwood. “Come, Signior Principe, there is your partner ready for you.”

The prince, comprehending his meaning more by his action than his words, stepped forward, and, with a profound bow, offered his arm, which Ada, giving a glance of regret at Fleetwood, was obliged to accept. The prince was not a man, it appeared, to allow a lady to feel annoyed in his society. He first paid her a slight and delicate compliment on her beauty, which he introduced in a description of his own countrywomen and the Italians. He told her how much he admired all he had heard of England, and seen of Malta; he drew out her opinion on several subjects, and a little account of her life, and then excited her curiosity about himself.

“But how is it that, being a Greek, you speak Italian so well?” she asked.

This was just what he expected; he wished to tell her his history, but could not volunteer to do so.

“Ah, signora, it is a long story, and would fatigue you; but thus much I may tell you:—You know the misery, the abject slavery to which my beautiful, my noble country was so long subjected beneath the iron despotism of the infidel Turks. Our fathers contrived to live under it, or the present race would not have been born to avenge them. We were rapidly becoming extinct as a nation; our religion languished—our education was totally neglected. My father, however, the late Prince of Graditza, also Argiri Caramitzo, was a man superior to those around him, and determining that I, his eldest son, should have the advantage of a good education, he sent me to the famous university of Pisa, in Tuscany. I there acquired the language of Italy in its purest form; but, unhappily, I almost learned to forget my own country—I formed friendships with those among whom I lived. I not only learned to talk, but to think as an Italian, and I was even ignorant of the gallant struggle which had commenced in Greece. This was owing to the affection of my parents, who, knowing that my disposition would have prompted me instantly to throw myself wherever danger was the greatest, did not inform me of what was taking place, and when they suspected that I must have heard something on the subject, assured me that my presence would be useless, and urged me to remain where I was. Alas! I listened to their well-meant deceit, till news was brought me that my noble father had been slain in combat with the enemies of our country, and that my mother had died of grief at his loss. Then, indeed, the truth was made known to me, and, rousing myself for action, I hastened to fly to the country, where I felt that the presence of even the meanest of her brave sons was required. Alas! I found that the means of quitting Italy were wanting—I was in debt, and no funds had been transmitted to me. I contrived to exist; for my friends were kind, but innumerable delays occurred before the money I sent for arrived, and I am only now on my way to Greece—my native land, the mother of the arts and sciences, the country of Socrates and Plato, of Alexander and Aristides, the battle-fields of Thermopylae and Marathon. Ah, signora, Greece once contained all that is noble and great, and brave—what she once was, such she will be again—when we, her brave sons, have regenerated her, when we have driven forth the accursed Turk, never more to set his foot upon our sacred shore, except as a slave, and a bondman. Ah, this is the patriot’s wish—his dream by night, his hope by day. This is the bond of union which now unites the hearts of our countrymen in one great feeling—a deadly hatred of the Turk—time is coming, and will shortly arrive when Greece, brightly and freshly burnished, will come forth a model of a perfect republic to all the nations of the earth. You are happy, signora, in going to the neighbourhood, that you may watch the progress of the glorious work.”

Ada listened, and her cheek glowed with animation, for she was an enthusiast in the cause of the Greeks. She looked at the prince, and thought him a noble patriot.

The Greek intended that she should do so. He was struck by her beauty, and every instant he felt his admiration for her increasing.

A second time she accepted the prince’s hand, in preference, however, only to that of Captain Dunnup, and she became the envy of the room, for numberless fair ladies were dying to dance with the handsome prince.

The Greek stranger was accompanied to the ball-room by a young man of very striking appearance, though of a slighter figure, and not as tall as himself. He spoke of him as his particular friend, the Count Montifalcone, who was on his way with him to join those struggling for Grecian independence. His manners were elegant: but he appeared to be very bashful, or diffident; and, at all events, appeared very much disinclined to enter into conversation. The Greek, however, introduced his Italian friend to Miss Garden; and though, at first, he was very much reserved, as he gazed at her animated and lovely countenance, he appeared to gain courage, and warmly entered into conversation on the beauty of his native Italy, and her superiority in works of arts over all other countries. It seemed curious to her that although he was going out to join the Greeks, he should show so little interest, as he appeared to do, on the subject of Greece, her wrongs and prospects. He danced, however, but once with Miss Garden nor did he, during the course of the evening, attempt to gain an introduction to any one else; but continued to watch her, at a distance, wherever she moved, and was evidently much struck with her beauty.

Many remarked the grave and silent young Italian as he stood, with his arms folded on his breast, endeavouring to conceal himself among the crowd, or leaned, apparently lost in reflection, against the door-post at the entrance to the room, in which she happened to be. His Greek friend seemed so much engaged, that he scarcely noticed him, and though Captain Dunnup exchanged a few words with him occasionally, he spoke to no one else, nor did he seem anxious to do so.

With a glowing cheek and sparkling eye she listened as he advocated, in ardent language, the cause of his native land, and her heart beat with enthusiasm.

“Oh! if I were a man, nothing should prevent me from hurrying to join the sacred ranks of your liberators!” she exclaimed.

“With such an advocate we must succeed,” returned the Greek, bowing. “Some of your noble countrymen, it is said, have already joined the patriot force; and, lady, when in the thick of the combat, fighting for Grecian liberty, I shall remember your words, and feel that your prayers are aiding us.”

Ada listened to the softly-flowing expressions of the voluble prince, and believed him to be a perfect patriot. Had she known a little more of the world, she might have thought otherwise, and yet, who can say, that while the prince was speaking to her, he did not feel all he expressed. New hopes, feelings, and aspirations rushed into his mind, elevating and purifying it—a glorious future might yet be in store for his country and himself—and while he remained by her side, the force of those sensations continued. It was with unwillingness, and even pain, that he was obliged to yield her up again to Captain Fleetwood, who was naturally on the watch to monopolise her whenever he could. How the prince hated the English Captain—for he soon saw that, though Miss Garden listened to his own honeyed words with pleasure, her heart was in the safe keeping of one whom he, all of a sudden, chose to consider as his rival.

“No matter,” he muttered. “I must teach her to forget him.”

He sauntered about the room for a short time by himself, paying little attention to the fair ladies who surrounded him, and it must be owned, was sadly indifferent to the charms of most of them. He then sought Colonel Gauntlett, whom he endeavoured to engage in conversation. It was certainly of a peculiar nature, and the meaning was not always clear to either party; but he gleaned much useful information, and suggested many things to the colonel in return. Among other pieces of advice, he recommended him to carry as much gold as he could with him, telling him that he would find it more convenient than bills. He strongly advised him also to keep it in his trunks, as they, in case of shipwreck, would more probably be saved than other things. It is extraordinary how very attentive and full of forethought he was.

The ball was at length over. Jack Raby and Jemmy Duff vowed that they had never enjoyed themselves more in their lives, thanks to their captain’s management; and they had made an agreement to introduce one another to each other’s partners, and, at the same time, to puff off each other’s wealth and connections, which plan they found answer very satisfactorily.

The Prince Caramitzo, as he threw a sea-cloak over his shoulder in front of the hotel, took the arm of Captain Dunnup, and warmly pressed his hand.

“I have much reason to thank you for your politeness, sir, and shall be glad to welcome you to Greece.”

The captain expressed his satisfaction at having been useful to him, and signified the very great probability there was of his shortly having to pay a visit to that country, at all events, of having to leave Malta. They then parted with mutual expressions of esteem.

The Greek then took the arm of his Italian friend, and together they sauntered down the street, every now and then stopping to ascertain whether any person from the ball was watching where they went.

Captain Fleetwood walked to his lodgings in an unusually melancholy humour. He had forebodings of disaster, which even his strong mind could not at once overcome, though he knew they arose from being fatigued and worried.

To-morrow he must take his farewell of his beloved Ada for an indefinite period; for, though he intended to hurry back from England as soon as possible, he knew that numberless events might occur to delay him. He had also ventured to speak to Colonel Gauntlett, for the first time, of his love for his niece; and the reception he had met with from the old gentleman was, as might be expected, most unsatisfactory.

The colonel and Ada were driving home together: she had not spoken, for she could not trust her voice.

“Niece,” said the colonel, stamping with his stick at the bottom of the carriage, as if to arouse her, “you were talking and dancing a great deal too much with that young naval man—that Captain Fleetwood—and after what I said to you at the commencement of the evening, I consider such conduct highly reprehensible.”

“I confess I spoke to him a great deal this evening,” answered the poor girl, in a tremulous voice. “I hoped that you would not blame me, as he said that he would speak to you and explain everything.”

“Well, young lady, he did speak to me, and a damned impertinent thing he said, too. He had the folly—the outrageous, unconscionable folly—to ask me to allow you to marry him!” exclaimed the colonel in a husky voice, again almost driving his stick through the bottom of the carriage. “He had the folly; but I was not fool enough to accede to it—I refused him, young woman. And now, never let me hear his name mentioned again.”

With a sad heart Ada placed her head on her pillow, and, with a sadder still, she rose on the following morning to prepare for her voyage.

Chapter Six.

The crew of the Sicilian speronara were busily engaged the whole fore part of the day in discharging the small quantity of cargo, consisting chiefly of corn and other provisions, with which their vessel was laden.

When this was done she immediately cleared out at the custom-house, and without any of her crew having even visited the shore, she got up her anchor, and commenced making sail. The long tapering yard of her foresail was first hoisted, and its folds of white canvas let fall, and when her head paid round, her mainsail was next got on her, and sheeted home. Instead, however, of running out of the harbour, as it at first appeared she was about to do, after she had gone a little distance, just between Fort Saint Angelo and Fort Ricasoli, she hauled her foresail to windward, and hove to. The probable cause of this was soon explained, for a small boat was seen to dart out from beneath the fortifications of Valetta, and to take its way across the harbour towards her, carrying a person in the stern-sheets, wrapped up in a cloak, with a broad-brimmed hat shading his features. The hat may not have been worn for the purpose of disguise, for the rays of the sun, striking down full upon the water, were very ardent, and there was good reason for its being worn to protect him from their fury; but there was not quite so much for the use of the cloak, unless, following the Italian fashion, he carried that also over his shoulders for the same reason. The boat ran alongside the speronara, when the person, whoever he was, stepped out, and the foresail being let draw, the beautiful little craft stood out of the harbour. The boat on its return was found to belong to the boatman Manuel, who, being questioned as to the person he had conveyed on board the speronara, declared that he had not the slightest notion who he was—that he had never before seen his face, and that he could not tell whether he was an Englishman, an Italian, or a Frenchman, but that he thought the former. He said, all he knew was, that he had come down to the shore and engaged his boat, and as he had paid him well for the job, it was not his business to make further inquiries. The general opinion was, that he was some person making his escape from his creditors; but by the time the proper authorities were informed of the supposed fact, and the necessary measures taken to ascertain its truth, the delinquent was far beyond their reach.

The wind was about north-west—there was a nice fresh breeze, and supposing that the speronara was bound for Syracuse, she could, hauling as close to the wind as she was able to do, easily lay her course for that port. Either, however, she was carelessly steered, or she was bound to some port in Italy, for, after hauling round Saint Elmo, she fell off considerably from the wind, and finally, when she might have been supposed to have got beyond the range of observation of those on shore, who were not likely to take much notice of so insignificant a little craft, and of so ordinary a rig, she eased off both her sheets, and, with the wind on her larboard quarter, indeed, almost astern, ran out into the offing. By this course she crossed in a short time the mouth of the harbour; and though at a considerable distance, she was enabled to watch any vessel coming out.

Her movements, however, were not totally unobserved, for Captain Fleetwood, who had called at the house of Colonel Gauntlett, early in the morning, in the vain hope of seeing Ada, was returning in a disconsolate mood along the ramparts, and meditating in what way his duty should direct him to proceed, when his eye fell on the speronara, hove-to directly below him, Manuel’s boat just touching her side.

As he had, like most naval officers, a remarkably good glass in his pocket, he directed it towards the little vessel, and among the people on her deck he fancied that he distinguished the figure of the stranger who had paid so much attention to Ada on the previous evening. Now, as he understood that that gentleman was about to sail immediately for Greece, he was naturally surprised, indeed so unlikely did it appear, that he thought he must be mistaken. Although he was very far from being of a suspicious disposition, yet combining the manner in which the stranger had gone on board, and the doubtful character of the craft herself, he determined to watch her movements.

Another cause also combined to create very extraordinary suspicions in his mind respecting the character of the stranger, who had made his appearance so suddenly in Malta. On his way to Colonel Gauntlett’s residence, that morning, he had passed the office of the chief of the harbour police, and on looking in to speak a word with Captain S—, he found him engaged in examining three Greek merchants, who stated that the vessel in which they were making a passage from Athens to Sicily, had been plundered by a well-known pirate of the name of Zappa, and that he had appeared on board their vessel; that they had spoken to him, and that they felt almost confident that they had seen the same person, without any disguise, in a coffee-house in Valetta on the previous evening. They acknowledged, that though at first they had no doubt of his identity, yet that when he came up to them, and entered into conversation, they were staggered in their belief; but that after he had disappeared it again occurred to them with greater force than ever, that he must be the man they at first thought. When convinced of this they immediately set out in the hopes of falling in with him, and with the intention of handing him over to the police; but they were unsuccessful in their search, and when, after many inquiries, they learned before whom they should make their depositions, it was too late in the day to see any one. After sleeping on the subject, they were as strong in their opinion as on the previous night, and the first thing in the morning they had come, they said, to make their statement. Captain S— listened attentively. He told them that he thought they must be mistaken as to the identity of the person, as he could not believe that a pirate would have the audacity to venture into Valetta; particularly just after he had committed a daring act of piracy. The Greeks shrugged their shoulders, but asserted that from what they had heard of Zappa, they believed him capable of any act of hardihood.

“At all events,” observed Captain S—, “I will take your description of the gentleman. Figure tall, features regular, eyes large and animated, hair black, and slight curling moustache—not a bad-looking fellow for a cut-throat, at all events. I will order the police instantly to go in search of him, and if he can be found, of which I have no doubt, we will examine him, and confront him with you; and if he turns out to be Signor Zappa, he will, probably, before many days are over, be hanging up alongside Captain Delano and his shipmates.”

The Greeks were satisfied that they were right, and on their retiring, officers were instantly despatched in search of the supposed pirate. The result of their inquiries Captain Fleetwood had not yet learned; but the description given by the Greeks answered so exactly to that of the Prince Argiri Caramitzo, whom he had met at the ball the previous night, that he could not help being struck by it.

“I did not altogether like the style of the fellow,” he muttered to himself. “He is good-looking enough, certainly; but there was an impudent, sinister expression about his countenance which one does not observe in that of an honest man. I wonder, too, what right he has to the title of prince. There are some few chiefs in Greece, who call themselves princes, but they are very rare. Who they are can easily be ascertained, and I must learn if such a title exists. Let me see, he was introduced, too, by that fellow Dunnup. He is a mauvais sujet I suspect, and I should fight very shy of his friends at all events. What could have taken the gentleman on board that craft then! That puzzles me! I must see to it.”

Accordingly when the speronara let draw her foresail, and stood out of the harbour, he retraced his steps along the ramparts towards port Saint Elmo, to a position whence he could command a clear view to seaward.

“She is a pretty lively craft that,” he observed to himself, as he saw, with the pleased eye of a seaman, the rapid way in which the vessel glided over the crisp curling waves. “The fellows know how to handle her too; but what is she about now, I wonder? I thought, by the way she first steered, she was bound for Sicily, but there she goes running off to the south-east. I cannot be mistaken.” And he took a scrutinising glance at her with his telescope. “Yes, that is her, there can be no doubt about the matter.”

Now love makes most men sharp-witted in everything regarding the object of their affection, and Captain Fleetwood was certainly not a man to be less so than any other person.

The sudden change in the course of the speronara had given rise in his mind to sundry suspicions. They were not very serious, and probably, under other circumstances, he would not have entertained them; but he was out of spirits and fatigued, and he could not help connecting the movements of the speronara with the sailing of the Zodiac, on board which vessel Ada and her uncle were that evening to commence their voyage. He did not, however, suppose that a craft of her character would venture to attack an armed brig of the size of the Zodiac, unless she could take her by surprise, nor could she have any chance of success against so brave and good a seaman as Captain. Bowse, and so fine a crew as his; but at the same time he thought it would be more prudent to let him know what he had seen, and urge him to be on his guard against the speronara.

“I never heard of one of those fellows committing piracy—probably he is up to some smuggling trick—perhaps he expects to fall in with some vessel, and will take her goods out of her during the night, to run them on the Sicilian or Italian coast; perhaps to put that good-looking fellow of a Greek prince, if that is him, on board some craft or other bound eastward. However, I must speak to Bowse about it. I wish to heaven I might sail and convoy the brig; but the admiral would not give me leave if I was to ask him—he would only think it was an excuse to be near Miss Garden.”

These thoughts passed through his mind as he hurried down to the quay, where his boat was waiting for him, and jumping into her, he started for the Zodiac. He had made the acquaintance of the honest master, on finding that the colonel and his niece were going by his vessel, and he had been every day on board to assist in arranging Ada’s cabin, and to suggest many little alterations which might conduce to her comfort and convenience.

Captain Bowse was on board with every preparation made for sailing, and only awaited the arrival of his passengers. The master of the Zodiac heard the account given by the naval officer without any alarm, though at the same time he owned that there was some cause for suspicion; and he promised to keep a sharp look-out, and to take all the precaution in his power to prevent being surprised. When he heard that the Greek stranger had gone on board the speronara, he remembered the visit of a personage answering his description, on the previous evening, to his vessel, and he felt glad that he had not been induced to take him.

“The chances are, if the fellow be a rogue, that he saw that there would be no use trying to do anything with the Zodiac and he has gone to lay his plots against some other craft,” he observed. “That’s my view of the case, sir, and I don’t think that you need at all alarm yourself about the safety of your friends. But although we are safe ourselves, that is no reason that we should not think of others; and if I was you, sir, I would make inquiries about the strange gentleman, and give notice to the authorities of what you have observed. You can tell, sir, of his wanting to take a passage to Greece, on board here, and then shipping off suddenly in a Sicilian craft. There may be nothing in it; but there may be something; and to my mind it’s as well never to trust to a rope with a strand gone.”

Wishing a prosperous voyage to the master, and again cautioning him to be careful, Captain Fleetwood stepped into his gig, and had got some little distance, when he saw a large boat approaching, which he divined contained her he loved best on earth, with her uncle and his attendants. How could he resist the temptation of seeing and speaking to her once more? so, giving his boat a sweep, he pulled round to the other side of the Zodiac, from that on which the gangway ladder was shipped, and lay on his oars, trusting to the chance of seeing Ada on deck, while her uncle was below.

There were fewer packages than most families travel with, for the colonel was a martinet, and would allow none of his womankind, as he called them, to have more traps than was absolutely necessary; and thus no time was lost in getting the party and their goods on board. Besides the colonel and his niece, there was a little Maltese girl, as an attendant, and the colonel’s own man, Mitchell, who, like his master, was a character not unworthy of note. Bowse, who understood pretty well the state of affairs, soon contrived to get the colonel below, while he detained Ada on deck, and then pointing out Captain Fleetwood’s boat to her, beckoned him on board. He was much too judicious to show in any other way that he was aware of the feelings of the parties; but leaving them together, he rejoined the colonel in the cabin, determined to keep him there as long as he could, showing him the arrangements made for his convenience. Little did the old gentleman think, that when praising many of them, he was indebted for them to the man for whom he had conceived so hearty an aversion. What the lovers said need not be told. Those few moments were sweet but sad, and both felt that they would on no account have missed them. Ada again assured him that nothing should induce her to give him up, and he repeated his promise to hasten and claim her in spite of all opposition. The appearance of Bowse’s honest face up the companion-ladder was the signal for him to tear himself away from her, and he had just time to get over the side, when the colonel appeared on deck.

“What are you gazing at there, missie?” he asked, as he saw her, soon after, looking up the harbour. “Oh, ay, thinking of your partners at the ball, I suppose.” She did not answer; but as she turned her face with a reproachful look at her uncle, her eyes were full of tears.

As soon as Bowse came on deck, he gave the signal to weigh. The cable was already hove short, the topsails were loose. The men went about the work with alacrity, and in a style very different to that of merchant seamen in general. They were all prime hands, mostly old men-of-war’s men turned adrift, as ships were paid off, and had all before served with Bowse.

He carried on the duty, therefore, as far as circumstances would allow, in the fashion to which they had been accustomed, and to which they willingly submitted. The brig was consequently looked upon as as fine a vessel as any sailing out of the port of London. To the cheery sound of the pipe, they manned the capstan bars, and singing in chorus to a merry strain, away they ran swiftly round. A hand was sent to the helm, and the mate was on the forecastle.

“Heave and away,” he sung out, as the cable appearing up and down showed that the anchor was under the forefoot. As the wind blew out of the harbour, the jib and fore-topmast-staysail were now hoisted to cast her. With renewed exertions the crew hove round, and the shout they uttered gave the signal that they had dragged the anchor from the bottom. The bow of the vessel feeling the power of her head sails, now paid slowly off.

“Heave and in sight,” the mate next sung out, as the anchor appeared above water. Another turn ran it up to the bows. The foretopsail was next sheeted home and hoisted, and the head yards braced forward to help her round more quickly. In the meantime the anchor was catted and fished ready for sea, and as the wind came abaft the beam, the head yards were squared, and the fore-clew-garnets being let run, the ponderous folds of the foresail were allowed to fall towards the deck, just as the wind was brought right aft. Both sheets were then hauled aft, and the increasing breeze no longer finding escape beneath it, blew it out in a graceful swell which made it appear as if it were about to lift the vessel bodily out of the water to carry her gliding over the waves. The fore-topmast-staysail, no longer being of use, was hauled down, and her fore-topgallantsail and royal, with the after sail, were next set, followed by studden-sails on either side, till the brig presented the appearance of a tall tower of white canvas shining brightly in the rays of the sun, which was setting directly astern, and which threw on them, in confused lines of tracery-work, the shadows of the masts, their respective shrouds and running rigging.

Ada, who would not be persuaded by her uncle to go below, as he said, to get her out of harm’s way, looked on with deep interest at these proceedings, and with admiration at the method by which, in so short a time, so beautiful a fabric could be raised. Ada delighted in everything connected with the sea. She was a sailor’s daughter, and she loved a sailor; but even before she had known Captain Fleetwood she felt an affection for things nautical, and certainly he had done much to increase her regard. She enjoyed too the physical pleasures of the sea, the fresh free breeze, and the light dancing wave, which to her was a source of no inconvenience. While others suffered, she was on deck enjoying existence to the full. It is true that she had as yet only seen the ocean in its summer dress, and except from the experience of a short gale, which she looked upon rather as giving a zest to the pleasure of a voyage, she knew little of its wintry tempests, its dangers and horrors. Bowse observed the interest she took in all that was going forward, and, like a true sailor, felt as much gratified as if she was his own daughter, and under his especial protection. Jack, the cabin-boy, was coiling away a rope near him, and beckoning to him, he sent him down for a comfortable chair, which, on its appearance, he placed before her.

“There, miss,” he observed, “I think you will be able, more at your ease, to sit and look at the little island we are leaving behind us. It’s always a pleasure to take the last look at the place we are going from.”

Ada thanked him with a sweet smile for the chair which he had judiciously placed on the starboard side of the poop, and looking partly aft, so that she could command a full view of the harbour, where the Ione lay, and of the fortifications of Valetta. The Zodiac was now running out between forts Saint Elmo and Ricasoli; and as she cleared the former, she felt the wind drawing rather more to the northward. Her yards were, therefore, braced forward, and her mainsail hauled out; and now with the wind on her quarter, a point in which every sail a square-rigged vessel can carry draws best, with a fine rattling breeze she rapidly left the shores of Malta astern.

Chapter Seven.

Never did a vessel leave port under more propitious circumstances than did the Zodiac, with a fair, steady breeze, a smooth sea, and at a time of the year when there was every prospect of the continuance of fine weather.

As Bowse walked the deck with a spy-glass under his arm in man-of-war fashion, a smile of contentment lit up his honest countenance, and glistened in his eye; and as he felt the freshening breeze fanning his cheek, and lifting his vessel, as it were, he began to laugh at his momentary suspicions about the character of the speronara and her crew. Every now and then he would stop in his walk, and would look over the side to judge how fast the vessel was going through the water, or he would examine the compasses to assure himself that they were true, or he would cast his eye aloft to see how his sails drew, or his clear, full voice would be heard issuing some necessary order for the government of the ship.

Even Colonel Gauntlett could not help expressing his satisfaction at the propitious commencement of their voyage, as he stopped in his short and otherwise silent walk on the poop to address a few words to the master.

Ada sat silently in her chair, gazing on the fast-receding shore; and it is not surprising that her thoughts were fixed on him who was, she felt sure, even then watching, from its most extreme point, the bark which bore her away. Her little Maltese maid, Marianna, stood by her side with tears in her bright eyes, and gazing her last for an indefinite time on the land of her birth, and where all her affections were centred, except those which had lately arisen for her young mistress.

The colonel’s man, not knowing exactly where he ought to be, being too dignified, at first, to mix with the men forward, and astonished and confused at manoeuvres which he could not comprehend, as is generally the case with his class, always managed to get exactly where he was most in the way.

“Port a little, you may, my son,” said the master to the man at the helm; “steady, so, keep her. East-and-by-north is the course,” pronouncing the north with a strong emphasis on the O, and without the R—as if it were spelt Nothe. “Just get a gentle pull on our weather-braces, Mr Timmins,” to the mate. “The wind’s drawing a little more aft again. We’re making her walk along, sir,” to the colonel. “She’s not going less than six knots an hour, I’ll warrant, which, with this light wind, is not bad for a craft of her build—she’s no clipper, I own, sir. Heave the log here. I dare say you’ll like to be certain, miss,” turning to Ada, as he thought the operation would amuse her.

The second mate and two hands came aft with the log-line and reel. Bowse took a half-minute glass from the binnacle, and watching till all the sand had run into one end, held it up before him. The seamen, meantime, held the reel up before him, so as to allow it to turn easily in his hands, and the mate, taking the little triangular bit of wood, called the log-ship, adjusted the peg, and drew off, with a peculiar jerk of his left hand, several coils of the stray-line, which he held for a moment over the quarter of the vessel, till he saw that his chief was ready with the glass, and he then hove it over into the water. The first part of the line is called the stray-line, and its object is to allow the log-ship to settle properly in the water, as well as to take it clear of the eddy. As soon as this part had run out, a cloth mark ran through the mate’s fingers. “Turn,” he exclaimed. “Turn,” repeated the master, and turned the glass. The marks rapidly passed through the mate’s hand, as he jerked the line of the reel, always keeping it at a stretch.

“Stop,” sung out Bowse, as the sand had run out of the upper end of the glass.

“Done,” said the mate, and stopped the line.

He had not to count the knots run off, for his experienced eye was able to tell the number by the mark on the line. It must be understood that this line is divided into a certain number of equal parts, each of which bears the same proportion to a mile, which thirty seconds do to an hour, and therefore, as the log-ship remains stationary in the water, according to the number of these proportions dragged through, while the sand is running, so is shown how many miles or knots the vessel is going through the water.

“Six and a quarter,” exclaimed the mate. “That’s what I call good going for a ship with a full cargo, in a breeze like this.”

“That’s what we call heaving the log, Miss Garden,” said the master, who had been explaining the use of the log, though in not quite so succinct a way as I have attempted to do. “You’ll be able to turn the glass another time, I’m sure.”

The glass runs, in reality, only for twenty-eight seconds, as two are considered to be employed in turning it.

Ada, who enjoyed an advantage over the reader, by having the operation performed before her eyes, answered that she clearly understood it, and would always, in future, hold the glass.

“By this calculation, you see, miss, as it is just two hours since we passed Fort Saint Elmo, we have run exactly twelve knots and a half off the reel; though we didn’t go through the water so fast at first, as we are now doing. However, by the look of the land, I calculate we are not much less than that off it. You see we call miles—knots, miss, on account of the knots which are marked on the line. When we can just see the last of some conspicuous point, we shall take its bearing by compass and its distance, and then I shall commence pricking the ship’s course off on the chart, and that is what we call taking our departure. Now you see there’s many people on shore would fancy that when we left the port we took our departure; but the ties which bind a seaman to the shore, and to those we leave behind, are not so quickly parted as they may think, you see, miss.” And the honest master, chuckling at one of the first attempts at wit and gallantry of which he had ever been guilty, thought the next instant he blushed at his own audacity.

“It’s surprising, miss, what funny mistakes them who never leave the land make about seafaring concerns; but then, what can you expect of them? they know no better,” he added, in a tone showing the deep commiseration he felt for the ignorance of landsmen. “To say that they don’t know the stem from the stern, isn’t to say anything. They know nothing about a ship, how she’s built, how she sails, or what she’s like. The last voyage I made I had a passenger on board who was a cleverish sort of gentleman, too, and for talking politics he’d go on for an hour; yet he wanted to know why I couldn’t bring the ship to an anchor right out in the Bay of Biscay; and one night, when it was blowing a stiffish gale, with a heavy sea running, he roused me out of my sleep to ask me to send a better hand to the helm; one who knew how to keep the craft steady, or else to run into some harbour till the morning. He never could get it out of his head that he was not in the Thames. Now, miss, I see that you are not one of those sort of people, and that you will soon know all about a ship, though you may not just yet be able to act the captain. To-morrow I’ll show you how to shoot the sun, as we tell greenhorns we are doing, when we take an observation with the quadrant. It’s a very pretty instrument, and you will be pleased to know how to use it.”

“I shall like very much to learn all you can teach me, Captain Bowse,” answered Ada, making a great effort to rouse herself from the feeling of sadness which oppressed her. “I wonder how mariners managed to traverse, as they did, the most distant seas, before these instruments were invented.”

“They used to trust more to the sun and stars, and to their lead reckoning, than they do now, I suppose, miss,” answered the master. “Even now, there’s many a man in charge of a vessel who never takes more than a meridional observation, if even that; and having found his latitude, runs down the longitude by dead reckoning. Some even go about to many distant parts entirely by rule of guess, and it is extraordinary how often they hit their point. Now and then, to be sure, they find themselves two or three hundred miles out of their course, and sometimes they get the ship cast away. I have, too, met vessels out in the Atlantic which had entirely lost their reckoning, and had not the slightest notion where they were. Once, I remember, when I belonged to the Harkaway frigate, coming home from the Brazils, we sighted a Spanish man-of-war corvette. When we got up to her we hove to, and an officer came on board who could speak a little English; and you would scarcely believe it, but the first thing he did was to ask us for the latitude and longitude; and he confessed that the only instruments they had on board were out of repair, and, for what I know, the only man who knew how to use them was ill. Our captain then sent an officer on board the corvette, and a pretty condition she was in for a man-of-war. They had a governor of some place as a passenger, and his wife and family, and two or three other ladies and their families; and there they were all lying about the decks in a state of despair, thinking they were never to see land again. They had been a whole month tossing about in every direction, and not knowing how to find the way home. The decks were as dirty as if they had not been holystoned or swept all that time; not a sail was properly set, not a rope flemished down. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I could not have believed such a thing possible. Our appearance raised their spirits a little, and they began putting themselves to rights as soon as they had made sail on their course. They kept company with us till we got into the latitude of Cadiz, for their craft sailed very well, for all that they did not know how to handle her, and I believe that they managed to get into port in safety at last.”

“I am surprised at what you tell me,” observed Miss Garden, “I should have thought the Spaniards could not have so totally forgotten their ancient naval renown as to allow such dreadful ignorance to exist.”

“The men are active, intelligent fellows enough, and the officers in the merchant service are, from what I have seen, very good seamen; but since the war, their navy has been much neglected, and men were made officers who did not know the stem from the stern of the ship, just because they happened to be some poor dependent of one of their nobles, or the son of a valet out of place. Things are mending a little now with them, I hear.”

“I wonder any but such beggarly fellows as you speak of can be induced to go into the navy at all,” said the colonel, who had been listening to the master’s story, and was far from pleased at the interest Ada took in what he said. “For my part, I would as soon be a shoe-black; but you seem determined to give my niece a dose of the sea.”

“Oh, yes, sir!” answered Bowse, perfectly indifferent to the colonel’s ill-temper; “I hope we shall make the young lady a first-rate sailor before long.”

“I hope you will do no such thing, Mr Bowse; she thinks a great deal too much about it already,” returned the colonel, taking another turn aft.

“Indeed I do not, uncle,” replied Ada, as he came back, in a half-playful tone, calculated to disarm his anger. “You must acknowledge that the scene before us is very beautiful and enjoyable. Look at that blue and joyous sea, how the waves leap and curl as if in sport, their crests just fringed with sparkling bubbles of snow-white foam, which, in the freshness of their new-born existence, seem inclined to take wing into the air—then, what can be more bright and clear than the expanse of sky above us, or more pure than the breeze which wafts us along. Look, too, at the blue, misty hills of our dear Malta, just rising from the water. What mere mole-hills those wild rocks now seem. And then that glorious mass of glowing fire which spreads far and wide round the sun as he sinks into that clear outline of sea; and distant though it seems, sends its reflection across the waves even up to the very ship itself. Ah! if one could but secure that orange tinge, one might gaze at it unwearied all day long. See, also, the dark, fantastically-shaped spots on the ocean as the sails of the distant vessels appear between us and the sun, like evil spirits gliding about the ocean to cause shipwrecks and disaster; while again, on the opposite quarter, the canvas appears of snowy whiteness, just catching the last rays of the light-giving orb of day, and we would fain believe them benign beings hovering over the ocean, to protect us poor mortals from the malign influences of their antagonists; while our proud ship glides majestically along in solitary grandeur, casting indignantly aside the waves which it seems to rule, like some mighty monarch galloping over the broad domains which own him as their lord. Come, uncle, can you deny the correctness of my description? And I am sure Captain Bowse will agree with me.”

She laughed playfully at her attempts at a description of the scene surrounding them, and which she had purposely made as long as she could find words to go on with, well-knowing the effect which her own sweet voice exercised in calming the habitual irritation of her uncle.

“A pretty bit of jargon you have managed to string together,” said the colonel, looking more amiable than he had before done, “and that is what I suppose you call a poetical description, missie. Well, as it does not convey a bad idea of what we have before our eyes, it must pass for something of the sort, I suppose. What do you say, Mister Bowse?”

Now, although Bowse had not entirely comprehended all that Ada had said, he felt that he was called on to give an answer, and accordingly looked round the horizon, as if to satisfy himself that her description was correct. He had taken a survey of the whole expanse of the sea to the westward, and his eye had gradually swept round to the east, when, instead of turning round to answer, he kept it fixed on a distant spot just seen over the weather or larboard bow. Shifting his position a little, he placed his telescope to his eye, and took a steady gaze.

“That’s her, I can’t help thinking,” he muttered. “But what she wants out there, I can’t say.”

To the surprise of Ada, he walked forward, and called his mate to his side.

“Here, Mr Timmins, just tell me what you think of that chap out there, over the weather cat-head,” he said, giving his officer the glass.

The mate took the instrument, and looked as he was directed.

“She’s a lateen-rigged craft standing on a wind athwart our course, sir,” answered the mate instantly, as if there was no difficulty in ascertaining thus much.

“That one may see with half an eye, Mr Timmins; but do you see nothing unusual about her?”

“I can’t say that I see any difference between her and the craft, which one is always meeting with in these seas,” answered the mate. “Her canvas stands well, and looks very white as we see her beam almost on to us. She seems one of those vessels with a name I never could manage to speak, which trade along the coast of Sicily and Italy, and come over to Malta.”

“By the way she is standing, she will pass at no great distance to leeward of us, and if she was to haul up a little, she would just about reach us,” observed the master in a tone of interrogation.

“Just about it, sir,” replied the mate.

“Well, then, Mr Timmins, keep your eye on her, and when we get near her, if there is still light enough left to make her out, tell me if you have ever seen her before.”

The mate, somewhat surprised at the directions his chief had given him, prepared, however, to obey them, and while he superintended the people on deck, he constantly kept his telescope fixed on the stranger. A quarter of an hour or twenty minutes might have passed, when, after taking a longer scrutiny than before, he suddenly turned round, and walked to where his commander was standing.

“I know her, sir,” he exclaimed. “She is no other than the craft which nearly ran foul of us yesterday, and which went out of harbour this morning. She had two outlandish-looking chaps as passengers; and one of them came on board in the evening to talk about taking a passage to Greece. I remember him well, sir, though I did not say anything to you.”

“You are right, Mr Timmins, it’s her, there’s no doubt,” said Bowse. “We’ll give her a wide berth, for there seems to be something suspicious about her,” and he mentioned what Captain Fleetwood had said to him. “I don’t think the chap would dare to attack us; but, with females on board, it’s as well to be cautious. We’ll haul up a little by degrees, not to make it remarkable, so as to pass to windward of him, and have the guns loaded and run out, just as a matter of course, in the Mediterranean, tell the people. I don’t want to have any talking about it, you know; for it will all be moonshine, I suspect. Look you, too, have the small arms and cutlasses up on deck, just to overhaul them, as it were. The studden-sails must come in, at all events; it won’t do to be carrying on at night as if we had fifty hands in a watch instead of five. Now let the people knock off work.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate, and, without the slightest appearance of hurry, he set to work to obey his commander’s orders.

The crew, who had been employed beyond the usual hour in getting the ship to right, finished stowing away everything that was loose, and got the hatches on over the cargo. One after another the studden-sails, which had been extended beyond the yard-arms came flying down like huge white birds from their lofty perches, the moment the halyards and sheets were let go, and, as they bulged out, they looked as if they were about to sail off before the wind ahead of the vessel. As all hands were wanted for the work, Bowse clapped on himself, petting a rope into even Mitchell’s hands, and in a short time the Zodiac, stripped of her wings, was brought under more easy-working canvas. The lee-braces were then flattened in a little, and the helm being put a few strokes to starboard, she headed up towards the north. While the mate was following the other directions he had given, Bowse again brought his glass to bear on the speronara, and, while so doing, his eye was attracted to a sail which appeared in the horizon, and which he at once knew to be a square-rigged vessel. From its height, too, above the water, and its faint outline, he judged her to be a ship or a brig of some size. He had, indeed, remarked her some time before, and it now occurred to him that she had not altered her position since first seen. It would therefore appear that she was standing the same course as the Zodiac; but as they neared her rapidly, such could scarcely be the case, and he, now seeing that her head was turned towards them, could only come to the conclusion that she was hove to. He calculated, also, that the speronara, supposing that she had, for some time, steered the same course she was now on, must have passed close to her.

The idea came into the master’s head more as a matter of speculation than because any further suspicions occurred to him, for the probability of those he still entertained being correct, he thought so very slight, that he was almost vexed with himself for acting on them; and had it not been for his promise to Captain Fleetwood, he most likely would have done so. That the speronara, now to leeward of him, was the self-same craft he had seen in Malta harbour, he could, however, no longer entertain a doubt. He had noted her long, low hull, with overhanging stern and high bow, the great length of her tapering yards, and the way her immense lateen sails stood; there was also a peculiar dark mark on the cloth next to the outer leech of her foresail, near the head of the yard, which was unmistakable, and when he could clearly see that her identity would be proved. As he now brought his glass again to bear on the speronara, he saw that as the Zodiac was brought on a wind, she was immediately hauled close on it, so that, notwithstanding the change he had made in his course, she might still pass, if she liked, even to windward of him, unless she also chose to hug the wind as he had done. On seeing this, the spirit of the British sailor was roused within him.

“Oh, hang it,” he muttered. “I’m not going to be altering my course for fear of a rascally Italian piccaroon, if such that fellow should be. If he chooses to come near us, he must take the consequences. We’ll show him that we’ve got some bulldogs on board who can bark pretty well if they like. But I forgot the young lady, and the little Smaitch girl with her. It won’t do to let them run any risk of being hurt, should the villains begin by firing into us before they speak, as is the fashion of the cowards. I must manage to get them down below without frightening them.”

Having arrived at the conclusion of these cogitations, Bowse approached to where the colonel and his niece were sitting; the young lady employed in gazing on the sea, while he was looking with somewhat an inquiring eye at the preparations carrying on under the mate’s superintendence on deck.

“Don’t you think the young lady had better go below, out of the way of the damp, sir,” began Bowse, puzzled what excuse to make.

“Damp! surely there’s none to hurt me,” said Ada, looking up somewhat surprised. “It is so refreshing.”

“No, miss, the cold—the night air may do you harm,” rejoined Bowse.

“I have no fear of either,” answered Ada. “It’s quite warm, and I do not even require a cloak.”

The master was sadly perplexed, and the colonel would not come to his aid; at last he bethought him of a better reason, which must succeed.

“Yes, miss; but you see it’s coming on night, and it’s a rule that all ladies should go below at night,” he said, in a grave tone.

This made Ada fairly laugh outright.

“Oh! but I intend to break through the rule, I can assure you. The evening, when the moon is playing on the water, is the most delightful time of the twenty-four hours; and you will not persuade me to forego its pleasures.”

The colonel at length came to his rescue.

“What is it makes you so anxious for my niece to go below, Mr Bowse?” he asked. “If you have any particular reason, pray mention it, and I am sure she will be most ready to obey your wishes.”

“Why, sir,” said Bowse, drawing the colonel, who had risen, a little forward, and whispering so as not, he thought, to be heard by Ada; “you see, sir, I don’t quite like the look of that craft we are nearing—some murderous work has been done lately in these seas; and I was told, just before we sailed, to be cautious of her—that’s all.”

“It was for that reason you were loading your guns, and getting up your arms?” exclaimed the colonel, in a less cautious voice than that in which the kind master had spoken. “Very right and proper. I’m glad to see precautions taken. We’ll fight the rascals with pleasure.”

Ada overheard the words, and coming up, placed her arm on her uncle’s.

“What is the matter?—Is there any danger?” she exclaimed, in a pleading tone. “If there is—oh! let me share it with you. Do not send me down into the cabin.” She trembled, but it was more with excitement than fear.

“Oh! nonsense, girl—suppose there was any danger, what object could there be in your staying on deck?” answered the colonel. “You couldn’t save me from being hurt, missie, and I don’t think you would manage to hurt any of the enemy, if there should prove to be one in the case, after all, which is in no way certain yet.”

While the colonel was speaking, Bowse again looked at the speronara. He now, to a certainty, ascertained that she had the dark mark in her foresail, and that she was full of men. This at once decided him in urging Miss Garden to go below, and on her still resisting, the colonel gave indubitable signs of anger.

“Come, come, missie, no more nonsense. Go below you must, without further delay, and take your little nigger with you.”

Ada pleaded for a few minutes more to see what was likely to happen, but in vain, and was reluctantly compelled, in company with her maid, to go into her cabin, there to await the result of the meeting between the two vessels. Ada did as every right-minded girl, under the circumstances, would do—she knelt in prayer—not through abject fear for her own safety, did she pray, for of herself she thought not; but she prayed that her uncle, and the brave men with him on deck, might be shielded from danger—a danger which it was very natural that from what she had heard she should considerably exaggerate.

Chapter Eight.

If, as is asserted, the pleasures of life consist rather in the anticipation than in the fruition, or perhaps we may say, in the means taken to enjoy them, rather than in the objects when obtained; so, most assuredly, is the anticipation of evil worse than the evil itself; and misfortunes, which appear great and terrible when looked at timidly from a distance, diminish, if they do not altogether disappear, when grappled with manfully.

In fact, as somebody or other observed, once upon a time, that whenever he wrote a philosophical, a beautiful, or a noble sentiment, that fellow, Shakspeare, was sure to have been before him; I might more briefly express what I wanted to say, by quoting our great poet—

“Cowards die many times before their death.”

Now, as neither Bowse, nor his officers or men, were characters of that description, but, on the contrary, as brave fellows as ever looked danger in the face without flinching, they, on their own accounts, cared very little whether the craft in sight was a pirate or an honest trader. But it was now very evident that the speronara had an object in steering, as she was clearly doing, for the brig, and as that object could scarcely be otherwise than hostile, there was a possibility of their being attacked; and with one of those unpremeditated cheers which British seamen cannot refrain from giving at the thoughts of a skirmish, every man hastened to buckle a cutlass to his side. Powder and shot were got up, and the small arms and boarding-pikes were placed by the sides of the guns, ready at hand, to be seized in a moment. The spirit of the veteran soldier was instantly aroused in the bosom of Colonel Gauntlett. As he sniffed the air of battle, the querulous, ill-tempered old gentleman was changed into the cool and gallant officer. As soon as Mitchell understood what was likely to happen, he was seen to dive into the cabin, from whence he soon returned, when going up to his master, he stood before him anticipating his orders.

“Mitchell, my sword and pistols, and bring me some ammunition, too, mark me.”

The servant’s hand rose to his cap, and turning round, he again descended to the cabin, reappearing in less than half a minute with the weapons. The colonel buckled on his sword with far greater satisfaction than a dandy tries on a new coat, and after carefully loading and priming his pistols, which were of exquisite workmanship, he placed them, with a look of satisfaction, in his belt. Not a word, however, did he say while thus employed. The first observation was to his servant.

“Mitchell,” he said, “if that rascally felucca attempts to board us, you are to act as my reserve, remember. We shall have to charge on to her deck, or her people will charge on to ours, and you are to keep close behind me, and support me if I require you.”

“Yes, your honour,” answered Mitchell, in imitation of his master fastening a cutlass round his waist. “Is it them chaps in the night-caps on board the little boat out there we’ve to fight?”

“It is, Mitchell, the people in that felucca now approaching us,” said the colonel.

“Och, then, by the powers, we’ll blow them to blazes with these little darlins alone;” and thereon he pulled forth from his coat-tail pockets a pair of huge horse-pistols, of antique date and prodigious bore, which would almost require a rest from which to fire them.

The sun had set, and the short twilight of that southern latitude was fast disappearing, yet sufficient remained to show the outline of the speronara as the two vessels drew near to each other, though more distant objects had long since been shrouded from sight. Her tapering lateen sails now, as seen in one, appeared like the summit of a lofty pyramid of dark hue, surrounded by the waves. Then, as they approached still nearer, and she was almost abeam, the crew were seen standing up, and watching them with eagerness. Instead, however, of attempting to pass ahead of the brig, as she came near, she kept away so as pass close under her quarter. Now came the anxious time. If she was about to board, she would be alongside in another instant. Bowse, however, felt that whatever might be his suspicions of her honesty, without some more presumptive evidence of evil intentions, it would not do for him to commence hostilities; he therefore, taking his speaking-trumpet in his hand, went aft, and leaned ever the quarter-rail.

The speronara came rapidly on, and was close to.

“I have one message for you,” exclaimed a voice from the deck of the stranger, in Italian accents—“send boat here.”

“I’ll see you damned first,” exclaimed Bowse. “I’ve no boat to send—send yours,” he shouted through his speaking-trumpet.

“Heave to, there—I send boat,” was shouted in return from the speronara; and she was immediately seen to hug the wind, her helm was put down, and about she came on the other tack, the same on which the Zodiac was sailing, placing herself thus on their weather quarter.

“Keep her away,” shouted Bowse to the man at the helm, thinking that the speronara was about to board him; but immediately he saw he was mistaken, for instead of her fore-sheet being eased off, it was kept to windward, and, as she lay hove-to, he observed preparations to launch a boat into the water. “I suppose, sir, we may let these fellows come on board?” he said, addressing the colonel, who was by his side; “they can do us no harm, and they may possibly have a message.”

“As you think fit, Captain Bowse,” returned the colonel, who was so pleased with the master’s coolness and bearing, that he no longer refused to give him the usual title,—“I’ve no objection. They can’t eat us; and if they meditate running alongside, they will see we are prepared for them.”

“Put the helm down, my lad, round in the weather after-braces, and lay the main-yard square—brace up the head yards—rouse in the main sheet—ease off the head sheets.”

These orders being executed, and the brig brought to the wind, she was hove to, with her head in the same direction as that of the speronara. That vessel could just be seen to windward, looking dark against the western sky, and far larger than she really was, slowly forging ahead, while a small boat could just be discerned traversing the intervening space.

“Well, as we are to have no fighting, I suppose, I will just go and relieve the anxiety of my little girl,” said the colonel, whose good humour was now in the ascendant.

No sooner did his niece see him than she flew into his arms, and kissed his cheek affectionately—an example Marianna, in the exuberance of her joy at finding there was to be no fighting, was nearly imitating.

“Oh, dear uncle, I am so glad that there is no danger to be encountered. You cannot tell how anxious I have been.”

“Well, missie, since you don’t like the cabin you shall come on deck and see what next takes place; we are going to have some visitors, it appears.” Saying this, he gallantly placed a shawl on her shoulders, and gave his hand to lead her on deck.

While the boat of the speronara was approaching, three or four of the Zodiac’s crew were collected by the foremost gun, watching her progress with no little interest. Two of them were regular salts of the old school, who still delighted in ear-rings and pigtails, though, in compliment to the degenerate taste of the times, they wore the latter ornaments much smaller than they had done in their younger days. They were prime seamen, and fellows who were ready to go down with their colours flying rather than strike to an enemy.

“You have heard tell on the Flying Dutchman, of course, Bill,” said Jem Marline, casting a look to windward at the speronara, and hitching up his trousers, while he squirted a stream of tobacco-juice through the port.

“On course,” answered Bill Rullock, “I haven’t been to sea near thirty years without, messmate.”

“Did you ever cast eyes on the chap, though?” asked Jem.

“Can’t say as how I have,” answered Bill. “But there’s many they say who has, and few who ever lived to tell of it. But what was you thinking on, Jem?”

“Why you see, Bill,” replied his chum, “I don’t altogether like the circumbendibus ways of that ere chap to windward. You see, first in Malta harbour, we falls in with him or one like him, for I don’t say, mind you, that that ere craft is the same which nearly ran foul on us yesterday; then out he goes right ahead of us, and then just as it’s got dark, down he comes again, and wants to send a boat aboard us. Now you see as how that’s the thing I don’t in no manner of ways approve on. If I was our skipper, I would send a round shot right into the boat, sooner than any of his people should step on this deck. That’s just the trick the cursed Dutchman’s up to.”

“No manner o’ doubt about it,” said Bill gravely; “but you know, Jem, they say the Dutchman’s cruising ground is off the Cape, in a full-rigged ship, and I never heard on his coming into these parts.”

“True as gospel, old shipmate, but how should we know that he hasn’t got tired of the Cape, and taken a trip up here?” argued Jem. “And as to the matter of the rig, he may shift his craft according to the sea he’s in. Besides, you know as how if there’s one Flying Dutchman, there may be two, and this fellow may have come to trouble us here, up the straits. Depend on’t, Bill, the less company one keeps with them sort of gentry the better.”

“Very true, Jem, but suppose a chap out of that boat then does come on board, what’s to happen think ye?” asked Bill, in a tone which showed that he in no way doubted his messmate’s account.

“Why I can’t say exactly, because as how I never seed what he does; but from what I’ve heard, I believe he tries to slip a letter like into the skipper’s or some ’un’s hand who’s green enough to take it; and then the chap, who’s no better nor Davy Jones himself, gives a loud laugh, and down goes the ship to the bottom, or else a hurricane is sure to get up and drive her ashore. But here comes that cursed felucca’s boat. I wish we might just let fly at her; it would save mischief, I’ll be sworn.”

“Bear a hand there with a rope for the boat coming alongside,” sung out the captain in a loud voice, which sounded as ominous of evil to the ears of the superstitious crew. “Bring a lantern here to the gangway,” he added. Bowse, with his first mate and Colonel Gauntlett, stood near the gangway, which was lighted up with a lantern to receive the strangers, as a small boat containing in all only four persons, came round under the brig’s stern. They pulled only two oars, and two people were seated in the stern sheet. “Keep an eye to windward there, Larkins, on that felucca,” said the first mate to the second, as he went to his captain’s summons. “I don’t altogether think her cut honest.”

“A mighty fuss about a very small affair, I suspect,” muttered the colonel, as a figure was seen to ascend from the boat up the side of the brig.

The stranger was dressed in the Phrygian cap, and simple garb of a Sicilian mariner. His appearance, as far as it could be judged of by the dim light of the lantern, was anything but prepossessing. A profusion of long, straggling, grizzly locks, once probably of raven hue, which evidently had not felt the barber’s scissors for many a year, concealed the greater part of his face which was still further hidden by a patch over one eye, and a handkerchief bound round his head, while his mouth was surrounded by an enormous pair of moustachios, and a beard of similar character, so that little more than the tip of a red nose, and a rolling fierce eye was visible. As he reached the deck, this handsome personage bowed to the group before him, without speaking, while he glanced his eye round at the crew, who still wore their cutlasses, and at the other weapons which were placed ready for use.

Behind the group I have described, stood several of the crew, among whom were Jem Marline, and his chum Bill Bullock, and if the stranger had been able to read the expression of their countenances, he would certainly have been a bold man, had he not felt some apprehension; for they spoke almost as plainly as words could do, that had they the power, they would, without ceremony, heave him into the sea. There were fear, suspicion, and dislike, strangely blended with the usual bold recklessness which had given a character to their features a sudden emotion could not obliterate. Fortunately, however, the light of the lantern fell in such a way as to throw them, where they stood, into shade.

“What is it you want with us, signor?” said Bowse, in his usual blunt tone, seeing that the other did not speak.

“To carry us all to Davy Jones, if we don’t look sharp,” muttered Jem Marline to his messmate. “The beggar will be handing a letter directly, and then stand by for squall.”

The stranger shook his head, as if not comprehending what was said.

“That’s it,” whispered Jem, in a tone of terror. “He don’t speak. He never does.”

Bowse repeated the question, in the lingua Franca of those seas.

The stranger shook his head.

“He does not understand our lingo,” observed Bowse. “Here, Timmins, you speak a little Italian—just ask this gentleman what he wants aboard here.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the mate coming forward, and asking the question in execrable Italian.

Again the stranger shook his head, as if not comprehending the question, and finding that not much progress was likely to be made at this rate, he turned round, and leaning through the gangway, beckoned his companion to come on deck. As he drew back, another person appeared, dressed precisely in the same manner; but evidently very much younger. A long moustache shaded his mouth, and wild elf-locks concealed the greater portion of his face, and from a patch down one side of his cheek, he looked as if, like his elder companion, he had been engaged in some severe fighting. The light of the lantern, as he reached the deck, seemed particularly to annoy him, and he stood with his eyes cast on the deck, shading them with one of his hands, nor could he meet the glance of any of those surrounding him.

“What do you wish to explain?” said the second stranger in Italian, bowing with a not ungraceful bend, and a touch of his hand to his cap.

“Oh! you can speak, can you? Well, that’s all right,” said Timmins. “And now, if you please, tell us why it is the felucca there was so anxious to speak to us?”

“Si, signor,” answered the younger stranger, very slowly; and in an Italian which was mostly understood, he then explained that the speronara, of which his father was master, had, that afternoon, fallen in with an Austrian man-of-war brig, which had brought her to, and sent a boat on board her. The officers, he said, informed them that the noted Greek pirate Zappa, in his famous brig the Sea Hawk, had lately been heard of not far from the mouth of the Adriatic, and that he had plundered and destroyed several vessels. The Austrian, he said, had given him despatches for the governor of Malta, relative to the subject, as also to the Neapolitan Government, with a reward for carrying them, and had charged them to inform all vessels they should fall in with of what had occurred.

“Then he did not tell you to speak us in particular,” said Timmins.

“Si, signor, he expressly—oh! no—not you in particular—oh, no,” replied the young man.

“Have you nothing further to tell us?” said Timmins. “Because you see, though we are much obliged to you for your information, we are in a hurry to be on our course again, and if you should happen to fall in with the Signor Zappa and his brig the Sea Hawk, just tell him that the Zodiac will give him a warm reception if he attempts to play off any of his tricks upon her.”

“You don’t know the pirate,” exclaimed the young man vehemently, “he—”

“Do you know him?” said Timmins, fixing his eye upon him. The man’s glance quailed before that of the stout sailor.

“Oh no, signor, I don’t know him—I have heard of him though.”

“Oh! is that it?” said the mate, interpreting what he heard to the captain.

“Well, just ask him and his father if they will come down below, and take a glass of something before they shove off,” said Bowse.

A few words were exchanged between the two strangers in a low tone, and there appeared to be some hesitation on the part of the elder; but, at last, they consented, and followed the master into an outer cabin, which he had retained as his own, and where he and his mate messed. A door from it opened into the cabins engaged by the colonel, who, when he saw the strangers, retired also with his niece into their cabin.

As the door between the two stood open, all that took place in one could be heard in the other.

“Let the Italians come in here, Mr Bowse,” said the colonel, from the inner cabin. “I will give them a glass of sherry which they will like better than rum and water, and it will do them more good than their own thin wash.”

When the strangers, who, directed by the signs made by the master, found themselves in the presence of a lady, they stood somewhat abashed, it seemed, and bowed respectfully as they quaffed off the wine offered to them. The bright light which was shed from a lamp hanging from the deck seemed also much to annoy their eyes, long accustomed to darkness, and they kept their faces shaded by their hands during the short time they were in the cabin, so that little or nothing of their feature? could be seen.

For an instant, however, the eyes of the youngest fell on Ada, and, at that moment, there gleamed in them a peculiar expression, which she could not help remarking; but what it meant to say, she was at a loss to comprehend. It was certainly a look of intelligence, as if he expected to be understood; but there was also blended with it an expression of admiration, pity, and regret, which further puzzled her. At all events, she was convinced that, by that look, he intended to convey some meaning, which he dared not otherwise explain.

The strangers remained scarcely a minute below, and respectfully wishing the occupants of the cabin a good evening, they took their leave. The elder went first, and as the second followed, he appeared to stumble at the door. As he did so, he let a folded paper fall from his hand, and, at the same instant, he gave a hurried glance at Ada over his shoulder. Before she had time to tell him of his loss, he had sprung up the companion-ladder. The strangers were quickly in their boat, which, with rapid strokes, pulled back towards the speronara.

“Up with the helm, my lad,” exclaimed the captain, in a hurried tone, to the man at the wheel, as soon as the boat left the side, “haul aft the head sheets—ease off the main sheet; Mr Timmins, we’ll keep her on her right course.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate—shouting as the brig’s head fell off, “square away the head yards, my men; come, be sharp about it.”

“And what do you think, Timmins, of those fellows’ account of the Austrian brig and the pirate? It seems somewhat strange, doesn’t it?” said Bowse, as he walked the deck with his first officer as soon as they had put the ship on her former course. The speronara still lay hove to right astern, her outline every instant becoming more indistinct as the brig ran from her.

“Why, sir,” replied the mate, in return to his commander’s question. “I don’t think any good of it, and that’s a fact; but if you ask if I believe it, I don’t do that neither. These Italians are much given to lying at best, as far as my experience goes; and I believe we have just heard a pretty round lie, though I don’t say there was no truth altogether in it. To my mind, if there is such a chap as that Zap—what do they call him, the pirate—it is much more likely that he is on board that felucca, or perhaps he was one of the fellows who came on board us, than that an Austrian man-of-war brig should have sent her cruising about to give notice of him to English merchantmen.”

“Well, Timmins, that’s my view of the case,” replied Bowse; “I think the Austrian brig would have stood on to Malta herself, seeing she must have been almost in sight of it, instead of sending a craft of that sort with a message. Besides, what business had the speronara there at all?”

“There’s something very suspicious about it, at all events,” returned the mate. “Now, though I don’t often listen to what the men say, Captain Bowse, and they generally get hold of the wrong end of a thing, yet they have often an inkling of what’s right and wrong. Well, sir, they’ve already got all sorts of stories aboard here, about the Flying Dutchman and such-like stuff, and they don’t at all like the look of things. When you were below with the strangers, they talked of throwing them crop and heels overboard and letting them swim to their boats, and I believe if you hadn’t come up with them on deck yourself, they would not have let me prevent them.”

“I believe the people are right, Timmins, in thinking that the two fellows who stood on our deck lately are knaves, but it wouldn’t have done to heave them overboard,” said the master. “However, they are not likely to do us any harm if we keep a bright look-out, and should any rascally pirate attack us, I’m sure all on board here will stand to their guns like men.”

Chapter Nine.

One of the most valuable qualities which a person can possess, is presence of mind. Our safety and our life, and the safety and the lives of others, frequently depend on it. Some people are endued with it naturally—they never act without thought, and they in a moment perceive what is best to be said or done. Others act from impulse, without consideration, and though they may now and then do what is right by chance, they are more likely to do what is wrong; like the Irish seaman, who, when ordered to cut a rope to which he was hanging, cut above his head instead of below his feet, and came down by the run. I believe that it is very possible to attain a presence of mind which one does not naturally possess, by constant practice and attention, though I suspect the task would be found very difficult.

When Ada saw the paper drop from the hand of the young Italian mariner, her first impulse was to call out to him in order to restore it, but the look he gave as he left the cabin, convinced her that he had done so purposely, and feeling that if so, it was certainly of importance, as she did possess the quality of which I was speaking, she sprang forward to secure it. The paper she saw, as she returned to her seat, was the blank leaf of a book, torn hastily out, and folded up in the form of a note; but on opening it there appeared to be nothing written on it.

“Why, what is that you have got there, Ada?” said Colonel Gauntlett.

“Oh, I fancied that I had discovered an important document, and, lo and behold, it turns out to be merely a blank paper,” returned the young lady laughing. “One cannot help conjuring up some romantic incident in these lovely seas, and forgetting that in these matter-of-fact days nothing of the sort is likely to occur; but I believe after all there are some pencil marks on the paper.” She held it up closer to the light, and as she did so, her countenance grew graver. There were a few lines written in pencil, but so faint that it was not surprising she should, at first, not have remarked them. They were in Italian, and in the peculiar handwriting of the people of that nation.

“Trust not to appearances,” they said. “Avoid the polacca brig. The story told you is false.” At the bottom were the words, “An unwilling actor,” as if intended for a signature. There was nothing more to show by whom they were written, though there could be but little doubt that they were so by the young mariner, or by somebody who had employed him. Ada translated them to her uncle, who was at a loss to comprehend their meaning, further than that they contradicted the story they had just heard from the lips of the very man who dropped the paper. He thought over them for some time, and then summoned Mitchell, whom he directed to request the captain’s presence.

Ada was again called to translate them, when the captain appeared.

“And what do you think of them?” the colonel asked him.

“Why, sir, that they serve to confirm my suspicions, and those of my mate, that the felucca is not honest, and that there is a good deal of mystification going on somewhere or other.”

“Then you don’t believe the story of the Austrian brig having sent the felucca to us?” asked the colonel.

“Not a bit of it, sir; and my firm opinion is, that if the rascals had found us unprepared, she would have been alongside us before now. She had more people on board her than when she left Malta harbour this morning, though where they came from I can’t say; and I’m positive as to the craft, though the young man denied having been there for many a day. I can’t make it out.”

“But what does this paper mean about the polacca brig, think you?” asked the colonel.

Bowse thought for some time.

“I have it, sir!” he at length exclaimed, clapping his hand to his head. “That’s the brig those fellows wanted to make us suppose an Austrian man-of-war. If they had taken less trouble we might have been taken in.”

“And what do you intend to do, Captain Bowse? Remember I am under your orders, in the way of fighting on board here. If you ever come on shore when there’s anything doing, I will show you how we manage things there.”

The colonel spoke in a good-natured lively tone, as he always did the moment there appeared a prospect of fighting.

“Keep our guns loaded, and trust to Providence, sir,” replied the captain.

“Please, sir, Mr Timmins begs you will just step on deck for a moment,” said the steward, putting his head in at the door, and looking at the master.

Bowse jumped up and hurried on deck, for he knew the mate would not have sent for him except on a matter of importance.

“Here, Sims, what’s the matter now?” said the colonel, calling the steward from the pantry; “any more visitors?”

“O Lord, no, sir, I hope not,” answered Sims, coming forward and showing by the pallor of his countenance, and his trembling hand, that whatever the matter was it had alarmed him.

“What is the matter, then?” exclaimed the colonel. “Out with it.”

“Why, sir, they say on deck, that the Flying Dutchman is following us, and that we shall be sure to drive ashore or go to the bottom,” answered the steward, almost crying with alarm.

“Fiddle-de-dee, with the Flying Dutchman. What arrant fools the men must be to think of such nonsense,” exclaimed the colonel, in a contemptuous tone. “Come, Ada, let us go on deck before you return to your cabin, and we will have a look at the phantom.”

Bowse found his mate standing on the poop, looking intently over the weather quarter. He was so absorbed in what he saw, that he was not aware of his commander’s presence till the latter touched his arm.

“I thought it was better to send for you, Captain Bowse, for as I’m a living man there is that cursed felucca, instead of going to Malta, following at our heels, and coming up with us hand over hand.”

As the mate spoke, he pointed in the direction towards which he had been looking. Bowse, having just left the bright light of the cabin, could not at first discern anything; but gradually he perceived the dark shadowy outline of the speronara’s sails brought into one, and like a phantom gliding over the waves. There could be no manner of doubt that it was she, but the question in his mind was how to treat her. Though he might be almost certain that her intentions were evil, he could not fire into her, till there was no doubt of the matter, and she might be alongside, when the advantage he possessed in having heavy guns, would be much diminished, if not altogether lost. He might, possibly, by making more sail, get away from the speronara; but that he doubted, and the brig was already under as much canvas, as on ordinary occasions, it was considered prudent to carry at night. He remembered that he was not on board a man-of-war, when sail could be shortened, without calling the watch below. Yet sail must be made, as it would never do to have that little speronara buzzing about them all night without being allowed to punish her, or trying to get away from her.

“We must see if we can’t walk away from that fellow, Mr Timmins. Turn the hands up,” he at length exclaimed, after taking a turn on the poop. “Set the royals. Get the fore topmast, and lower studding-sails on her.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate, going somewhat slowly to obey the order. “Little good I’m afraid it will do us, though.”

The crew, though expecting to be roused up, for the watch on deck had let those below know of the reappearance of the suspicious stranger, went about their duty without their usual alacrity.

“One might just as well try to run clear of a hurricane as to beat that chap out there either on wind or off it,” muttered Jem Marlin, as he went aloft to rig out the studding-sail booms. “All the canvas in store in Portsmouth Dockyard wouldn’t carry us away from him, if he wanted to catch us.”

The additional sail, however, was set, and as the wind had fallen light, it was only what was required to urge her at her previous speed through the water. While sail was being made the master was joined on the poop by his passengers.

“Well,” said the colonel, laughing. “I hear we have the honour of the company of the Flying Dutchman again.”

“Dutchman or not, sir,” replied the master, “that little speronara has taken it into her head to dodge us; and, shame on the brig, which ought to do better, she seems likely to come up with us.”

“Well let her—we are a match for her, I should think; and my little girl here seems rather anxious for a brush. She puts to shame that steward of yours, who came skulking into the cabin just now as white as a sheet, declaring we were going to be boarded by ghosts or hobgoblins of some sort.”

“You must humour seamen, or you can never manage them, sir,” replied the master. “They as firmly believe in the Flying Dutchman as they do in the Gospel; and you can’t persuade them that he is not to be met with. It would never do for me to go and tell them that they are cowards and credulous fools; and I well know that the same men would face three times their number with cutlasses in their hands.”

“And I am sure, uncle, any one might be excused for mistaking that dark object astern of us for a phantom wandering over the face of the deep,” said Ada. “Even now, as I look at it, I can scarcely persuade myself that it is the light, graceful speronara we saw during daylight; and am far more inclined to believe it a being from another world—the ghost of one of the old sea-kings one reads of—or, perhaps, a malign spirit stalking over the deep in search of prey.

“Well, miss, the same sort of idea occurs to the mind of the uneducated seaman as he keeps his silent watch at night on the mast-head or forecastle; and when he sees through the darkness tall ships slowly gliding noiselessly over the waters, and when no sign or signal is exchanged, there is nothing to show him to the contrary. I don’t mean to say that there are many seamen that would mistake a ship for a ghost, because they would not be worth their salt if they did; but a few may have done so, and have told stories about them which have found plenty of people to believe them, and tell them again.”

“That’s the way all the wonderful nonsense one hears spoken of has got circulated,” said the colonel. “But as I do not see much to interest us in looking at that vessel astern—and there is nothing else visible—I shall go to bed; and you, Miss Ada, must go to your cabin, so take Marianna off with you.”

Ada begged to remain a little longer; and, for a short time more, she was allowed to enjoy the fresh air on deck. The night was very fine. The sky was perfectly clear, and the stars shone brightly forth—but there was no moon; and, consequently, her range of vision was much circumscribed. The sea was covered with light waves, which, as they rose and fell, scarcely had any effect in giving motion to the vessel. The hue of the ocean was, in some places, almost of an inky blackness; in others it was lighted up with phosphorescent flashes, which, seen amid the surrounding darkness, seemed as brilliant as if composed of real fire—their reflection being caught by the light foam which curled on the summits of the dancing waves—while, on either side of the vessel, a mass of scintillating sparks flew off as if her stern were ploughing up a vast field with a sub-layer of gold-dust; and astern appeared a line of yet brighter lights composed of thousands of whirling eddies, which grew smaller and smaller, and less distinct, till lost in the distance. After watching the sea for some time, as Ada looked up at the rigging, and at the masts and wide-spread sails above her head, they no longer looked as in the day-time, like white wings extended to urge on the vessel in her course; but, increased to many times their former size, they seemed like a black pyramid to tower upwards to the sky till lost in the distance.

Ada was not long permitted to enjoy this, to her, unusual scene, before her uncle again summoned her below; and this time she was obliged to obey. He, however, had given strict orders to be called should anything occur.

The wind, as the night drew on, grew considerably lighter, and this gave a decided advantage to the speronara, which rapidly came up abeam. Neither Bowse nor his mates had turned in, and even the crew remained on deck, watching the stranger with jealous eyes. It appeared, as they watched her, that she was steering a course a point more to windward than they were, for, as she came up, her distance from them was far greater than they had expected, and it was soon evident that she had no intention of boarding them. Bowse breathed more freely, and looked at the studding-sails. He knew that all hands were weary as he was himself.

“Take in the studding-sails, Timmins, and furl top-gallant sails. The Zodiac can walk along fast enough without them, and we must not have the people roused out again, if we can help it.”

The order was obeyed with alacrity, and the brig was soon brought under the snug canvas she usually carried at night.

“I told ye, Bill, there was no manner nor use setting them studsails nor to’gallant sails neither,” said Jem Marlin, as, his watch on deck being over, he turned into his hammock at midnight. “Lord bless ye, nothing could have made us run away from her if we’d tried ever so much. But to my mind, it’s having that young lady aboard kept him off. Depend on’t there’s nothing like having a beautiful, virtuous young woman on your side, to keep Davy Jones and all his devils at long range. The fact is, they’re afraid of her, she’s so different to theirselves. While we, Bill, you knows, is sarcumstantially too much—”

What Jem might have said further, I know not, for his head touched the end of his hammock, and he was fast asleep.

The grey light of the early dawn was just stealing across the sea, and a few faint streaks of reddish tinge showed the eastern part of the sky, when the master of the Zodiac came on deck. His ship was still proudly holding her course unharmed, amid the waste of waters, and with that fresh reviving hour when all the events of the new-born day are yet to occur, the indistinct causes of the alarm of the previous night appeared to have vanished, and even the superstitious seamen could venture to smile at their previous terrors. The wind had fallen considerably, and there was no longer sufficient to crest the tops of the sluggish leaden-like waves which had not yet lost the hue thrown over them by the mantle of night. Gradually, however, the eastern sky assumed a warmer, and yet a warmer tinge, increasing till an orange glow was cast across their surface, the sombre colour gave place to a brighter purple, and as the sun bursting from his ocean confines, took his rapid course upwards, they caught the intense blue of the sky above them, on their changeful bosoms.

The first thing which a sailor does on coming on deck, is to cast his eye aloft, to see what sails are set, and how they stand, and then to sweep it round the horizon; his next is to go aft to the binnacle, and to take a look at the compass.

Bowse quickly satisfied himself that the sails were properly trimmed, and that the ship was steering on her right course; but the survey he took of the horizon did not so well please him. There was in the first place, some odd-shaped clouds floating along to the south and south-east, just above the sea, which he did not like, and rather to the northward of east, just on the horizon, were two sails, the appearance of which he liked still less. He looked at them attentively, then he rubbed his eyes, and looked at them again; but neither operation satisfied him. He then went to the companion, and taking his spyglass, surveyed the two objects for some time. A landsman would not have remarked them; indeed, he would scarcely have perceived the faint, irregularly shaped dots they appeared, just suspended, as it were, above the horizon; but the well-practised eye of the old sailor could not only discover what were their peculiar rigs, but even which way they were steering. He soon determined, to the satisfaction of his own mind, that the northern-most of the two, and the nearest, was a lateen-rigged craft, standing, close hauled, to the northward, across his course, and that the other was a square-rigged vessel, probably a brig, under easy sail, standing in the same direction that he was. Now, although under ordinary circumstances, he would not have given the two vessels a second thought; yet coupling the events of the previous day, and the mysterious warning they had received, he could not help thinking that one was the speronara; the other the brig with which she was in communication, and which she wished to persuade them was an Austrian man-of-war. Bowse took two or three turns on deck, every now and then casting a glance eastward, expressive of no very amiable feelings.

“Oh! confound the rascals,” he muttered, stamping his foot on the deck. “If it wasn’t for that sweet young lady below, who should not have her eyes shocked with scenes of blood and fighting, I wish they would both of them come on at once, and have it out, if they want to rob us, instead of sneaking round, and bothering us in this way. If I do get alongside them, I will give it them; but we shall have something else to do before that, I suspect.”

He took another turn or so, and then stopped, looking to the northward. He had, at first, intended again setting all the sail the ship would carry before the wind; but on more critically examining the clouds in that quarter, he determined, for the present, to make no change. The clouds, he observed, were increasing in number, and banking up thickly together, and the first freshness of the morning had given way to an oppressive and heavy air, which seemed to weigh down their spirits. The wind, which had hitherto been so steady, though varying in strength, now dropped considerably, and began to veer about, so as to require the hands constantly at the braces. Bowse fully felt the responsibility of the command intrusted to him, and that the safety and lives of his crew and passengers would depend very much on his forethought, judgment, and coolness. He was glad to be alone, to think over what was best to be done under the circumstances; that a gale was brewing, he felt pretty sure, and that it would come from the southward and east; but whether it would be of long duration, or whether one of those sudden gusts, those short-lived tempests, which occur frequently during summer in the Mediterranean, he could not determine, though he was inclined to think it would be the latter; then, that some vessel, with no good motive, was looking out for the brig, he felt almost certain; though his pride would not allow him to suppose that any one, knowing the armament of the Zodiac, would attempt to attack her openly. At the same time this was an additional object of anxiety, and would require caution.

The watch, with bare feet, and trousers tucked up to their knees, with buckets in their hands, were employed in washing decks, and as they splashed the water along the planks, and up the inner sides of the bulwarks, they laughed and jested in very buoyancy of spirits; and played off on each other various little practical jokes, which the presence of the second mate, who superintended and aided in the operation, alone prevented from being of a more boisterous character.

The poop deck, where the captain was walking, had already been washed, and the people were now in the waist, and were giving a few more vehement splashes before moving further forward, when Colonel Gauntlett, in his forage cap, a richly flowered dressing-gown, and Turkish slippers, made his appearance at the companion hatch, very nearly receiving a copious shower-bath from the contents of a bucket dashed across the deck at that moment.

“Hillo, my men,” he exclaimed, in no very amiable tone. “I thought the ship was wrecked, with all that splashing and scrubbing. One would suppose that the vessel was as dirty as those Augean stables that fellow Hercules had to clean, by all the water you use.”

“It’s cheaper than pipe-clay, and cleaner, for it’s to be had for the taking, and don’t leave any dust,” muttered Jem Marlin, who was the offender.

“It may be cheap, but it makes a confounded noise, and we have enough of it outside, as it is,” answered the colonel, not hearing the reference to pipe-clay. “So I beg in future you won’t let quite so much of it play round my head in a morning.”

This was said, as he was standing with his body half-way down the companion ladder.

He then observed the master on the poop.

“Well, Mr Bowse, anything more of our friend, the Flying Dutchman?” he asked in a jocose tone.

“If you will step up here, I will tell you more about her, sir,” answered the master; and, thus summoned, the colonel picked his way over the wet deck to where he was standing. “I think it right, Colonel Gauntlett, to tell you, that you may be prepared, that we are going to have a blow of it, shortly; and I want you to look at that brig out there. What do you make of her?”

“Bless me, nothing—I can’t even see her,” said the colonel. “Do you mean to tell me that you can distinguish what that little black mark is out there?”

“Yes, Colonel Gauntlett, I am certain that yonder object is either a brig or a ship, under her tops’ils, standing to the eastward, and that the other, you see, to the north of her, is a felucca or speronara. Now, sir, if there is any credit to be placed in the letter we got last night, and in the account the two Sicilians who came on board gave us, and in the warnings we got at Malta, we are likely to fall in with a brig which is no better than she should be, and which is in connection, some way or other, with that same speronara. Now, there is a brig on the same course that we are; yet, for some reason or other, in no hurry to make a passage: perhaps, she is waiting for us to come up with her. Then there floats just such another craft as the speronara, supposing it is not she herself: so, if we are to fall in with a pirate, I cannot help thinking that brig ahead is the vessel. That is one thing I have to mention to you, sir; and please to look to the south’ard and east’ard. The black bank gathering there shows that we shall have a very different time of it to what we had yesterday.”

“Well, Mr Bowse, what would you have us do?” exclaimed the colonel, with rather a puzzled look. “Do you wish us to put back?”

“No, Colonel Gauntlett, I have been brought up in a school where it is not the custom to run from any danger men can meet with, when there is a chance of overcoming it,” replied the master, with not a little dignity in his tone. “But I thought it my duty to inform you, sir, of what, in my opinion, is likely to occur; and, please Providence, we’ll do our best to meet and overcome any dangers which may appear.”

“I like your spirit, Bowse, and cordially agree with you,” exclaimed the colonel, taking his hand. “Those black clouds may, after all, only indicate a squall; and, as for the pirate, if one falls foul of us I think we snail have no difficulty in handling him.”

“I won’t deceive you, sir; if you had been as much at sea as I have you would know that those clouds foretell a gale; but such a gale as I hope the Zodiac will weather without straining a timber; and, for the pirate, we must keep our weather eye open, that he does not take us unawares. Perhaps, Providence tends the storm to keep us clear of the pirate. My advice to you, sir, is to warn the young lady and her maid of what is going to happen, and to get everything stowed in your cabin. I’m just going to turn the hands up to shorten sail.”

“I wish I could be of as much use there as I hope to be alongside an enemy; but as I cannot, I will go where I can do some good.” Saying which, the colonel returned to the cabin.

“All hands on deck to shorten sail,” sang out the master; and ere a minute had passed, the senior mate and the watch below were on deck.

The fore-clue-garnets were manned, and the foresail was quickly clewed up, and the men flying aloft, it was securely furled. The topsails were next lowered on the caps, whence they bulged out like big balloons, about to fly away with the masts.

“Man the fore and main tops’il clew-lines and bunt-lines,” sung out Bowse, laying his hand on the main. “Away with it, my lads.”

The topsails were clewed up, the reef tackles hauled out, and the hands aloft lying in, in as short a time almost as it has taken to describe. Both sails were close reefed, and again sheeted home. The fore and aft mainsail was then close reefed, the jib hauled down, and fore-topmast staysail hoisted; the royal yards were also sent down, and the brig then, under her smallest working canvas, was prepared to meet the tempest, in whatever way, or from whatever quarter it might come.

Chapter Ten.

There is a strong similarity between the aspects of physical nature and those exhibited by man, as an individual, and in the aggregate.

Before any outbreak or great commotion, from the disorganised condition of the moral body, there are observed signs of discontent, murmurings, and complaints, fierce looks and threats—these, at length, disappear, and people seem to be seized with a sudden apathy and indifference, which is as quickly cast aside, and all is rage, havoc, and confusion. So, likewise, before the coming of a storm, clouds are seen gathering in the horizon, murmurs and growls are heard, then the wind dies away, and a perfect calm, for a short time, succeeds the fury of the tempest, and, in both instances, the more perfect the calm, the more is the subsequent outbreak to be feared.

The wind had gradually died away, till the sea became smooth as glass, and rose and fell in gentle undulations, which made the vessel roll from side to side, and caused every timber and bulkhead to groan and creak.

It appeared not to have been absolutely necessary to shorten sail so soon; but as there was a dead calm, this was of no consequence, and the most prudent seamanship; as it is, at times, difficult to judge the period a squall my take to travel up to a ship.

The brig still lay with her head a little to the northward of east, and her yards were now braced up on the starboard tack to meet the wind which gave signs of coming from the southward and east. Every preparation was made, and all hands were at their stations, ready to execute any of their commander’s orders which the emergency might require, when Ada, wearied of remaining in the hot cabin, came on deck, followed by her little maid; and before Bowse, who was looking to the southward, perceived them, they had gained the poop.

“This is no place for you, miss, I am sure,” he exclaimed, on seeing her. “You do not know what risk you run. Oh, go below again—go below.”

“Why, what is the matter, Captain Bowse?” she replied, laughing, and looking at the calm sea. “My uncle told me that we were to have a tremendous storm, and I do not feel a breath of wind.”

“And so we shall, miss,” he exclaimed. “You have no time to go below now without assistance. Hold on by these cleats, and tell your maid to do so too. Here it comes!”

As he spoke, the mass of clouds which had been collecting to the eastward, and gradually approaching, now came driving up bodily across the sky at a rapid rate—the dark waters below it, hitherto so smooth and calm, presented a sheet of snow-white foam, hissing and bubbling as if it were turned up and impelled onward by some gigantic besom. Ada, as she gazed with feelings of mingled terror and admiration, saw it in one long line near the brig—it reached her side—the white foam flew upwards, curling over them, and the wind, at the same instant, striking her canvas, her tall masts seemed to bend to its fury, and then pressed downwards, the hull heeled over till the lee bulwarks were nearly submerged.

Two strong hands were at the helm, ready to turn it a-weather, should it be necessary to scud; but, in an instant, the gallant ship rose again—and then, like a courser starting for the race, she shot forward through the boiling cauldron, heeling over till her guns were in the water, but still bravely carrying her canvas. Not a rope nor a lanyard had started—not a seam in her topsails had given, and away she flew on her proper course. The veteran master stood on the poop watching for any change or increase of wind. The safety of the ship depended on his promptitude. The sea was rapidly rising; and this was soon perceptible by her uneasy motion, as she rose and fell to each receding wave, the last always appearing of greater height than its predecessors. Any moment it might be necessary either to keep her away, and, furling everything, to let her drive before the gale under bare poles, or to put her helm down and heave her to, thus to let her lie forging slowly a-head, till the gale had abated. A few minutes only had passed since the brig first felt the force of the gale, and the whole sky was now a mass of dark clouds, and the sea a sheet of white driving foam—out of which lofty waves seemed to lift their angry heads, and to urge each other into increased violence. The wind howled and whistled through the rigging; the spars creaked and bent; and the whole hull groaned with the exertion as she tore onwards. Ada, who had, when the ship heeled over, held firmly on to the weather bulwarks, gazed at the scene, to her, so novel and grand, with intense pleasure, from which fear was soon banished; and little Marianna, having followed the example of her mistress in securing herself, imitated her also in her courage. Indeed, as yet, except that they were rather wetted by the foam which came on board, when the squall first struck the brig, there was no object of terror to alarm them. The moment Bowse could withdraw his attention from the care of the ship, he hurried to assist Ada and her attendant, and to place them on the seat which surrounded the cabin skylight, where she might enjoy the magnificent spectacle of the tumultuous ocean, without the fatigue of standing, and having to hold on by the bulwarks. A cloak was thrown round her feet, and as she reclined back in the seat, she declared she felt like an ocean queen in her barge of state, reviewing her watery realms. The colonel’s appearance on deck, supported by his man Mitchell, whose usual cadaverous countenance looked still more ghastly, drove away the romance in which she was beginning to indulge. He scolded her roundly for venturing on deck without his escort, and insisted on her promising never to do so again, on pain of being compelled instantly to go below.

The mate had returned to his post. The brig behaved beautifully; though she heeled over to the force of the wind, she rose buoyantly to each mountain wave, which reared its crest before her, and though the light spray which the short seas so quickly aroused would fly high above her bows, and come in showers down on her forecastle, little of it found its way aft, and not a sea which struck her came over her bulwarks. Bowse looked delighted and proud at the behaviour of his brig, as he pointed out her good qualities to his passengers.

“There’s many a craft, which is looked upon as a clipper, won’t behave as she does, that I’ll answer for,” he observed.

He was going on with his panegyrics when his voice became silent, and his eye riveted ahead. The atmosphere, which, when the gale first came on, had been somewhat thick, had now partially cleared, and revealed to him, at the distance of little more than a mile, a large polacca brig hove to on the starboard tack. He instantly summoned his first officer to his side, and pointed out the stranger to him.

“What think you of that fellow, Timmins?” he asked.

The mate took a look at the stranger through his glass.

“A fine polacca brig, sir, as one can see with half an eye,” he answered deliberately; “but more of her I cannot say, as she shows no colours. We must keep away a little though, sir, or we shall be right down upon her.”

“We should—starboard the helm a point my lads,” exclaimed the master. “Steady, that will take us clear, and we shall be near enough to have a look at him. Ah! there goes some buntin’ aloft. What colours are they, Timmins?”

“The Austrian ensign, sir,” replied the mate. “A black eagle on a white ground, and there flies a pennant at his mast head.”

“That’s extraordinary indeed,” exclaimed the master. “Hoist the ensign there,” he shouted. “Austrian or devil, we’ll show him that we are not ashamed of our flag, and will not strike it either in a hurry. Come here, Timmins, we mustn’t frighten the young lady by what we say. You know the paper dropped on board here last night; now it’s my opinion that that’s the very brig it speaks about, and the one the felucca’s two men tried to persuade us was an Austrian man-of-war. To my eye, she looks fifty times more like a Greek than an Austrian, for all that her colours say. Well, what’s your opinion that we ought to do?”

“With respect to her being a Greek, I think she is,” answered the mate. “And if she’s a pirate, we ought to do our best to stand clear of her, seeing that we were commissioned to carry merchandise, and not to look after such gentry; but if she comes after us, and we can’t get clear of her, that alters the case, sir, and we must stand to our guns and fight her.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, Timmins,” answered the master, laying his hand on the mate’s arm.

“Turn the hands up, my good fellow, and let them go to quarters.” (The people were at their breakfast.) “We will not fire the first shot; but if she attacks us, we will give it them as well as we can. One satisfaction is, that they cannot board us while the gale lasts.” While the mate flew forward to execute the orders, Bowse approached his passengers, and, pointing out the stranger to them, to which they were now rapidly drawing near, told them his suspicions as to her character, and advised them to go below.

“But do you think he will fire into us?” inquired the colonel.

“He would gain little by so doing, while the gale lasts,” replied Bowse, “and he might get injured in return, as he probably knows that we have guns on board.”

“There you see, Ada, there is little chance of any of us being hurt, but there is a possibility—so you must go below again.”

This the colonel said in a positive tone, and his niece was obliged to comply.

“Oh, how I wish Captain Fleetwood was here in the Ione,” she thought, as she quitted the deck. “No pirate would dare to molest us.”

The stranger was hove to, under her fore-topsail, and appeared to be making what seamen call very fine weather of it. The Zodiac came down scarcely a cable’s length from her quarter, but the stranger gave no sign of any intention of accompanying her. Very few seamen appeared on her deck, and two or three officers only, whose uniform, seen through the glass, was evidently that of Austria. One of them, who, from his wearing an epaulette on either shoulder, Bowse thought must be the captain, leaped up on the taffrail, and waved his hat to them, while another, in the lingua franca, sung out through a speaking trumpet—

“Heave to, and we will keep your company.”

“I’ll see you damned first, my fine fellow,” answered the master, who had been attentively surveying them through his glass. “I wish I was as certain of heaven as I am that the fellow who waved to us is the same who came on board when in Malta harbour. I know his face, spite of his changed dress.”

“I don’t think he’s unlike, except that he didn’t look so tall quite as the Greek you mean,” observed the mate. “However, as they did not fire at us, and don’t seem inclined to keep company with us either, I suppose they are after other and surer game.”

The Zodiac had by this time left the stranger far astern, and numberless were the surmises of the crew as to what she was and what she was about. All agreed in pronouncing her a Greek-built craft. She was a large vessel, too, and well armed, if all the ports which showed on a side had guns to them; and she was, probably, as are most of the Greek vessels of that class, very fast. It is odd that they did not, however, regard her with half the suspicion that they did the little speronara, which could scarcely have harmed them, by mortal means, if she had tried.

The Zodiac had left the polacca brig about eight or ten miles astern, and her topsails could just be seen rising and falling above the boiling cauldron of waters which intervened, as she remounted the seas or sunk into the trough between them.

The ship had also by this time assumed her usual peaceful appearance; the shot and powder had been returned below, the guns were run in and secured, the small arms had been replaced in their racks, and the colonel had withdrawn the charges of his pistols, and sent Mitchell with them to his cabin.

“Well, I suppose as soon as this tornado blows over, we shall have a tranquil time of it, and hear no more of your Flying Dutchman and bloody pirates,” he observed to the master, as he held on the weather bulwarks. “I did not bargain for all this sort of work, I can tell you, when I refused a passage in a king’s ship in order that I might avoid the society of those young jackanapes of naval officers, and save my little girl from being exposed to their interested assiduities.”

“Can’t say what may happen to us,” returned Bowse, who was a great stickler for the honour of the navy, and did not at all relish the colonel’s observations. “I’ve done my best to please you, and I’m sure the officers of any of his Majesty’s ships would have done the same. I’ve belonged myself to the service, and have held the king’s warrant, and I have had as good opportunities of judging of the character of a very large number of officers as any in the same station, and I must say, sir, in justice to them, though with all respect to you, Colonel Gauntlett, that a less interested and less money-loving set of men than they are, are not to be found in any profession.”

“Well, well, Mr Bowse,” answered the colonel, seeing by the frown on the master’s good-natured countenance that he was in earnest, “I did not want to hear a defence of the navy, but I should like to have your opinion as to when there is a probability of our enjoying a little quiet again, and whether we are likely to be molested by these reputed pirates after all.”

“I do not think, by the looks of it, that the gale will last as long as I at first supposed,” said the master, at once appeased. “As for the matter of the pirates, no man can answer; I’m sure I can’t.”

“Well, but what do you think, Mr Timmins?” said the colonel, turning to the mate.

Now, although the officer would not have ventured to give an opinion in opposition to his superior, yet, as Bowse had not expressed one, he felt himself at liberty to pronounce his judgment.

“Why, sir—looking at the state of the case on both sides—the long and short of it is, in my opinion, that there has been a bit of free-trading going on with some of the Liverpool merchantmen, which isn’t at all unusual; and that those chaps who came about us mistook us for one of their friends; and then, when they found their mistake, wanted to bung up our eyes with a cock and a bull story about pirates. That’s what I think about it. You see that brig, whether Austrian or not, was looking out for some one else.”

“Was she, though?” exclaimed the master, with sudden animation. “I think not; for, by Heavens, here she comes.”

All those who heard the exclamation turned their eyes over the taffrail.

Just astern was the polacca brig—her head had paid off, and, with a reef shaken out of each of her topsails, she was seen heeling over to the gale, and tearing away through the foaming waves in chase of them.

The master, whose suspicions as to the honesty of her character had never been removed, now no longer hesitated to declare that he believed her to be the very pirate of whom he had been warned. He felt that he was now called on to decide what course it would be wisest to pursue. To avoid her by outsailing her, he knew to be hopeless—except that, by carrying on sail to the very last, he might induce her to do the same, till, perhaps, she might carry away her masts or spars, and the victory might remain with the stoutest and best-found ship. His next resource was the hope of crippling her with his guns, as she drew near, and thus preventing her from pursuing, while he escaped; and if both means failed, he trusted that Providence would give the victory to British courage and seamanship, should she attempt to engage him alongside. He explained his intentions to his officers and Colonel Gauntlett, who fully agreed with him, and, acting on the first plan he proposed trying, he immediately ordered a reef to be shaken out of the topsails. The men flew aloft obedient to the order—the reefs were quickly shaken out, and the yards again hoisted up.

Bowse watched with anxiety to see how the brig bore the additional canvas. A few minutes’ trial convinced him that she might even carry more without much risk. If any difference was perceptible, it was that the crests of the seas she met broke in thicker showers of spray over her bows; but she did not seem to heel over to it more than before.

The crew, called on deck to make sail, at once divined, by seeing the stranger in their wake, the reason of it, and flew with alacrity to their duty. They were all ready to fight, if necessary; they would rather have been chasing a vessel which they might hope to make their prize; but they were in no way indifferent to the excitement of endeavouring to outsail another craft, even though they might have been accused of being employed in the inglorious business of running away.

“Bless the little beauty, she goes along nicely through it, don’t she, old ship,” said Jem Marlin to his chum. “Them outlandish mounseers astern there will be clever if they comes up to us.”

All hands remained on the deck, for they had not been piped below again.

Bowse, every now and then, gave a scrutinising glance astern at the stranger; but it was impossible to determine whether there was any difference in their relative distance.

The two brigs were now under the same canvas, for the stranger had not shaken out a second reef in the topsails, when the Zodiac shook out the first.

The crew stood at their station ready to obey the next order.

“She’ll bear the fore-sail on her, Mr Timmins, if we close reef it,” said Bowse; “send some hands up and loose it, and hook on reef-burtons ready for reefing.”

As soon as the sail was let fall it flew out in thundering claps, as if it would fly away from the yard, and there was some danger of carrying it away or springing it, but steady hands were there, and the clew garnets being eased down, the reef-burtons hauled out, the ear-rings were soon secured, and the points tied; the lee clew garnet was then eased off, and the sheet steadied aft. The tack was roused down, another pull had of the sheet, and the bowline hauled taut, the weather-lift and brace being hauled taut, the sail stood like a board.

With this sail she carried too much lee helm, and it was difficult work for the helmsman to lift her, so as to let her rise over the seas, which now came one after the other in quick succession, rushing up her bows, and threatening to curl bodily over her bulwarks.

“Now, my lads, aft here, and shake a reef out of the fore-and-aft mainsail.”

Led by the mate, the men sprung aft, the points were soon cast off, and the reef-pendant eased off. The throat and peak halyards were manned, the main-sheet was slightly eased off, and the sail, thus enlarged, was hoisted to the mast. The instant effect was to make her carry a weather-helm, and great care was now required to prevent her flying up into the wind, and being taken aback; a most perilous position to be placed in under the present circumstances.

To prevent this, the fore-stay-sail was hoisted. As the master watched the effect of all the canvas he had packed on the brig, he saw clearly that she would not bear another stitch; indeed, she had already very much more set than under any but the most extraordinary circumstances he would have ventured to carry. He, however, felt that he could do more with her than could any stranger. He knew that every timber and plank in her was sound, every spar had been well proved, and the canvas was all new, and every inch of rigging about her he or his mate had seen fitted and turned in. He knew, indeed, that all was good, and it was this feeling, with a right confidence in his own knowledge and judgment, which gave him courage on this trying occasion.

Onward the brig tore through the foaming waves, her lee-scuppers completely under water. Now a dark sea would appear right a-head, seemingly about to overwhelm her, but buoyantly her bow would rise to it, the foam on its summit alone sweeping over her; then another would come of less height, and, as if disdaining to surmount it, she would cleave her way through it, while her decks were deluged as a punishment for her audacity. Nearly everything on deck had been properly secured, and such trifling articles as were not, were soon washed into the lee-scuppers or overboard. The crew, driven from forward, were huddled together close to the break of the poop, under shelter of the weather-bulwark, while Bowse and the first mate stood at their old post.

“It’s as much as she’ll carry,” said Timmins.

He thought it was a great deal too much, but did not like to say so.

Bowse looked at the stranger before answering.

“I only hope she will try to carry a great deal more,” he replied. “See, they are beginning to follow our example.”

The polacca brig had now not only set her foresail and mainsail, but had also shaken another reef out of her topsails. She thus already had more sail on her than the Zodiac.

“Now, then,” said Bowse, “if we do but hold our own, she will begin to think we shall escape her, and they will be shaking another of those reefs out.”

“If they do, they will just get the drop in the pitcher too much,” said the mate.

“That’s just what I wish they may do,” replied the master. “But, ah! hold on for your lives, my lads.”

A dark, circling wave appeared directly ahead of the vessel, as if it had risen suddenly out of the water. She rose at it like a bold hunter, without hesitation, attempting to take a high fence beyond his powers. Its force was too great for her, she stopped, and trembled in every timber, then again she tried, and dashing headlong into it, the watery hill came thundering down on her decks, tearing away her long boat and spare spars, hencoops, caboose, and water casks, and, making a breach through the lee-bulwarks, washed them overboard. Had not the hatches been well secured the Zodiac, with all in her, might never have risen again. Cries of terror were heard, and many a bold seaman turned pale; but none of the crew were injured, and the ship again flew buoyantly onward.

“That’s what we may call our drop too much,” said the mate. “Don’t you think we ought to take some of the canvas off her, sir?”

“Timmins, we’ve long known each other, and you know I’m no coward; but I tell you that my conviction is, that there will be no child’s play with that fellow astern if he comes alongside us. Heaven only knows who’ll come off the best if it comes to blows. He has twice as many guns as we have, if not more, and longer pieces, depend on it, and, probably, five times as many hands. These are fearful odds, and I don’t think any man can say it’s cowardly to shrink from them. I know, too, the sort of fellows those are on board yonder craft, and sooner than fall into their power, I would run the brig, and all in her, under water. Till she made sail in chase, I had my doubts about her; I now have none. You see I don’t risk the loss of our masts without good cause, and now see to getting life-lines along the lee-bulwarks, and secure them as you best can.”

The mate made no answer, except a hurried acquiescence in his chief’s reasons; and then calling three seamen to him, he worked his way forward to the forecastle, to search for the requisite cordage for passing fore and aft along the sides of the vessel.

Colonel Gauntlett had gone below to explain the state of affairs to poor Ada, and to endeavour to tranquillise her alarms. Nothing daunted the old veteran himself; a soldier of the great duke’s school, he was accustomed to hardships and vicissitudes of all sorts. Brave as his sword, and delighting in the excitement of danger, his spirits rose in proportion to its imminence, and all the sour testiness of his temper vanished; a temper which had grown on him since the return of peace caused him to sheath his sword, and tempted him to commit the folly, as an old bachelor, of leading an idle life. Married, and with a family, he would have had them to interest him; but, as it was, he had only to think of his own aches and ills, and, perhaps, past follies; and to brood over what he called the neglects he had experienced from his ungrateful country. No man on board, perhaps, was so anxious as he was to have a skirmish with the rover, but he was not aware of the dreadful odds which would be opposed to him, and of the too probable fate which would await all hands, should victory side with the enemy. His arguments had some effect in calming his niece’s fears; but not those of poor little Marianna, who, pale and weeping, sat at the feet of her mistress, imploring her to urge the captain and her uncle to return to Malta.

Ada, in her turn, had to act the part of comforter, and she promised her uncle that she would constantly remain below till they had escaped from the pirate, and the storm was over. Her uncle had not attempted to deceive her, nor did she shut her eyes to the greatness of the threatening danger—yet hope rose triumphant in her bosom. Though the storm had, at first, appeared very terrific, she got accustomed by degrees to the noise and commotion, and she could not persuade herself that a British vessel, manned by so many brave men, would not prove the victor against a pirate, of whatever nation she might be. By the faint light which found its way into her cabin, she was able to read; and that book was in her hand from which the truest source of comfort can be drawn, and which she, in her turn, imparted to her ignorant and trembling companion. Thus, between reading herself and explaining the subject to Marianna, and, at times, approaching the footstool of her Maker in prayer, Ada passed many hours, which would otherwise have become insupportable through anxiety and fear, and thus employed, we must leave her, to return on deck.

Chapter Eleven.

The longer a sensible man lives (for a fool may live and not learn), the more convinced he will become of the importance of laying a firm foundation for every undertaking, whether it be a constitution to live under, or a house to live in, an education for his children, a coat for his back, shoes for his feet, or a ship to convey himself or his merchandise from one part of the globe to the other. He learns that it is wisest and cheapest to have all the materials of the best, to employ the best workmen, and to pay them the best wages. It is the fashion, nowadays, to get everything at a price, to which is given the name of cheap—no matter at what cost or ruin to the consumer as well as the producer, for both are equally losers—the one from being badly said, the other from getting a bad article. On every side, one ears the cries of cheap government, cheap houses, cheap education, and cheap clothing; and the people are always found ready to offer to supply them. Wiser than this generation are seamen. They know, from experience, that cheap clothes and cheap ships do not answer; that both are apt to fail at the very moment their services are most required; and a good officer, therefore, spares no expense or trouble in seeing that everything is good and sound on board his ship, from keelson to truck, below and aloft. Such a man was our friend Captain Bowse.

The spars and rigging of the Zodiac did full justice to those who selected the first, and fitted the latter. Not a spar was sprung—not a strand parted with the tremendous strain put on them. It was almost too much for the ship, Bowse himself owned. It was taking the wear of years out of her in a day—as a wild debauch, or any violent exertion, will injure the human frame, more than years of ordinary toil. Though the masts stood, the ship, it was very evident, must be strained, from the way in which she was driven through the water, and made to buffet with the waves. On rushed the brig.

“That is what I call tearing the marrow out of a body’s bones,” said Bill Bullock. “Well, bless the old barkie; there’s few could stand it as she does. I never seed any one carry on so as our skipper does, this blessed day—no, neither now, nor since the time I first went afloat.”

“Nor I neither, old ship,” answered Jem. “But for that matter, as the parson says, there’s a time to stay at anchor, and a time to make sail, and go along as if the devil was a driver—only I do wish that that ere beggar astern was right ahead now, and that we was a chasin’ her, and every now and then a slappin’ at her with our bow-chasers.”

“Right, Jem—my sentiments is the same; but if you comes for to go to look into the rights of the case, like a man should do, why you sees as how, if she has got twenty guns, which can sink us from where our shot can’t reach ’em, and we has only got four guns, for the Quakers only has to do when you comes to frighten people at a distance, then you see as how it’s wiser for we to run away, while we has got legs to run with, than to try to run when we are on our way to the bottom.”

“Jobson!” cried the master, addressing the carpenter, who had just spoken, “sound the well, and see if she’s made any water.”

Jobson performed his duty, and reported two feet of water in the hold.

“She’s made that, sir, though, since we began to carry on. She was as dry as a cork yesterday,” he observed.

“I did not expect less, though,” returned the master. “She must be strong not to let it in faster. We’ll sound again in another half hour.”

For the first two or three hours of the chase, it was difficult to determine whether the stranger gained on them or not: but, by the time five had passed away, she had clearly come up very much. Bowse looked at his topmasts and topsail-yards, and then at the lee-scuppers, and shook his head. He was meditating the possibility of shaking out another reef. He wished that he could divine some method to induce the stranger to set more sail; but this hope had failed, for as he was gaining on them without it, he was not likely to do so. The master watched him anxiously through his glass. He seemed to stand up well to his canvas, and there was but little chance of his carrying anything away. On coming to this conclusion, Bowse began to consider whether it would not be more prudent to shorten sail himself, so as to be in better condition to meet the enemy when he should come up—a result which he feared must, sooner or later, occur. Even should the weather moderate, the polacca brig would probably have a still greater advantage; but then again, his principle was to struggle to the last—never to yield to death or misfortune, while the faintest gasp remains—never to let hope expire—so he determined still to drive the ship through it. Again the well was sounded. The water had increased another half foot. The mate shook his head. Two more anxious hours passed away.

“How much has she gained on us now, Timmins?” answered Bowse, who had returned from snatching a hasty meal below.

“The best part of half a league at least, sir,” answered the mate. “If she comes up at this rate, she’ll be within hail before the first watch is over to-night. Now, sir, as the carpenter reports the water increasing fast, and to have to keep the men at the pumps, where they must go for a spell, will make them unfit to meet the enemy, I venture to advise that we take the strain off the ship at once. It’s clearly nothing else that makes her leak as she does, and we shall then meet that fellow by daylight, which I tell you honestly, Captain Bowse, I for one would rather do.”

Bowse listened to his mate’s opinion with respect, but he doubted much whether to act upon it.

“What you say has much reason in it,” he answered; “but send the hands to the pumps first, and we’ll judge how they can keep the water under. If, after they’ve cleared the ship, it gains upon half the watch, we’ll shorten sail; but if we can easily keep the leaks under, we’ll carry on to the last.”

The clank of the pumps was heard amid the roaring of the gale, and the loud dash of the water over the ship, as the crew performed that most detested portion of a seaman’s duty. The result was watched for with anxiety by the captain, for he saw that on it depended how soon they might be brought into action with the pirate. If he could still manage to keep ahead of him he might induce him to give up the chase; or he might fall in with a man-of-war, or some armed merchantman, in company with whom no pirate would dare to attack them. It did occur to him, that to ease the ship, he might keep her before the wind, and run for some port on the Italian coast; but there was a wide extent of sea to be crossed before he could reach it, and the pirate being probably just as fast off the wind as on it, would still overtake him; and though he might, as he trusted to do, beat him off, he would be so much further away from his port.

“Well, what does the carpenter report?” he asked, as the mate appeared, after the well had been sounded.

“We’ve gained a foot upon the leaks, sir; but it’s hard work to keep them under, and if I might advise—”

“Please Heaven, we’ll carry on, then, on the ship!” exclaimed the master, interrupting him. “Let half a watch at a time work the pumps. Before long the weather may moderate.”

The day wore on, and the pursuer and the pursued held their course with little variation. The Zodiac tore her way through the water, and sea succeeding sea met her persevering bows, and either yielded her a passage or flew in deluges over her decks. Night came on, and the stranger was upward of two leagues astern. The mate had before miscalculated her distance; his anxiety to shorten sail had probably somewhat blinded him. If the scene on board the Zodiac appeared terrific during daylight, much more so was it when darkness added its own peculiar horrors. Still not a sheet nor a tack would the brave master start, and he resolved, if the gale did not further increase, to run through the night without shortening sail. He himself set an example of hardihood and resolution to his crew, for scarcely a moment did he quit his post during the day, or the dreary hours of the first watch. As the short twilight disappeared, the stranger grew less and less distinct, till her shadowy outline could alone be traced, and even that by degrees vanished from the view of all but the most keen-sighted, till at last she could nowhere be discerned. An anxious look out was kept for her; for though shrouded by the obscurity from their sight, every one on deck felt that she was where she had last been seen, if not nearer; and some even fancied they could see her looming, surrounded by a halo of unnatural light, through the darkness.

It was in the first hour of the morning-watch, and neither Bowse nor his mate, though they swept the sea to the westward with their night-glasses, could anywhere distinguish her.

“We have done better than we could have hoped for,” observed the master. “It will soon be day, and we then need not fear her.”

“It will be more than three good hours yet before we have anything like daylight,” returned the mate; “and that cursed craft may be alongside us before then.”

“Well, we are prepared for her,” returned the master.

“I hope so,” exclaimed the mate; “for, by Heaven, Captain Bowse, there she is, well on our weather quarter.”

The mate spoke truly. There evidently was a brig, though dimly visible, hovering, as it were, like a dark spirit, in the quarter he indicated.

The crew soon discovered her also, and if any of them had before felt inclined to seek rest below, they did so no longer.

Another hour passed away; but the stranger had not altered her position. There she hung, like a dark shadow, indistinctly visible, yet causing no doubt of something ominous of evil being there, as some bird of prey hovering about, ready to pounce down any moment, and destroy them.

The morning light brought the stranger clearly in view, at about the same distance; and at the same period of time the ship, righting suddenly from the downward pressure, to which she had been so long exposed, showed that there was a lull of the wind. It was but momentarily, for again she heeled over as before. Again, however, she righted, and this time, her lee scuppers remained for longer free of the water.

Bowse looked to windward: he was about to order a couple of reefs more to be shaken out of the topsails, when another violent blast almost laid her on her beam ends.

The hardy crew, wearied with the unremitting exertions of the night, looked at each other in despair, as the sea literally washed up the decks to leeward. A loud crash was heard, and the fore-topmast went over the side, carrying away the jibboom. It was the last expiring effort of the gale.

The stranger now shook out all the reefs in her topsails and courses; but it was soon evident that there was no occasion for her so doing, as she continued to maintain the exact position she had held when first seen in the morning.

The forenoon watch had just been set, when Colonel Gauntlett came on deck.

“A nice night we’ve had of it, captain,” he observed in a tone which showed but little anxiety on his part. “It was only towards the morning the infernal hubbub would allow me a moment’s sleep. But, hillo! what have you been doing with your foremast? Why, it’s shorn of half its just proportions. And a pretty work seems to have been going forward on your deck. Why, I should have thought you had been in action already.”

“With the winds and waves we have, sir,” answered Bowse. “I wish we were in a better condition to meet an enemy.”

“Well, I wish we were, if there is a prospect of our seeing one again,” said the colonel. “However, I suppose you’ve managed to give the go-by to our friend, the Flying Dutchman.”

Bowse, whose spirits weariness and anxiety had much lowered, shook his head, and pointed to the stranger.

“I wish I could say so, Colonel Gauntlett. There she is, as big as life; and, what is more, may be alongside of us any moment those on board her may desire.”

“Ods life, then we shall have to fight her after all,” exclaimed the colonel, with animation. “It’s a pity we didn’t have it out yesterday, and have enjoyed a quiet night’s rest after it.”

“I wish we had, sir,” said the master, his spirits a little cheered by the colonel’s coolness. “We should have had an advantage we shall not enjoy to-day. She has the weather gauge, and may select her own time to engage us, and is, I suspect, but waiting till the sea goes down, when she may run us alongside, and take advantage of the great superiority of men she has, depend on it, on board her.”

“We must see, however, what we can do,” replied the colonel. “But, after all, the fellow may be an Austrian. He has hoisted those colours.”

“Merely to blind us, sir, depend on it,” answered the master. “He is even now edging down upon us.”

As he spoke, the stranger at length set his topgallant-sails and royals; but if his intention was to run alongside, it was frustrated.

The varying wind, which had been gradually lulling, now on a sudden died away completely, even before the sea created by the gale had had time to go down, and the two vessels lay rolling from side to side like logs on the water, without power to progress, just beyond the range of each other’s guns.

Those who have cruised in the Mediterranean Sea must have lively recollections of the calms which have stopped their onward progress—the slow rolling of the vessel without any apparent cause, the loud flapping of the canvas against the masts seemingly feeling anger at its inaction, the hot sun striking down on the decks and boiling up the pitch in the seams between the planks, the dazzling glare too bright for the eyes to endure from the mirror-like surface of the water, and, above all, the consequent feelings of discontent, lassitude, and weariness.

Notwithstanding the heat and the motion, and the excessive weariness they felt from their incessant toil, Bowse and his bold crew set manfully to work to repair the damage the Zodiac had received during the storm. All hands laboured cheerfully, for they saw that everything might depend on the speed with which they could get the ship to rights again. Although the damage on deck was considerable, yet their first care was to get up a new topmast, and another jib-boom out, for both which purposes they fortunately had spare ones on board. Bowse had gone for a minute below, where Timmins speedily followed him.

“A boat shoving off from the polacca brig, sir,” said the mate.

He was on deck in a minute; by his glass he saw a six-oared gig rapidly approaching; she had in the stern-sheets four persons, three of whom were dressed as officers, and wore cocked hats.

The passengers were on deck, as well as the two mates, watching the boat.

“I suspect after all we shall find that we were unnecessarily alarmed, and they will prove very honest gentlemen,” observed the colonel.

“I trust they may be,” said Ada. “It would be very dreadful to have to fight.”

“I’m afraid there’s little honesty either on board the craft or the boat; for I trust little to the Austrian bunting flying at her peak,” answered Bowse. “You must not be frightened, young lady, when you see the men armed. It is safe to be prepared—Mr Timmins, get the cutlasses and small arms on deck, and send the people to their quarters—Colonel Gauntlett, I will speak with you, if you please;” and the master led the colonel aside. “I have to propose a bold plan, and a dangerous one, should it not succeed; but if it does, I think our safety is secured. The pirate—for pirate the commander of that brig is, I am assured—will, I suspect, through audacity or fool-hardiness, venture on our deck; now, what I propose, if he does, is to entice the rest of the people on board, and to seize them and their boat, and to hold them as hostages.”

“But suppose they should prove to be really Austrians,” urged the colonel. “It would be an odd way of treating officers who come to pay a friendly visit; and, seeing there are ten men in the boat, it will not be quite so easy either.”

“No fear of that, sir,” answered Bowse; “they venture here because they don’t know what Englishmen are made of. They have been accustomed to deal with Turks and degenerate Greeks and Italians, and fancy they can manage us as easy; they come to see the condition we are in. Now, as I feel certain that boat comes here with the intention and hope of taking this brig without any resistance, I want to make them fall into their own trap.”

The colonel thought a little time. “Well,” he answered, “I do not dislike your plan on the whole, provided we are sure the fellows intend us treachery. What part am I to play in it?”

“Why, sir, I want you to hold the chief man of them in conversation, while I talk to another; for I intend to let only two at a time come on deck—and then, if we can get them below, we can secure them, and, before the rest find it out, we will invite two more below, and secure them. I want you to offer a reason for our carrying so much sail yesterday and last night, to throw them off their guard, and to make them suppose we still believe them Austrians.”

“But what am I to say about the way we carried sail?” asked the colonel.

“Why, sir, you see, we did not go out of our course, so you can say that you are in a very great hurry, and insisted on my making more sail, while, as the ship is bran new, I was not afraid of pleasing you, particularly as you promised a good round sum more if I got you in before a certain time.”

“The story is plausible, but I am afraid it will not bear looking into,” observed the colonel; “however, I will play my part as I best can.”

“We will not give them time to look into that or anything else,” replied Bowse. “They will observe the loss of caboose and boats, and also of our bulwarks, it is true; but we must settle them before they have time to consult about it; or we may point it out to them at once, and tell them that it happened at the end of the gale, and that it would have made us shorten sail if the wind had not dropped.”

The plan of the master being agreed to, preparations were made to receive their very doubtful visitors. Ada and her attendant were on the poop, with Mitchell to guard them. The colonel and master, with the first mate stood at the gangway, on either side of which were stationed two of the strongest men in the ship, their cutlasses being concealed. The second mate, with six other hands, well armed, had orders to rush aft the moment they were summoned, and to look after the boats and those who might remain in her, and on no account to let them escape.

By the time all the arrangements were made, the boat was close to. Bowse examined her carefully. The crew were dressed as European seamen, and pulled in their fashion, though rather irregularly, and the uniform of the officers was perfectly correct, as far as he knew.

The boat dashed alongside without hesitation, and two of the officers sprung up on deck; the rest would have followed, but the two men at the gangway stopped them, in spite of gesticulations and strenuous endeavours.

“Messieurs, some one on board, I presume, speaks French?” said the principal of the two, taking off his cocked-hat, and bowing profoundly, with a glance towards the poop, where Ada sat.

“Moi—I do,” answered the colonel, with not the best pronunciation in the world. “Que voulez-vous, Messieurs?”

“I am delighted to find a gentleman with whom I can converse in a common language. My native German I judged would be hopeless,” observed the officer.

He was a remarkably fine-looking man, with a dark, curling moustache, and a free, bold manner. Now the colonel had studied German in the course of his military education, and spoke it well; he therefore immediately answered in that language.

The officer looked puzzled, and then laughingly said, “Oh! I must compliment you; but we will speak in French—it is the proper language for the intercourse of strangers—a mutual ground on which they meet. I have come to offer the services of my ship’s company in putting your vessel to rights; for I see that she has suffered severely in the gale, which has just passed.”

“Many thanks to you, monsieur,” returned the colonel; “but I believe the crew of the brig are fully competent to perform all the work which is required; and you see they have already accomplished much of it.”

“I see they have been at work; but it will still occupy them much time to put you to rights,” observed the stranger. “You carried on yesterday and during the night more than I ever saw a vessel do before; and may I ask why you endeavoured to outsail me as you did yesterday.”

“Certainly,” returned the colonel; and gave the explanation arranged with Bowse.

“Ah, it was a pity though, it made me suspicious of you,” exclaimed the officer. “And did you not receive a message by a Sicilian speronara, which I sent to invite any merchantmen to put themselves under my protection?”

“Oh! we received it; and though doubts might have occurred, we were grateful,” returned the colonel; then, in a low whisper to Bowse, he said. “Seize the rascals as soon as you like—we will ask them below.”

He then turned back to the officers.

“Will you not come below to take some refreshment? We shall be happy to offer it also to those in the boat.”

The stranger hesitated: at that instant Ada, who had risen to witness the conference, came to the break of the poop. She had been examining the countenances of the officers.

“The Prince Caramitzo, I am sure!” she exclaimed.

“Prince! Count Zappa, the pirate, you mean!” cried the colonel, stamping in a passion.

“It’s all discovered then. Seize them my lads!” cried the master, rushing forward to aid in executing his own order.

“Ah! is it treachery you mean me?” exclaimed the seeming Austrian officer, dealing the poor master a violent blow. “It is Zappa you see, and whom you will soon learn to know.”

And before any one had time to rush forward and seize him, he, with his companion, leaped into the boat which, at the same instant, shoved off; and, with rapid strokes, began to pull away.

“Give them a dose of the carronades!” exclaimed the master; but, before the guns could be brought to bear, and could be fired, the stranger was a long way from the ship, and not a shot told. There was thus no longer any disguise—nor could they, should they be conquered, expect any mercy at the hands of the pirate.

Chapter Twelve.

We must now go back to the day on which our story commences, or rather, at an early hour on the following morning, when the young Greek, Argiri Caramitzo, and his Italian companion, Paolo Montifalcone, left the ball-room of the Auberge de Provence.

Highly satisfied with the adventures of the evening, Caramitzo took his way to the abode of the Jew, Aaron Bannech, not deeming it prudent to sleep under any other roof; perhaps he would not have trusted himself under that of the Israelite, had he not felt assured that the preservation of his life and liberty was of very considerable importance to his host. As he reached the door of the house, he encountered the beggar Giacomo, who had concealed himself, till his approach, beneath a neighbouring archway.

“Hist, signor,” said the beggar, hobbling up. “I’m glad you are at length come. I have long waited for you, to give you some important information regarding your safety. But who is the person with you? May I speak before him?”

“He is a friend—say on,” replied the Greek.

“Well, signor, what I have to say is, that before long you will find this city too hot for you,” answered Giacomo. “As you directed me, I watched the three Greeks you left at the caffè. For a long time they remained inside, and at last when they came out I followed them for some distance, and heard them making inquiries for the office of the police. They went to the wrong one first, and then I followed them to the other. Fortunately the office was closed, and they were told that they could not make their complaint till to-morrow. I could understand but little that they said, yet I am certain that they spoke of having seen you here.”

“You have done well,” returned the Greek. “You saw where they lodge?”

“Si, signor, certainly.”

“Then follow them to-morrow, and let me know the result of their information.”

Saying this, the Greek summoned the Jew to admit him and his companion to the house.

“I shall have to quit you to-morrow,” he observed, as their host, after examining numerous bolts and bars, followed them to the only sitting-room the Jew possessed; his dining-room, library, and sanctum, where all his most private and important business was transacted.

“What! will you not take a passage by the good brig, the Zodiac,” asked the Jew. “I had arranged everything for you, and should not have had to appear in the affair.”

“I had done my part also at the ball to-night, and I flatter myself the English colonel and his niece would have been pleased to have my company. All would have gone well, had it not been for the appearance of those Greeks, who fancy they know me, and will swear that I am no other than the pirate Zappa, which, by the bye, exhibits the folly of being merciful. Now, though with your assistance, my friend, I might easily prove who I am, still, as you know I might find the detention inconvenient, I shall therefore sail early in the speronara. Your letters may be addressed to me as before, but bear in mind that your information is generally too stale. Now I will get a little rest, if you will show me where I am to sleep.”

“Wonderful man,” muttered the Jew, as he quitted his guest, who had thrown himself on a couch, and was already asleep. “He has no fear of treachery.”

The Greek knew that the Jew was a wise man, and would not kill his golden goose. The Jew had procured some ordinary morning dresses for the Greek and his companion, and habited in them, with Italian cloaks thrown round them, they next morning fearlessly took their way to the quays.

Manuel was in attendance, and Paolo immediately embarked, and went on board the speronara, while the Greek returned once more into the city. Had any one watched the movements of the two strangers, they would have observed that the Greek never for an instant allowed the Italian to leave his side while they were on shore, and that the latter regarded him with a look much more of fear than of affection, somewhat as an ill-used dog does his master, though he still follows his footsteps.

As the Greek walked along, he made observations on several vessels which had been mentioned to him by the beggar, and afterwards looked into the police-office, where his accusers had not arrived. Again, therefore, returning to the quay, he summoned the boatman, Manuel, who had returned for him, and directed him to pull on board the speronara, to which he had previously sent an order by Paolo to get under weigh, and heave to till he should come on board.

“Let draw,” he exclaimed, as soon as he stepped on board, “we will try the quality of your craft, Master Alessandro, steer as if we were bound for Syracuse, and afterwards we will run off shore. In case any vessel should be sent in chase, I wish to mislead them as to the course we have taken.”

“Capisco—I understand, signor,” said the Sicilian. “We have a good breeze, and shall reach the Sea Hawk, if she is at her post, long before dark.”

“Did you ever know her miss her rendezvous?” said the Greek. “And now, my good Paolo, let me ask how it has fared with you since yesterday?”

“As it may with a man weary of the world,” returned the youth, sighing deeply.

“You will yet do bravely, Paolo,” said Caramitzo. “How like you now the life of a sailor? We have variety and excitement enough to please you?”

“Too much—I should prefer less change, and a more tranquil existence,” returned the youth. “But I am willing to undergo all to please you.”

“The very words your sister would have spoken. Come, come, Paolo, you must rouse yourself, and learn to enjoy the pleasures of life, instead of moping and weeping as she does.”

As the Greek spoke, the youth’s eyes flashed angrily; but as if with an effort, he controlled himself, and his countenance directly assumed its usual dejected look.

The speronara, as has been described, kept first to the northward; and after standing in that direction for six or seven miles, she eased off her sheets, and ran off to the eastward. After three hours a large polacca brig was seen from her deck a couple of points on her larboard bow. On this a small flag was run up to the end of her main-yard, which was immediately answered by the brig. The speronara then hauled her wind on the starboard tack which brought her head looking almost into Valetta harbour, while the brig hove to on the same tack.

The Greek had for some time been looking through a spy-glass towards Malta, which lay like a line of blue hillocks rising from the sea.

“Here Paolo,” he said, at length. “Do you take the glass, and tell me, what vessels you see, which appear to have come out of the port we left this morning.”

For some time Paolo made no answer. He was examining the intervening space between them and the shore.

The Greek, meantime, reclined on a seat to rest, for he was weary with his exertions.

Paolo at last addressed him.

“I make out a square-rigged vessel of some sort, steering this way. She looms large.”

The Greek sprang to his feet, and took the glass.

“She is the one we are in search of,” he exclaimed. “Up with the helm and let draw the head sheets.”

The orders were obeyed, and the speronara ran off again before the wind towards the brig, with which she had communicated, and the head of whose topsails were just seen above the horizon. It took a couple of hours before the speronara hove to close to her, by which time the day was almost over.

The brig was a remarkably fine looking vessel, with a long low hull, painted black, with sharp bows, a clean run and a raking counter. She was what is denominated polacca-rigged; a name given to designate those vessels which have their lower masts and topmast in one piece; thus evading the necessity of tops and caps, and much top-weight. Her yards were very square; her masts, which were polished, raked somewhat; her rigging was well set up, and very neat; and her canvas looked white and new. She was in truth a very rakish-looking and beautiful craft. As the speronara drew near, a boat was lowered from the brig and manned, and now came alongside.

As soon as the boat, which was full of armed men in the picturesque costume of Greek sailors, came alongside, Caramitzo turned to the padrone of the speronara:—

“Alessandro,” he said, “your personal services to me are over, for the present; but I have occasion for the use of your vessel for a few hours longer. Do you and your people go quietly on board the brig, and remain till my return. Some few of my followers will man the speronara in the mean time.”

The padrone of the speronara would have expostulated, but the Greek cut him short, and intimated that, as just then his will was law, if he did not consent with a good grace, he would be compelled to do so—pointing at the same time to the boatload of desperadoes alongside. Seeing therefore that resistance was useless, the padrone and his crew were transferred to the brig, and thirty Greek seamen took their place. The exchange was made very rapidly, as their chief, for such he was whom we have known as Argiri Caramitzo, appeared in a hurry.

An officer, who seemed to have charge of the brig, came off in a smaller boat at the summons of the captain.

“Understand,” he said, “you are, if possible, to keep the English brig, you see to the westward, just in sight; at, indeed, about the same distance we are now from her. Steer east-northeast, which is her course, and look out for the speronara. I am about to visit the brig, and may perhaps be able to render you a good account of her.”

The officer bowed.

“I understand your orders clearly,” he said. “We would rather, however, see you returning in the brig, than in the speronara.”

“I will not forget your wishes,” the chief answered laughing, as the boat shoved off.

“Now my men let draw the foresheet—now she has way on her—haul it well aft, and see if she will lay up for the brig yonder. Ah, she does it bravely—call me when we near her.”

And wrapping himself in his cloak he lay down to sleep, or, it might have been, to meditate on the daring plans and projects working in his active brain. The speronara flew over the waves like a sea-bird on the wing. She soon neared the brig which Paolo at once recognised as the English merchantman they had passed in Valetta harbour. He had heard from the chief who were the passengers on board, and the ruse to be practised had also been confided to him. He had been endeavouring to beguile, to him, the weary hours of the voyage with reading, while the chief slept, for sleep refused to visit his eyelids. A thought seemed to strike him. He wrote hastily in the book, and tearing out the leaf, placed it in his bosom. He then roused his companion from his slumber. The Greek started up and eyed the approaching brig.

“It is she,” he exclaimed. “That vessel, my men, is to be your prize; but much caution will be required to take her. She is armed, that is to say, she has four real guns and two wooden ones; but from what I saw of her captain and crew, I think they are likely to fight. They are very different sort of characters, are those English, to the Italians we are accustomed to deal with, who call on their saints to help them, and from the Turks, who make up their minds it is their fate to be taken and thrown overboard. The difficulty, on the contrary, with these English, is ever to persuade them that they are beaten; and, as they don’t care for the Saints, and don’t fear the devil—heretics that they are—they trust to their own right arm, their cutlasses, and big guns; and by Achilles, if you do manage to throw them overboard, they will swim about in the hopes of getting a cut at you. Now, where we cannot succeed by force, we must employ stratagem; and I intend to go on board and to inform them that the Sea Hawk is an Austrian ship-of-war, anxious to protect merchantmen from the attacks of the corsair Zappa, and to revenge herself on him for his capture of one of their brigs of war, of which they will have heard. If I find them unprepared and unsuspicious of us, we will at once run alongside and take possession; and, as I am anxious not to be under the necessity of throwing the crew overboard, we will stow them all away in the hold of the vessel, and make the padrone carry them with him to Sicily. If he murder them on the voyage that will be no fault of ours; and if he lands them, they can be no evidence against us at any time, for they have not seen our brig, and Signor Sandro will not dare to give any correct information, though, of course, he will tell a number of lies to exonerate himself; but for that we are not to blame. Now we will heave to, to windward of our friend, and see the boat clear for launching, to carry me and Paolo on board her.”

Having concluded his observations, the chief and Paolo went below, and soon returned so completely disguised in the costume of Sicilian boatmen, as I have described, that the Greeks at first scarcely knew them.

As they passed the brig, they hailed her, and then hove to. The pirate, for there is little use concealing the character of the pretended prince, with his young companion, whom he had instructed how to act, stepped into the boat, manned by two stout hands, and pulled alongside the brig. He was somewhat startled and disappointed on discovering the preparations which were made to receive him, should he appear as an enemy; and, seeing Colonel Gauntlett at the gangway, with whom he had held so much conversation on the previous day, it occurred to him at once that it might be dangerous to trust his own voice, and he therefore resolved to make Paolo the spokesman. His greatest trial, however, was to come, when, in the presence of Ada Garden, his countenance was exposed to the bright light of the cabin lamp. The admiration he had felt for her at the ball was increased when he beheld her again; but it was not so great as to make him forget that now was not the time to show it, and it was with some feeling of relief that he found himself once more in his boat, fully convinced that, even with his thirty men, it would be a work of considerable danger to attempt the capture of the Zodiac by means of the speronara. He accordingly determined to return on board the brig, dismiss the speronara, and keep a bright look out after the merchantman, till he should find a favourable opportunity to take her unawares. As the speronara sailed almost two feet to one of the Zodiac, he was soon able to pass her and to reach the polacca brig before she was discernible through the darkness. As the Greek stepped on the deck of the brig, the crew received him with a shout of welcome.

“Long life to our captain,” they exclaimed. “Long life to Zappa.”

The Prince Caramitzo or the pirate Zappa, for under either of those names that worthy person may in future be recognised, assured his followers of the satisfaction their affection afforded him, and then ordered them to tumble the Sicilians into their speronara, and to make all sail without delay.

The Sea Hawk was kept before the wind, and next morning, at daybreak, they found themselves still a long way ahead of the English brig. The pirates, who had on board a number of Austrian uniforms, and seamen’s dresses, and flags, indeed every means of disguising the ship to appear like a man-of-war of that nation, now, by their chief’s orders, set to work on the necessary preparations to make her assume that character, while Zappa himself appeared in the uniform of an Austrian captain.

His purpose was to dodge on, under easy sail, till the Zodiac came up with him; and then, under pretext of friendly converse, to run her alongside, and to pour his men on her decks before her crew should have time to make any resistance. The gale of wind, which so suddenly sprang up, prevented the execution of this plan, and preserved the Zodiac.

When Zappa observed her bearing down on him, he was in hopes that his ruse had succeeded, and that his vessel was taken for what he wished her to appear; but when he saw, on his following her, that the English brig made more sail in the very height of the gale, and at last carried on in a way that seemed even greatly to hazard her safety, he began to fear that he was suspected. He, however, was determined not to lose sight of her again, and accordingly made sail in chase, with the hopes of finding a favourable opportunity to execute his purpose at the termination of the gale. At length it fell calm, and his vessel lay about four miles from her.

We have seen that he was a man of extraordinary nerve, and he bethought him that he would try once more to blind the master and crew of the Zodiac, and, ordering a boat to be manned, he pulled boldly on board her. Had not Bowse been forewarned, there can be little doubt but that he would have triumphantly succeeded, and there can be no reflection on his want of talent either in planning or executing that he did not do so. Had he known as much as does the reader, he would probably have had nothing to do with the speronara, which was suspected, but would at once have run alongside the Zodiac in his own vessel which was unknown. When he found himself, on his second visit to the Zodiac, so nearly caught in his own net, he pulled back to the Sea Hawk, vowing that he would not again be foiled.

Chapter Thirteen.

The master of the Zodiac, as he laboured without ceasing at the important work of getting his ship once more in sailing trim, every now and then glanced at the pretended Austrian with feelings in which the undaunted courage of the British seaman were fearfully mingled in his bosom with dark forebodings as to the result of an engagement with an enemy in every respect so much his superior. His eye would also, ever and anon, range round the horizon in anticipation of those rising signs of the coming breeze, which he prayed Heaven might yet be long delayed till the work was completed, and then that it might come from the eastward, as it would thus give him the weather gage, and enable him to manoeuvre to better advantage in the coming fight; for he had already seen most convincing proof of the superior sailing qualities of the Sea Hawk; that he had no expectations of being able to avoid it, even should he be able to make sail before the arrival of the breeze. With voice and example, he cheered on his crew to the work; the topmast had been got up, and the rigging fitted over its head; but the topsail-yard was not yet across, and much remained to be done to make their previous labours of any avail. Bowse himself had taken his meals on deck, as had his mates; and the men had snatched but a minute to satisfy their hunger. He had just before sent them below to their dinners, when, as he was taking a look at the enemy, to see what she was about, he observed beyond her a dark blue line on the horizon.

“Ah,” he muttered; “there’s no doubt what is coming now, and long before the canvas is spread, we shall have the breeze blowing strong, and the brig coming down on us. Well, we’ve done our best, and men can do no more. I’ll let the poor fellows have this meal in quiet; it will be the last many of them will eat, I fear. Ah! Heaven only knows if any on board here will ever taste another, if those cursed villains get hold of us—and nothing but a miracle can save us, that I see—yet, we’ll make them pay dear for victory, at all events.”

He took two or three turns on the deck, watching his antagonist, and the coming wind; and from his cool and calm exterior, no one would have supposed how fully he felt the dangerous position in which his ship was placed. Broader and broader grew the line, till, at last, the wind filled the loftier canvas of the corsair, which was spread to catch it. The time, he saw, was, come to prepare for the final struggle. He summoned the mate from below.

“Turn the hands up,” he cried out, in a firm, sharp tone, to be heard throughout the ship. “We shall have work before long to warm them up a bit.”

The men sprang on deck with alacrity, casting an eye at the stranger as they went to the work in hand.

The topsail-yard was ready fitted, and all hands now joined in swaying away on it. Meantime, the wind, though still light, had filled the pirate’s sails, and she was stealing through the water towards them, before they even felt the wind. At last a few catspaws, the avant-couriers of the stronger breeze, began to play round them. The foresail and the fore-staysail were the only sails they could yet get to pay the brig’s head off before the wind. These were now set; but the so doing delayed the work of bending the topsail, and the Sea Hawk was now coming fast up with them. As soon as the Zodiac was got dead before the wind, the main-topsail and topgallant-sails were hoisted; the studdensail-booms were run out, and studdensails set, which much made amends for the loss of the headsails, as long as they desired only to keep before the wind. Notwithstanding, however, all the canvas the Zodiac could set, the corsair still came up with her hand over hand. Bowse watched till he thought she had come within range of his guns, and he then ordered one to be brought up, and pointed at her over the taffrail.

As soon as Colonel Gauntlett, who was on deck, heard the order given, he exclaimed that he and Mitchell would assist in working the guns, while the crew continued bending the sails.

The gun was accordingly trained aft, but part of the taffrail had to be cut away to work it.

“Try to knock away some of his spars, sir,” cried Bowse, as the colonel prepared to fire. “Everything depends on that.”

The colonel fired, but the shot fell short. The gun was instantly again loaded, but before they had time to fire, the pirate yawed and let fly a bow chaser, the shot from which flew through the main-topsail, though without doing further damage. The colonel again fired, but again the shot fell short, to his no slight rage.

“I see how it is, sir,” observed Bowse, “that fellow has a long nine in his bows, while our gun is only a carronade. He will be doing us mischief, I am afraid.”

“Let him get a little nearer though, and we will give him two to one,” returned the colonel.

Scarcely had he spoken, when another shot came, which cut away the topmast starboard shrouds. Hands were immediately sent aloft to secure the rigging, but this again delayed the progress of the work on the foremast. Notwithstanding the occasional yaw the pirate was obliged to make in order to fire, he still gained on the Zodiac. At last he got within range of her carronades, to the great satisfaction of Colonel Gauntlett, who forthwith commenced firing his gun as fast as Mitchell could sponge and load it. The shot, however, told with little or no effect; a few holes were made through his head-sails, but no ropes of importance were cut away on board the Sea Hawk. The countenances of the pirates could now clearly be seen. They had exchanged the Austrian uniforms for their proper Greek dresses, which added considerably to the ferocity of their appearance.

Finding that the carronade frequently sent its shot on board, they hauled up a point, so as to bring their vessel on the starboard quarter of the Zodiac, and at the same time to keep beyond the range of her guns, while they could still send the shot from their long bow chaser on board her.

The brave master groaned when he saw the manoeuvre, for he felt how completely he was at the mercy of the enemy. The colonel, notwithstanding, still continued working his gun, till with rage he saw that his shot again fell short of the enemy. The Zodiac, it must be understood, bearing chiefly after sail, could not venture to haul up so much as to bring the enemy again astern, or he would have tried to do so. His gun was worked quickly, and with great precision; shot after shot told with fearful effect on the spars and rigging. The men had perseveringly laboured the whole time in spite of the shot flying about them, but just as they had bent the fore-topsail, and were swaying away on the yard, a shot struck the fore-yard, and cut it completely in two. The men saw that their efforts were all in vain, and letting go the halyards, rushed of their own accord to the guns.

“It’s no use running, sir,” they exclaimed, with one voice. “Let’s fight it out while we can.”

The pirate’s shot continued their work of destruction. The main topmast next received a wound, and in a minute afterwards, the breeze freshening, down it came on board, hampering up the deck.

“Clear away the wreck of the topmast, my lads,” exclaimed the master. “And then I hope those scoundrels will give us a a chance of punishing them.”

The order was obeyed, and the gun, which had been trained aft, was replaced, and the other two guns were got over to the starboard side. The brave crew then gave forth a cheer of defiance at the enemy, expecting that they were about to run them on board; the pirates were waiting, though, till their guns had produced more effect; a shot at last came, and carried away the peak halyards, and deprived her of all power of manoeuvring. The Zodiac was now at their mercy; and they bore down upon her; but instead of running her aboard on the starboard side, they luffed up when just under her stern, and poured in the whole of their starboard guns; then, keeping away again, they hauled up on the other tack joining their larboard battery, and then once more, as if content with their work, they kept away, and ran her on board on the starboard side.

Three of the Zodiac’s crew had been disabled, and Bowse himself was badly wounded; but the remainder fought their guns to the last. The pirates, as the sides of the two vessels ground together, threw their grapnels on board, and crowded the rigging to leap on the deck of the Zodiac.

The master, and Colonel Gauntlett, led on the English crew to oppose the enemy—never did men fight better, but numbers bore them down—the struggle was in vain, the colonel was first struck down, and the master directly after, and though the two mates continued fighting some time afterwards, one being killed and the other wounded, the survivors gave way, and were either driven down below or overboard.

The tall figure of the pirate leader was the most conspicuous in the fight.

“The brig is ours!” he exclaimed, as he took up his post at the top of the companion steps. “But she is too slow a sailer to be of any use to us; we will therefore take the most valuable part of her cargo on board, and desert her. We have no time to lose; for all this firing may have been heard by some British cruiser, who will be down upon us before long—Now, Paolo, follow me.”

The pirate crew instantly got the hatches off, and set to work to select what they considered most valuable, and to transfer it to their own vessel.

Ada Garden had often read of tempests at sea, of shipwrecks, and battles; but it had never occurred to her that she might some day witness their horrors, or suffer from their dreadful effects. Now the reality of the scenes she had before pictured to herself, as events passed by, and unlikely again to happen, was palpably displayed before her. She had scarcely recovered from the terrors of the the storm when her uncle came below, and, with unusual tenderness in his manner urged her not to be alarmed at the noise of the guns which were about to be fired; at the same time speaking with confidence of their ultimate success. Though she trembled with anxiety at what she heard, she promised not to give way to fear, and entreated to be allowed to come on deck. To this he of course would on no consideration consent, and after much argument, and by showing her the useless danger she would run, he made her promise that nothing should induce her to leave the cabin till he himself came down to summon her. She again had recourse to her Bible, and, with Marianna sitting at her feet, she endeavoured to calm her mind, and to banish her terror as she had done during the gale. Except from the occasional discharge of the guns there was now, perhaps, much less to cause her alarm, if she could have helped thinking of the possible result; but this, notwithstanding her uncle’s assurances, she could not do; for she understood too well the great superiority of the pirate vessel; and though she knew that her countrymen would struggle to the last, yet she felt that they might be overcome; and she scarcely dared to contemplate what her fate might be. The alarm of her young attendant was almost beyond control.

“Oh, Holy Mary!” she shrieked out, as the first shot was fired; “the dreadful battle has begun, and we shall be killed. Oh, why did we leave our dear Valetta, to come on the stormy sea, when one moment we are about to be drowned and the next murdered—ah me, ah me!” and the poor girl burst into tears. Another shot was heard, and she started and trembled afresh.

Ada tried to console her. “Listen now, Marianna,” she said, “those shots are fired from this vessel, and, therefore, they cannot hurt us, though they may our enemies. It is only those which are sent from the other ship can injure us; as yet, none seem to have been discharged.”

“May the saints prevent the wretches from sending any!” exclaimed Marianna through her tears. “Perhaps they will not fire on a British ship.”

“Heaven grant it may be so,” said Ada, “but I fear not. That sounds as if our ship had been struck.”

It was the sharp sound of a spar being wounded, which, like an electric shock, reverberated through the vessel. Another and another followed.

“Oh, the enemy must be close to us! My dear, dear mistress, what is going to happen?” shrieked the poor Maltese girl.

“Put your trust in Heaven, Marianna; and, though we are unable to discern it, the means may at the last moment be found for our preservation,” said Ada solemnly. “I would that I were allowed to venture on deck, to learn that my uncle has not suffered in this dreadful fire.”

“Oh, do not leave me, my mistress,” exclaimed Marianna, clinging to her dress. “You will be killed, to a certainty, if you go up among all the fighting. No, you shall not go!”

Ada did not attempt to disengage herself, for she remembered her promise to Colonel Gauntlett, and she felt how worse than useless she would there be. Still louder and more frequent became the roar of the enemy’s guns, and the crashes, as the spars and rigging came falling down on deck. Then came other frightful noises in quick succession, as the pirate poured in her two broadsides, and lastly the loud, grating sound, as she finally ran alongside, and the two vessels ground together as they lay locked in their deadly embrace. At the same instant arose the shouts of defiance raised by the British seamen, mingled with the shrieks of their wounded, and answered by the fierce cries of the pirates, as they threw themselves on the Zodiac’s deck—next was heard above their heads the loud trampling of the feet of those engaged in mortal struggle. Sometimes Ada fancied that her friends were victorious, and that the pirates were driven back; then again, by the more frequent sound of the stamping of feet, and the cries and exclamations in a strange language, she felt too sure that the enemy had poured still greater numbers on board. For a few moments the noise of feet increased; there were next some heavy, dull sounds, as of persons falling, and then arose the loud triumphant shout of victory; but the sounds were strange—it was that of the enemy; all, then, for a time was silent—what had become of her uncle and the brave crew? With her heart palpitating, and her mind in a chaos of confusion, she could not resolve what to do. She could just discern the footsteps of persons descending the companion-ladder—they entered the main cabin. The door of the one in which she with Marianna sat was violently opened, and she beheld the countenance of the pirate Zappa. Too truly all then was lost. The excess of her horror and alarm overcame her and she fainted.

Chapter Fourteen.

When the first glimmerings of consciousness revisited the mind of Ada Garden, she felt that some dreadful calamity had befallen her, without being able to comprehend its nature or extent. An undefined terror, an insupportable oppression at the heart made her feel that death must soon release her from her sufferings. She had neither the power nor the will to stir a limb, or to open her eyes to discover her real state. The noise of the engagement and the thunder of the guns, the shrieks and cries of the combatants, still rung with fearful clearness in her ears, yet without enabling her to remember the causes which had produced them. She felt that she had been deprived of her only guardian—that she was alone in the world without friends to protect or counsel her; but how her uncle had died she could not comprehend. Then she thought she saw him sinking down into the deep blue sea, and his countenance was turned towards her with the smile it wore when he was pleased, and down, down he sunk till he reached the yellow sand at the bottom, where, through the clear water, she could see him resting, and beckoning her to raise him up; and then there seemed to pass a vessel full of strange, fierce forms, shrieking and mocking her; and whenever she stooped down to aid the old man, it would come between them and conceal him from her.

At last a deep-drawn sigh gave notice that she was returning to a consciousness of the dreadful reality. She opened her eyes with difficulty, and for an instant gazed round her, and then again closed them. That glance had revealed to her that she was no longer in her own cabin, though she still felt that she was at sea. For some time after this she remained with her eyes closed, trying to collect her scattered thoughts, till at last she remembered the fight with the Sea Hawk, and the appearance of Zappa at the door of her cabin.

The thoughts of what had occurred were almost sufficient to drive back her mind to a state of insensibility, if not to madness itself; but she felt that all the courage and energy she could muster were requisite for her guidance, and by a strenuous exertion of the intellect, she conquered the feeling which was so nearly overpowering her. Once more she opened her eyes, and tried to raise herself, that she might discover where she was.

The movement she made attracted the attention of some one who appeared to be occupied at a little distance from her, and who instantly flew to her side.

“Oh, my dear mistress, the saints have heard my prayers, and you have come to life again!” exclaimed the voice of Marianna, who immediately presented herself before her, with a countenance in which pleasure overcame every other feeling.

“Oh, tell me, where am I? What has happened?” exclaimed Ada, eagerly; but the exertion or excitement caused her again almost to faint.

“Hush, hush, my dear mistress,” whispered Marianna. “Do not be alarmed. You are not in a condition to ask questions, nor to listen to my answers, so I shall say nothing. You have been very ill with a fever, and you are to take this medicine, which will do you much good.”

As she spoke, she presented a glass, filled with a cooling beverage, which, as Ada felt very thirsty, and her mouth dreadfully parched, she gratefully drank off and lay back on her pillows.

She saw that she was in a large cabin, furnished and ornamented with much taste; and through the open stern-ports, from which a light pure breeze blew in and cooled her fevered brow, she saw the calm blue sea glittering in the sunshine, and in the far distance the land rising in picturesque hillocks from out of the water. While she was gazing at this calm and soothing scene, and meditating on the meaning of Marianna’s words, she fell into a quiet slumber.

The Maltese girl watched her mistress till she saw that she slept, and then busied herself in putting the cabin in order, and in dusting the furniture, as if she were in a room on shore.

The cabin was, as has been described, in the after part of the vessel, and occupied its entire width. It was fitted up with bird’s-eye maple, and the mouldings were gilt.

There were two large sofas, or standing bed-places, on either side, with brass bars overhead, by which a curtain could be drawn round them.

The space between the two ports was occupied by a rack, on which were arranged with much taste, a number of richly-embossed arms, pistols, swords, and daggers—and against the bulkhead was another stand, filled with muskets and cutlasses, brightly polished.

On the couch farthest from the door, on the starboard side, lay Ada; with her feet towards the stern, and her head supported by pillows; so that the full force of such air as could find its way through the ports should blow on her face. As she slept, a fresh bloom slowly crept over her cheek, which had hitherto been of a deathlike paleness, and as her faithful attendant watched its appearance, she hailed it as a sign of returning health.

In the centre of the cabin was a table on which now stood a large vase, filled with sweet-scented flowers, which spoke of the shore and civilisation. There was, indeed, in the arrangement of the cabin generally, a mixture of elegant luxury and warlike preparation, which gave it the appearance of the cabin of a yacht fitted for a voyage among savage or treacherous people. Whatever she was, Marianna seemed perfectly at home. Her work-basket was on the table, and various things belonging to it were scattered about; as were several articles of female apparel, which showed also that she considered the cabin sacred to her mistress and herself. When she had arranged everything to her satisfaction, she again sat down composedly to her work, and amused herself, as she plied her needle, by singing a song of her native island, in a tone, however, too low to run any risk of disturbing her mistress. After some time she got tired of singing, and then as some people are apt to do, who are fond of keeping their tongues going when they have nobody else to speak to, she began to talk to herself. She did not raise her voice, it is true, above a whisper, but still it was sufficient to give exercise to that little fidgety occupant of the mouth.

“Well, this is all very nice, and very pleasant, and very agreeable; and the gentlemen are very civil, and very respectful, and very kind; but I wonder when we shall ever reach the shore,” she said; and then she went on singing again, and then once more began to talk as follows:—“I suppose, as they say, we shall at last reach the shore, and everything will be as it should be, and my mistress will be happy and contented after all her troubles—poor dear, sweet, young lady—I’m sure she ought to be. Well, it does puzzle me, exceedingly—that it does—I cannot make it out, no more, I am sure, would wiser heads than mine. But there is one thing I am very sure of, that Signor Paolo is one of the wisest and most amiable young gentlemen I ever saw. So melancholy, too, he seems—something very dreadful weighs on his spirits, I am sure. I don’t think he is in love—I thought so at first; but when I hinted that he was, he gave the nearest approach to a smile of which he is capable, which I’m sure he would not have done, if he was a victim of the tender passion. One thing is certain, however—he saved the life of my sweet young mistress. If it had not been for his knowing how to doctor, I’m sure she would have died—dear, dear, how sad it would have been—what would have become of me, too! Well, when she recovers, and I tell her all that has happened, I am sure she’ll think the same of him that I do. When she does begin, she will be asking me so many questions—I wish that I could answer one half of them—first, she’ll want to know what has become of the poor old gentleman, her uncle. Well, he certainly was a passionate, grumpy, sour old man as ever lived. Yet he had his good points—he had a kind heart, which made him do many a kind thing in his own rough way. He was generous, too, when he thought people deserving, and then he dotingly loved my young mistress, and intended to leave her all his money. What shall I tell her has become of him? I can tell her nothing; for I know no more than she does; or what has become of the brave Captain Bowse, or his polite mates, or even of that stupid long-legged fellow, Mitchell. I’m afraid, after the dreadful noise I heard, they must all long ago have gone to the other world. But to believe so would make my young lady sad, and would agitate her, and Signor Paolo says she must be kept quiet, so I will tell her I know nothing. Ah! that will be the safest plan.”

While she was running on in this way, a gentle knock was heard at the door—she sprang up, and went to it cautiously.

“Who is there?” she asked.

“It is I, Paolo—may I enter?” answered a voice from without.

“Oh yes, indeed you may, Signor Paolo,” she whispered through the keyhole, and at the same time withdrew the bolts from the door. As she did so she fancied she heard a bolt drawn slowly back outside. When the door opened, a young man entered, habited in the Greek costume, though his features were more like those of one born in Italy, as was the language he spoke.

“Has the lady yet awoke, and have you given her the potion I left for her?” he asked in a cautious tone.

“Si, signor, she not only awoke, and drank up the draught, but she began to talk, and has now gone to sleep again,” replied Marianna. “See how sweetly she sleeps.”

The young man stepped across the cabin so that he might be able to see Ada’s countenance.

He observed the slight roseate tinge which had visited her cheek, and her calm, quiet breathing.

“The lady does well,” he whispered. “I will send you another draught to give her when she awakes, which she will not however do until towards the evening; and then, when she speaks, try to tranquillise her mind, and induce her again to sleep. The slightest agitation might be fatal to her.”

“Oh, then, signor, I will tell her anything you advise,” answered Marianna. “But I am much puzzled what to say; and I want you to tell me, among many other things, where we are going; because I know that will be one of the first questions she will ask me, and I’m sure I can’t answer it.”

The young man hesitated before he spoke.

“Tell her,” he said, at last, “that we are going to a place where she will be kindly and honourably treated; but that you know not the name of it. I am not the commander of this vessel, nor can I direct her course; and I am not allowed to say more than I have.”

“Oh, but you have great influence with him who is commander; and you can make him do what you like, I am sure,” urged the Maltese girl.

“Indeed, I cannot,” answered the young man, mournfully. “My influence extends but a short way, and can be but rarely exerted in the cause of right. Were I to attempt too much, I should become altogether powerless.”

He stopped, as if he had said too much, and seemed about to leave the cabin. He again, however, went up to Marianna, and whispered—“It may be better for your mistress and yourself that she remain as if overcome with illness till the conclusion of the voyage. Urge her not to rise, or to attempt to go on deck; and tell her that the leech who has attended her, has prescribed perfect silence and calmness. You understand me?”

“I do, signor—though I cannot comprehend your reasons,” returned Marianna. “But, at all events, you can tell me when the voyage is to be brought to a conclusion. It has lasted already a long time. I did not think the Mediterranean sea was so large.”

“Even there I cannot satisfy you,” returned he who was called by Marianna Signor Paolo. “Certainly not for many days; it may be even for some weeks. You observe, that we do not always continue sailing. We visit the shore occasionally, and, sometimes, remain hours together at anchor.”

“I cannot say exactly that I discovered that,” answered the girl. “I thought sometimes the ship appeared to sail very slowly, and that we were very near the shore; but I knew not that we were altogether at rest. Yet I cannot understand why you should not tell me where we are going to.”

“Perhaps I myself do not know,” returned Paolo evasively. “The commander of this ship does not always say where he will next steer.”

“There again—who is your commander?” asked the girl. “It is strange you should not have told me his name.”

“You are much too curious, Marianna,” answered Signor Paolo. “I must again warn you to prevent your mistress from asking questions, which you cannot answer; and now I must leave you, for the present; for I dare not remain long at a time here.”

Saying this, to the great disappointment of Marianna, who had made up her mind to enjoy a long chat, he took his departure; and she bolted and locked the door behind him—saying, as she did so, “I will do as he tells me, at all events; and, as I may not go out, no one else shall come in without my leave.”

The bright rays of the sun were streaming through the stern-ports, and glittering on the arms and the gilt mouldings of the bulkheads, when Ada Garden again awoke. Her eyes were dazzled by the bright refulgence which they encountered, and almost blinded, she closed them, till Marianna bethought of drawing the curtain across the foot of her couch. In so doing she saw that her mistress was awake.

Now, although the glare of the sunlight had disturbed Ada’s slumbers, it had had the beneficial effect of imparting somewhat of its brightness to her spirits; and instead of the gloomy oppression which she had before experienced, she now felt a glow of hope circling round her heart; and she was fully prepared to credit the favourable account of the state of affairs which Marianna was about to give her as soon as she was questioned.

“Where am I—what has happened?” she asked, endeavouring to sit up.

“You must take another draught before I am at liberty to tell you anything, my dear signora,” answered Marianna, bringing her the goblet which Paolo had sent. She drank the cooling mixture, and it served still further to revive her. “Now let me arrange your pillows, and I will tell you all you want to know,” said the faithful girl, arranging her couch. “There, now you are comfortable! Well, first, we are with very kind, considerate people, who do everything I wish; and we are as safe as we can be on board ship—though I wish ships had never been invented; then we are going to a very beautiful place—though, when we are to get there depends on the wind and other circumstances, which I am not clever enough to explain.”

She was running on in this style, when Ada cut her short by abruptly asking—

“Where is my uncle? Is he on board? Why does he not come to me?”

“Ah! there are some little mysteries which I cannot explain just now, and that is one of them,” promptly returned Marianna. “The signor colonel is not on board the ship, nor is the good Captain Bowse—they all went away in the other one; and we—that we might be much safer—we came on board this one. Here we are, and here we must remain, till you, my dear signora, can get well enough to go on shore; but there is no hurry, for we could not be better off than we are now. So, as you have asked a great many questions, which your doctor said that if you did I was not to answer, yet I have done so, you must try and go fast asleep again, and forget all about it.”

Ada was still too weak, she discovered, to talk; and her mind had not either sufficiently recovered its clearness to perceive the glaring evasiveness of her servant’s replies; so, satisfied that her apprehensions of danger were groundless, she amused herself by examining the fittings of the cabin, and by watching through the open ports the magnificent effect of the setting sun, which now just dipping in the water, seemed to convert the whole ocean into a sheet of liquid gold. She thus discovered that the ship was steering an easterly course, from which she concluded that she was still on her voyage to Cephalonia.

Two more days passed away, and served to restore to Ada Garden her strength both of mind and body, though the uncertainty of the past and present, and painful anticipations for the future, much retarded her complete recovery.

In vain she questioned Marianna. Her lively attendant knew but little—and even that, she had been taught, it would be beneficial to her mistress to conceal. The young Italian had once entered the cabin while she was awake, and had felt her pulse, in order to be better able to prescribe for her, but had remained not a moment longer than was absolutely necessary in her presence. She resolved, however, the next time he came to detain and question him; for the description given of him by Marianna, already made her place confidence in him. She had not long to wait for an opportunity; for that evening, just before sunset, his knock was heard at the cabin doors, and with the usual caution he entered.

“How is your mistress?” he asked of Marianna. “Does she feel stronger?”

“She is awake to answer for herself,” returned the Maltese girl, “and will gladly speak to you.”

The young man started—he had so generally found her unconscious, that he seemed not to have expected to find her able to question him. He, however, crossed the cabin and stood with his arms folded, leaning against the bulkhead, where she could not observe his countenance. Ada was the first to speak.

“I am glad you have come, signor,” she said, in a low tone; “for I am anxious to express my gratitude to you for the attention with which, as my maid tells me, you have treated me during my illness, and to which I feel sensible I am much indebted for my recovery.”

“Lady, I have but performed the duty in obedience to the order of another,” he replied, in a tone so calm that it sounded almost cold to her ear. “I found you suffering, and I have employed what knowledge I possess of the healing art to restore you to health. I rejoice to find that my efforts have not been totally unavailing.”

“To you, at all events, my gratitude is due,” returned Ada. “And I would lay myself under a still further obligation, by asking you to tell me what ship I am on board, how I came here, and to where I am being conveyed?”

The Italian hesitated, as if he was framing an answer, which Ada remarked to herself. At last he replied,—“Lady, your first question I may answer. You are on board a man-of-war belonging to the patriot Greeks, who are struggling for their liberty against the infidel Turks; and you are in possession of the commander’s cabin. How you came here I am less able to inform you, and thus much only, further, I know, that we are sailing for one of the islands of the Grecian Archipelago, where you will be landed, and placed with those who will tend you carefully. Lady, I regret that I cannot tell you more.”

The suspicions of Ada were much increased on hearing these words.

“I believe that you, signor, would not willingly deceive me,” she observed. “The very tone of your voice forbids the supposition. But tell me, as the Greek patriots are on friendly terms with the English, should I desire to be placed on board a British ship-of-war, of which I believe there are several in these seas, would not your commander comply with my wishes?”

“The commander of this ship is anxious to do all he can to gratify you, lady; but to do as you wish may not be in his power.”

“Signor,” said Ada, glancing at his features. “I have heard that voice before. You speak Italian well; but so do many Greeks. Tell me, are you the commander of this ship?”

“Lady, I am not,” returned the young man emphatically. “I am but acting as the surgeon of the ship, to soothe the anguish of those who are wounded. I have no authority on board.”

“Then why does not the commander visit me?” said Ada, “I would see him and urge my request to be placed under the protection of the British flag. Surely he would not refuse to do so.”

“Oh, lady, do not ask to see him,” exclaimed the Italian, forgetting his cold reserve and previous caution. “You know not what misfortune you may bring on yourself by so doing. He believes that you are now sick, almost to death, and that your only chance of restoration to health is rest and quiet on shore.”

“You speak in enigmas,” said Ada, quickly taking alarm. “Surely the commander of a man-of-war would not detain an English lady against her will; and my having recovered would make him still more anxious to enable me to return to my friends.”

The Italian stood for some minutes lost in thought.

“You know not lady how you came to be on board this vessel,” he said. “You now compel me to tell you. Your attendant informs me that the ship in which you sailed from Malta was attacked by a corsair, and captured; but that you and she were the only persons conveyed on board the pirate vessel; and that you, having fainted during the engagement, were unconscious of all that took place. It appears that for a short time only you remained on board the pirate, still in a happy state of unconsciousness of the misfortune which had befallen you, when we caught sight of the ship, chased, and captured her. You and your attendant were found on board, respectfully treated, and in possession of the chief cabin. This was a suspicious circumstance, for who could tell that you were not willingly on board.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ada, almost smiling at the atrocious supposition. “Surely no one could believe that I was acting in consort with pirates?”

“Lady, I do not; but all may not so readily believe the truth,” returned the Italian.

“But am I and my innocent attendant then to be punished as pirates,” asked Ada, with a hysterical laugh.

“Scarcely so, lady; but you may be required to give evidence against them,” returned the Italian.

“I can give no evidence against them,” said Ada; “for, as you have been informed, I have been deprived of consciousness since I was found on board the English brig.”

“The observation you make, lady, is much in your favour,” remarked the Italian in a low tone.

“Then I am to understand,” continued Ada, not noticing it, “that I am, with an attendant, a prisoner in this cabin.”

“So I am compelled to confess, with much regret, is the case,” replied the surgeon.

“Then I understand it all,” she ejaculated, compressing her lips, and fixing her eyes upon the young man, who had advanced a few paces to the after part of the cabin. “From man I can expect no aid,—Heaven will not desert me.”

“Lady, God never deserts those who trust in him,” he replied, about to quit the cabin.

“Stay,” exclaimed Ada. “Those features, too, I have beheld before. Tell me where it was I saw you?”

“Lady, fancy often strangely deceives us,” returned the surgeon, in his former cold tone, and before she had time to ask another question, he had quitted the cabin.

She, as Marianna had before observed, heard a bolt drawn across it.

On board what vessel they were there might be a doubt; but there was none that they were prisoners.

Chapter Fifteen.

Malta lay basking on the calm blue ocean, in the full radiance of a mid-day sun, hot, white, and dazzling, when Her Majesty’s brig Ione made her number in the offing, approaching the port from the northward. It was observed at the signal station at the top of Government House, and from thence telegraphed to the guard-ship. At the same time another sail appeared from the eastward. She soon was made out to be a merchantman. Both had a fair wind. The brig of war stood in for the harbour on a bowline, her yards braced up on the larboard tack; and a very beautiful object she appeared, with all her canvas to her royals set to a nicety, as she rounded Fort Saint Elmo, and then kept away a little and run to her former anchorage, when, at a wave of her commander’s hand, as if by magic, the whole crowd of canvas was in an instant clewed up and furled, and she brought up off Fort Saint Angelo. The merchant brig, which had the yellow flag flying, ran towards Port Marsa Musceit, and deliberately furling one sail after another, she dropped her anchor at the quarantine station, for she had come from the land of the plague, and many a day must pass before she could get pratique. Captain Fleetwood ordered his gig and hastened on shore, in order to report himself and to deliver his despatches to the governor. He had just returned from a trip to Naples, where he had been sent to convey despatches and also to bring back a few casks of light wines for the governor’s table. He was cordially received by the old veteran, with whom he was a favourite. He was just taking his departure when he was called back.

“It may be for your satisfaction to learn, Captain Fleetwood, as I know that you are in a hurry to reach England, that you are to be sent home immediately with despatches and the mails,” said the governor kindly. “I dare say we shall see you out here again before long, from what I hear, eh?” Charles Fleetwood actually blushed.

“I shall certainly come back to the Mediterranean, with or without a ship, as soon as I can,” he answered; “and I hope I shall find you well, sir.”

“I shall be glad to see you, my lad, and I wish ye every success,” said the old governor kindly, as Fleetwood took his final leave. On his way back to the ship he called at the post-office, for he was anxious to ascertain, without delay, if there were any letters for him. He hoped to receive one from Cephalonia. He felt sure Ada would have contrived to write to him; and as he made the inquiry his heart beat much faster than usual. He had a packet of letters delivered to him; he ran his eye hurriedly over the addresses. Her handwriting was not to be seen. They were all from England. He then made every inquiry in his power from the shipping agents and others about the Zodiac; but nothing had been heard of her. It was supposed she must long ago have arrived at her destination. None of Colonel Gauntlett’s friends had heard of him. Disappointed and out of spirits, he at last returned on board. He was afraid that he should be obliged to leave Malta without hearing of her safe arrival; and then how many months might pass away before he might receive a line from her. He did not, however, forget that others would be glad to hear that they were to revisit their homes, and as he passed Mr Saltwell, the first lieutenant, who was superintending the business of sending the governor’s casks of wine on shore, he told him to prepare for sailing to England in a day or two. Before the captain had thrown himself on the sofa in his cabin, which he did as soon as he reached it, the joyous news had flown through the ship. Jemmy Duff was the first to carry the news into the midshipmen’s berth.

“Huzza, my lads!” he exclaimed, whisking round his cap, and letting it come down over the eyes of Togle, another youngster of his own standing, who was reeling after the fatigue of furling sails, and eating his dinner,—“Old England for ever! Who’ll bet that we shan’t be kissing our sweethearts at home this day six weeks?”

“Why, what do you mean?” cried several, looking up.

“Who’ll take my bet?” replied Duff.

“Why, I will,” answered Togle, who did not like being disturbed, clearing his head at the same time from the cap. “I will, because I don’t think such an ugly-looking chap as you are can have a sweetheart to kiss.”

Whereon he got the cap pressed down harder than before, with his nose in a slop of rum-and-water on the table.

“But what makes you sing out in that way?” asked Tompion, the second mate. “You don’t mean to say that we are homeward-bound, youngster?”

“I do, though; and the skipper has just come on board to say so,” replied Duff; and thereon there was a general shout of congratulation, for though all hands were very happy together, the thought of change was exciting, and that of home was dear to most of them.

“Well, the hope of the Duffs will be once more pressed to the maternal bosom. I congratulate you, Jemmy,” said Togle, who was trying to get his own nose in order, after its flattening in more senses than one, by putting that of his antagonist out of joint a little.

“Well, now we’ve had our cheer, and have all been flattering ourselves with the thoughts of home, I’m ready to take any bet Duff likes to make that we shall not be in England this day six weeks, or two months, if he likes, for I believe, after all, it’s a hum of his; and I propose we cob him as a punishment for deceiving his Majesty’s liege subjects and gallant officers as he has done.”

“I can prove, though, that I speak the truth,” exclaimed Jemmy, who saw the day turning against him. “Any one of you go and ask Mr Saltwell. He heard it from the captain, I tell you.”

“No, no,” put in Togle. “Punishment first and proof afterwards. That’s the way the Turks manage, and they are sensible people. You can take the cobbing first, and then go and ask Mr Saltwell, or the skipper himself, if you like.”

“You go and be damned, Togle,” retorted Duff. “You know well enough that I’m speaking the truth; and mind, old chap, I shall keep you to your bet,—two months, you said.”

“I made no bet,” answered Togle. “You offered to bet yourself, but you didn’t propose what it should be,—a dinner at the Star, or—”

Just then a personage appeared at the door of the berth, who was immediately appealed to.

“Oh! come in here, Muhajiar; you’ll know all about it,” cried Jack Raby. “Take a glass. We haven’t seen you for some time. Have you heard whether we are going home?”

“So the purser’s steward told me, gentlemen, and it is generally believed throughout the ship,” returned the individual addressed, who entered with such a bow as he could contrive to find room to make, and took his seat at the table, where with much gusto he drank off the porter offered to him. He was a stout, tallish man, with a good expression of countenance, and most of those who remember Malta in those and even later days, will recollect him as one of the most respectable tailors in the place. He had been, I believe, in the marines; but getting his discharge, set up for himself as a builder of garments, and soon managed to establish a very thriving business. He was always on the watch, and the moment a ship dropped her anchor he would come on board to take orders. He knew everybody and everything that was going forward, and was, consequently, a great authority.

“Huzza! it is true, for Paolo Muhajiar has heard it,” exclaimed Togle, looking hard at Duff. “Well, Jemmy, I’ll let you off your bet—but you will see that I am right.”

Signor Paolo Muhajiar took his leave, for he was not likely to get any orders, at all events, to be paid, if he executed them; and the berth was soon cleared of its rightful occupants—some to go on shore, others to their duties, and the rest to see what was going forward in the harbour.

The scene there was amusing. There were boats of all sorts and descriptions alongside; but there is one peculiarity of which Valetta may boast, to the disadvantage of nearly all other ports. The boats intended for the conveyance of passengers are kept in good order, and beautifully clean; and the boatmen belonging to them are also very careful to dress neatly—their linen always looking as white as snow. Some of the boats alongside had goats on board, and the aquatic goat-herds were offering to milk them to supply milk for the officers’ tea. It is not a bad way to secure pure milk.

The three mids of the Ione—Jack Raby, Duff, and Togle—were on the poop leaning over the quarter-rail, and amusing themselves by discussing affairs in general, and watching the panorama round them, when a boat with two thin, slight lads pulled out of the dockyard creek.

“He for dive, signor,” sung out one of them, looking up at our mids.

“He says he’ll bet you he’ll dive to the bottom and be back again sooner than you will, Togle. So overboard with you, and show him he’s wrong,” said Duff, trying to heave over his messmate.

“He says he’ll bring up a shilling if you heave it overboard,” answered Togle, retaliating by seizing the first coin he could lay hands on out of Master Jemmy’s waistcoat pocket—it was fortunately only half-a-crown. “There, Smaitch, it’s too much for one of you though, so both of you be after it.”

And holding it up to show, before Duff could snatch at it, it was glancing through the clear water of the harbour. Over went both the lads after it, eager to appropriate so rich a prize, and it is to be feared, had they had knives, they would have fought for it under the waves, and have neither of them returned. Luckily Duff, as he could not save his own coin, had managed to seize a shilling from Togle, which served to attract the attention of the one who was furthest from the great prize, and both of them came up to the surface an instant afterwards, with the pieces of money in their hands.

“Me for dive, signor—me for dive,” they both again sung out, hoping to get another coin from Raby.

“No, no more me for dive, you blackguards,” he answered, shaking his head. “You’ve had quite enough from these two Master Greens already.”

And the lads, after singing out a few more times, pulled on ahead, still crying, “Me for dive, signor; me for dive;” though little, beyond a few pence, did they get from the crew of an old Mediterranean cruiser like the Ione.

“Now suppose there were sharks here as they have in the West Indies, it would not be quite so easy to go overboard as it is,” observed Duff, who quickly recovered his temper, which he had lost with his half-crown.

“Oh, these fellows would laugh at a shark,” answered Raby. “Why even the blackies don’t fear them, and will attack and kill the largest. By the by, did you ever hear of the big fellow they keep in Port Royal harbour to do the duty of guard-boat? Not a man dares swim on shore when big Tom is on duty, and he never takes a snooze they say.”

“You don’t mean to say so,” said Togle, “but how do they manage to keep him there?”

“Oh, the Government promised him a superannuated pension when he’s no longer fit for work; but, as he finds he must go on shore to receive it, he is obliged to keep afloat; though he’s been so many years at it that no one remembers when he first came on the station.”

“He must be a rum old joker,” observed Duff. “Hillo, here comes old Monsieur Collet with his cargo of ginger-beer. Let’s go and get some; for I’m very thirsty.”

And away they all three scrambled to the gangway, to which a boat had come with a little wizened old man in her, and laden with bottles of ginger-beer, and other refreshing drinks.

“Hand us up ginger-beer there,” sung out Jemmy Duff. “But, I say, Monsieur Collet, remember, no pop—no pay.”

“Oh, no, signor. All my ginger-beer pop very much.”

And, to prove the truth of his assertion, off went half a dozen of his bottles fizzing away together; some, however, remained, and the old Frenchman insisted on himself cutting the lashings of the corks to give full effect of the pop. He would then put a far from clean thumb over the mouth to prevent the liquid from escaping; but still the froth would fiz and fume round it.

“Thank ye, Monsieur Collet, none of your digitalis for me,” remarked the assistant surgeon, who observed the operation, which, however, few others seemed to care for.

The attention of the idlers was soon drawn off from old Collet, and his refreshing draughts, towards a boat which pulled alongside, filled with musicians, who if they produced sounds not especially harmonious, took care that they should be loud enough to be heard far and wide.

“Huzza for the Banjee,” sung out some of the men forward. “Come, Smaitch, tip us a tune there—Go ahead, Banjee!” and on this requisition the performers in the Banjee boat began to exert their talents to the great delight of their hearers, who rewarded them with showers of pence. Not, however, of this character are the principal Banjee boats; which really contain very good musicians, who enliven the harbour with their sweet harmony, and are often some of the best performers from the Opera House. Valetta harbour is in truth as lively and animated, as interesting and picturesque a sheet of water as is to be found in any part of the world. On the north side of where the ship lay were the dazzling white walls of the city towering towards the blue sky, with the Marina below them, and numerous vessels moored along the quays; on the other side the frowning batteries of Fort Saint Angelo, and the Venetian looking canal, called Dockyard Creek; many of the houses having doors cut through the rock opening down to the water, the whole wearing an aspect more Oriental than European. Then the boats, darting about in every direction, mostly painted bright green and yellow, with upright sterns rising high above the gunnel, and great big eyes painted on the bows—very often having the name of some ship or other on them in addition.

And the boatmen, with their long red or blue caps, the tassel reaching to their waists, their gay waistcoats, their shirt-sleeves rolled up above their elbows exhibiting their brawny arms, their red sashes, their blue overall trousers, and their nankeen ones below, are not unworthy of remembrance. But the most picturesque objects are the lateen sails with their long tapering yards either wing and wing when skimming along before the wind, or heeling over when close-hauled upon it.

Such in part was the scene viewed from the deck of the Ione.

Captain Fleetwood sat meditating in his cabin. He had read all his letters from home. They contained nothing that was not satisfactory, and yet his thoughts were far from cheerful. He was out of spirits at not hearing from Ada; from being unable to gain any information about her. He, however, had received no positive orders for sailing, and he trusted that tomorrow or the following day some vessel from Cephalonia might arrive, and bring a letter for him; still his heart would sink with forebodings of ill, when he recollected the suspicions he had entertained, and the warnings he had given to Bowse respecting the speronara and her crew. A man who is in love, when he is absent from the object of his affections, is certainly very much to be pitied, if he has the slightest particle of imagination; for he is sure to employ it in conceiving that all sorts of misfortunes and miseries, and disasters, are befalling her.

He was aroused from his meditations by a message from the governor, requesting to see him immediately, on urgent business. He sprang up, put on his cocked hat, buckled to his sword-belt, and ordering his gig to be manned, pulled on shore as fast as he could, and toiled upwards, by steps innumerable, to the governor’s palace.

“Ye will be surprised, doubtless, Captain Fleetwood, at my sending for ye again to-day,” said the governor, in a kind tone, as he entered. “But sit down, mon, sit down and rest yourself, for I have a very extraordinary communication to make to ye, which I cannot fail to think will agitate ye; and I therefore considered it advisable to speak to ye on the subject myself.”

“For Heaven’s sake tell me what it is, sir,” exclaimed Fleetwood, who, on first entering, had seen that something was wrong; and his fears having already pointed all round the compass, he had settled that it was in some way connected with Ada Garden.

“Ye must be calm and tranquil, mon, in a case like this; for ye will require all your judgment and discretion to discover the means of accomplishing your object;” continued the governor, not noticing the interruption. “And as I considered ye a mon in every way calculated for the purpose I have in view, and, moreover, particularly suited, from other reasons, which ye yourself will allow, I instantly made application to employ you on it.” Fleetwood almost groaned. He could not again venture to interrupt the governor, though he was bursting with impatience to have his fears relieved or confirmed. “Well, I see ye wish to be informed on the subject, which is very natural, Captain Fleetwood; and, therefore, I must premise that I have this day received notice of the arrival of a brig, a merchantman from Smyrna, and that she is now performing quarantine in Port Marsa Musceit. Her master has written a statement which has been forwarded to me; and which, if correct, and I see no reason to doubt it, proves that further efforts are required to put down piracy and robbery and murder in these seas; and by God they shall not be wanting as long as I’m ruler here.”

“Well, sir; well, sir,” ejaculated Fleetwood.

“But ay, the statement. It is to the effect that the brig Mary Jane, William Jones master, on her voyage from Smyrna to Malta, did in latitude ... degrees north, longitude ... degrees east, sight the hull of a vessel dismasted. That not lying much out of her course, she hauled up for her; and on a nearer approach she appeared to be water-logged, by her lowness in the water, and the heavy way in which she rolled; that on getting close to her, the Mary Jane was hove to, and a boat lowered into the water, into which the first mate and a boat’s crew got, and pulled on board her. It appears that the mate, when he first got alongside, thought that she had been brought into her present condition by a storm, from the appearance her shattered bulwarks presented; but that, climbing up her side, she found a number of shot-holes, and round-shot sticking in them, and her spars and rigging lying about the decks, evidently destroyed by shot. He therefore came to the conclusion that she had been hotly engaged with an enemy of very superior force, as she herself only carried four guns; and it would require a large number, or else very rapid firing, for a long time, to send so many into her as he observed. He soon discovered that there was no human being alive on board her; but on more minute examination, he was of opinion, from the state of the decks, that there had been some severe fighting, and a number of people killed on them. All the bodies, however, had been thrown overboard. The hold of the ship had been ransacked, was almost empty, as were the cabins, which had evidently been fitted up for passengers, and there were a few articles of female gear scattered about, which made him suppose that there had been ladies on board.”

“Great Heaven!” ejaculated Captain Fleetwood, starting up. “The name, sir—the name?”

“The name is just what the mate had considerable difficulty himself in discovering; for, you see, the master had a fancy to have it painted so low under the counter, that it could not be seen, sunk deep in the water as the ship now was. At last, however, one of the men who accompanied him, found a book with the name of Bowse in it, which he concluded to be that of the master.”

“The same,” groaned poor Fleetwood. “It was the Zodiac. She is lost—lost to me for ever. Oh, Ada, Ada!”

And again he groaned, as if death could alone relieve his heart from his load of misery.

“Hoot, mon, hoot! ne’er say die while there’s life!” exclaimed the bluff old governor. “Ye have no positive proof that any one ye care for is dead or lost to ye. I tell ye, the mate of the Mary Jane found no one dead on board the vessel; and, as she had no boats remaining, it is just a plausible supposition that the survivors of the crew and the passengers may have escaped from the ship they thought was sinking in one of them; and we may hear of your friends turning up somewhere or other; for I do not pretend to deny that, when I first received notice of the outrage, I felt convinced that my friend, Colonel Gauntlett and his bonnie niece were among the sufferers.”

“Too true, they were, sir,” replied Fleetwood, by a great effort, endeavouring to collect his thoughts for active service.

“It was that supposition, and not ignorant also of your attachment to the young leddie, which made me resolve to apply, instanter, that the Ione might be sent in the first place to search for the crew and passengers of the late brig the Zodiac; for I ought to say, she sank while the Mary Jane was yet close to her; and then, it will be gratifying and soothing to your feelings, under the circumstances, to chastise the miscreants who have perpetrated this atrocity—and I do not suppose, Captain Fleetwood, that ye will be disposed to spare them more than I should.”

And the grim old soldier gave a look which indicated no inclination to be lenient.

“We will hang every mother’s son of them; and teach other villains that these seas can no longer be made the field for the exercise of their marauding disposition. Ye understand, Captain Fleetwood—ye may take them alive if ye can; but ye may sink, burn, and destroy them all, sooner than let one escape.”

“I comprehend, sir, clearly,” answered Fleetwood. “When can I sail?”

“I am expecting your orders every instant,” replied the governor. “It is a considerate change of destination, to be sure; but I knew the duty would be gratifying to you; and, fortunately, your brig is the only vessel on the station fit to be sent on it, while the despatches can go home by the Racehorse as well. Sit quiet a few minutes till the orders arrive; and I will in the mean time glance my eye over a paper I have to read.”

Captain Fleetwood threw himself back in his seat, and covered his eyes with his hands. The old governor, who had purposely been more circumvolute even than usual, in order not too suddenly to shock his feelings, looked up at him with a kind expression, which showed that he truly entered into his wretchedness.

“I have been considering, sir,” said Fleetwood, suddenly looking up, “what clue can be found of the pirates’ places of retreat; for, if they did not destroy those on board the Zodiac, I feel sure that they will have carried them off.”

“Ah! that is the proper spirit with which to meet a misfortune,” exclaimed the governor, rising and placing his hand on Fleetwood’s shoulder. “Look it in the face, and think how you can best overcome it. You deserve to succeed—and you will succeed, mon, I am sure. Well, as to the clue, that is an important consideration, which must be thought of.”

Captain Fleetwood remained some time longer in consultation with the governor. His orders, which had been sent up to the palace, were handed to him, and with them in his pocket he hurried on board.

“Mr Saltwell,” he said, as he ascended the side, “hoist the blue-peter, and take every means of getting all hands on board. We sail to-night for the Levant. I shall be happy to see you as soon as convenient in the cabin.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” mechanically answered the first lieutenant, who, as he looked at his commander, at first thought that he had gone out of his mind; but he soon saw that something extraordinary had happened to cause this sudden change in their destination, and without stopping further to consider what it was, he took the necessary steps to obey the orders he had received. The announcement, as might have been expected, created, at first, no little dissatisfaction and disappointment throughout the ship, but that was before any one was aware of the reasons of the change. Mr Togle was the first of the midshipmen to hear the news, and down he rushed into the berth, where most of his messmates were collected.

“You’ve lost your bet, Jemmy,” he exclaimed, giving Duff a slap on the shoulder. “Instead of going to England we’re bound for the Levant, old fellow; so fork out. You betted a dinner at the Star, didn’t you?”

“Well, suppose I believed your humbug,” answered Duff, “I’m ready to give you a dinner at the Star; but if we don’t go to England, I’m sure I don’t know how you are to eat it; so I’ve done you, old fellow!”

Thereon the discussion grew warm, as to how a bet under such circumstances should be settled, no one believing Mr Togle’s assertion of their change of destiny. It was interrupted by the shrill pipe of the boatswain’s whistle, and the hoarse cry of—

“All hands, unmoor ship,” which echoed along the decks.

“There’s something in the wind, any how,” exclaimed Jack Raby, as they all jumped up to hurry to their stations.

“I told you so,” said Togle. “We shall have plenty of adventures before we again see old England, depend on it.”

Chapter Sixteen.

There is in the northern portion of the Grecian Archipelago—and, from being out of the usual track of vessels, little known even to the modern voyager, and in the days of which I write still less so—a small island called by the mariners of those regions the Island of Lissa, though I am not aware under what name it appears in the English charts. In extent it is five or six miles long, and from two to three broad; its lofty sides rise in most places as rocky precipices from out of the blue ocean, and only on the southern side can anchorage-ground be found. It appears, on sailing round it at a short distance off, to be a barren, inaccessible rock—a fit abode only for the wild sea-fowl which may be seen hovering round it. Its aspect, on approaching nearer, alters, and here and there a pathway, cut in zig-zag down the rock, may be discerned; and at one spot on the north, which appears at first to be a mere crevice in the rock, to the seaman who steers boldly towards it, an opening is revealed between the lofty cliffs, so narrow that the yards of a ship might touch either side, yet with the water so deep that one of large tonnage may enter, and find herself in a beautiful basin surrounded with a fringe of yellow sand—lofty rocks, of many hues, rising on every side, with a deep ravine running up into the interior, its sides also equally rugged and precipitous. Neither tree nor shrub can be seen in this wild but picturesque spot: rock, water, sand, and sky, are the only component parts of the landscape. At the time I speak of a few small light boats were drawn up on the beach, and two crafts of considerably larger size lay moored in the basin or cove. They were long, low vessels, entirely decked over, and fitted to pull some twenty oars; they had thick stumpy masts, and long tapering yards, for lateen sails, now stowed fore and aft in the boats. The sails were bent, the oars being placed along the thwarts, and they wore an air which showed they would be ready for sea at a moment’s notice.

There was somewhat a wicked look about them, at the same time they might belong to peaceable fishermen; for there were several nets hung up on poles along the shore, and at times a few old men might be seen mending them or cleaning the boats. The chief communication between the cove or basin I have described and the interior of the island was by a narrow pathway, which ran along near the bottom of the ravine for some distance, and then, turning to the right with many a zig-zag, led along the edge of deep precipices till it reached the summit of the cliffs. At the very bottom of the ravine leaped and sparkled a bright, clear rivulet, the only stream in the island. It might be seen far up, indeed, at what might be called the head of the ravine, rushing forth from between two cliffs, and bounding down a fall of two or three hundred feet in a mass of glittering foam.

One of the wildest and most inaccessible spots in the island was in that portion to the right, or east of the cove—the point of land, indeed, formed by it and the sea, and bounded on the north by the ravine. The only access to it from the rest of the island was from the north-east by a narrow neck of land, with the sea-cliffs on one side and those of the ravine on the other.

This wild and rugged spot had been selected centuries ago, when the then powerful republic of Venice held sway over considerable territories in those seas, for the erection of a stronghold; and certainly no place could have been better adapted, by its position and nature, for defying the attacks of an enemy from without, or for guarding any rich argosies taking shelter in the bay below. It was of course for the purpose of protecting their commerce that this rock had been seized on and fortified. It had probably also at some other period been increased and strengthened on the land side, and occupied for less laudable objects than the mere protection of commerce. Whatever might have been the original intention of its erection and its subsequent use, the massive towers and turreted walls had long since been disused, and had fallen into the decay of years, unheeded and unknown, except by a few families of fishermen who had from generation to generation followed the same occupation. I call them fishermen, because such was the designation they would have given themselves, had they been questioned on the subject, and very properly so, for that was the occupation they and their fathers had followed from time immemorial—when they happened to have no other more lucrative or interesting employment. Another change had, however, of late years come over the ancient ruins, and though it could not be said that they had assumed much of their pristine appearance, some of the least dilapidated portions, at all events, gave signs of being the habitations of human beings. One tower especially had been roofed in, as had a building attached to it, and smoke had been seen to ascend from its hearth; and faces, hitherto strangers to the island, had appeared at its windows. The village in which most of the old inhabitants of the island resided was on the opposite side of the ravine, in a spot almost as inaccessible as that on which the castle stood, but somewhat more convenient for a congregation of persons; and as it was in a manner fortified by art, in addition to what nature had done, they never found the Turks anxious to attempt the no easy task of dispossessing them. Although the exterior of the island was so rugged and unprepossessing, and so destitute of verdure and cultivation, there were spots in the interior where the orange, the citron, the pear, the apple, and the vine flourished in rich luxuriance; the sides of the hills were clothed with olive-trees, and the more even portions with fields of waving corn, amply sufficient for the simple wants of the population; and though cattle might be rare, thriving herds of goats found herbage among the rocks, and on the narrow ledges of the rugged cliffs. In fact, everything which the mere unsophisticated wants of man could require, the island itself supplied, except clothing and weapons; and for the purpose of collecting these the misticoes in the cove were found extremely useful,—no spot, indeed, could be more calculated for the abode of peace, innocence, and rural simplicity—a complete island Arcadia; and so it would possibly have become, had the inhabitants been less addicted to maritime adventure; but then they would have had to go about in the state in which were our first parents, before the fall, or to have dressed in goats’ skins; and at all events they would have had no arms to defend themselves against the Turks; so that their frequent naval expeditions might have been prompted by the excess of their patriotism, and would, therefore, to say no more about them, have been most laudable.

But the part of the island with which we are most interested is that to the east of the bay, where the ruined castle was situated. The tower which I have described as having been rendered somewhat habitable, stood in a position by which it commanded an extensive view to the southward and eastward, as also of the bay or cove below. Yet, although placed apparently in so exposed a situation, so completely surrounded was it by rocks of the same hue as the stone of which it was constructed, that at a short distance off only, on the sea, it could in no way be distinguished from them.

I must introduce the reader to an apartment in the upper part of the said tower, which possessed two windows, one looking to the south, the other into the cove.

The room presented an appearance which could not at all have been expected from the condition of the outside. It was furnished, not only completely, but most richly and luxuriously, yet in a way which showed that the hand of a professional artist had not been employed. The floor was covered with a Turkey carpet of the most valuable description, and round the room, in Oriental style, were arranged couches, with the softest cushions, and carved with thick silks of varied patterns. The walls were lined with damask hangings, of a light blue, and the ceiling was arranged in the form of a tent, composed of cottons, which had probably been fabricated in the looms of England. There were tables in the room, and seats scattered about around them.

Besides the hangings on the walls, they were ornamented with pictures of much value, and racks of arms, richly chased, and arranged so as to form many fanciful devices.

The whole appearance of the apartment showed that it had been hurriedly fitted up, with lavish disregard of expense, and with materials which might have been most conveniently at hand, but were not originally intended for the purpose to which they were devoted. The arrangements, also, were such as a seaman might be supposed to have made, more, probably, than any other person. The room had an occupant—a young and very beautiful girl. Her beauty was of the pensive cast. She had large black, gazelle eyes, a clear olive complexion—clear as purity itself,—and a figure slight and graceful, with a cast of feature of the most classic mould. As she sat at the window, gazing out on the blue sea, ever and anon a slight roseate tinge would appear in her soft cheek, and vanish rapidly as the thoughts which made it rise. Her costume was rather fanciful, than either Grecian or of any other people, and though elegant and becoming, she appeared to have formed it from a profuse supply of costly materials placed at her disposal. It partook, however, of the character of the dress of the East, though European taste might have been detected in it.

She seemed very sad; for, though she held a book in her hand, with which she was apparently endeavouring to divert her attention from melancholy thoughts, her eyes would constantly wander over the wide blue sea, the only object visible from the window, and a pearly drop from her dark eye would steal down her cheek, and fall unheeded on the page before her, while an unconscious sigh would burst from her heaving bosom.

There was evidently a weight on her young heart, a grief which was wearing out the elasticity of her spirits, withering her glorious beauty, and making her aged before her time. Perchance she mourned the absence of one she loved, and was wearied with anxiety for his return; perhaps the canker-worm of remorse was at work within her, for a fault committed and irretrievable; perhaps she was the victim of lawless outrage, a captive against her will; perhaps she had been severed from all she loved on earth, and the bright hopes of life had been blasted for ever. At last she closed her book with a smile; but it was one of pain and bitterness at the hopelessness of her attempt to divert her mind from the contemplation of the present. A guitar, such as is generally used in Italy, lay on the divan near her; she took it up, and ran her fingers over the strings. For a few minutes she struck a plaintive air, in consonance with her feelings, and then, almost unconsciously, she added her voice to the strain in a rich flow of melody. Her words, too, were sad, and the language was that of Italy.

Nina’s Song.

Chapter Twenty Two.

“One summer’s evening, my sister and I were seated with our father at an open window of our apartment in the castle, whence we could enjoy a view of the calm waters of the Adriatic. He was more cheerful than he had been for a long time; and Nina took her guitar, and sang to him some of the songs in which he used formerly to delight.

“While we sat there I observed a white sail in the far distance; and it seemed to me to approach nearer and nearer the land. I pointed it out to Nina; and it struck me afterwards that she grew pale as I spoke, and placed her hand on her heart, as if to stop its throbbing. Yet at the time I thought nothing of it. For a few minutes she was silent, and lost in meditation, but at length recovered herself, and continued singing. I remarked this, and I remember rallying her on the subject, saying that her songs were all those she knew of a sad and plaintive character.

“The time for sleep arrived, and we retired to our chambers. Nina kissed our father’s cheek, and was going, but went back and kissed him again, and he blessed her at parting. I had slept some hours, I know not how long, when I awoke, feeling hot and feverish. I tried again to sleep, but could not; and at length I arose for the purpose of taking a walk round the battlements, thinking that the cool night air, which came off the sea, would calm and refresh me.

“On my way to the small turret gate, which led from a tower to the top of the castle wall, I had to pass Nina’s chamber. The door was open. I looked in—the chamber was vacant. Surprised, though not much alarmed, for I thought she had, unknown to me, gone to occupy the one which had been our sister’s, I continued my progress.

“As I opened the gate, the night air, which blew in and circled round the bower, struck my feelings as peculiarly cold and damp, and a low, moaning sound came across the waters. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured by a veil of clouds which had gathered in the sky, so that, to my eyes, accustomed to the light of the lamp I had carried thus far, the darkness seemed almost palpable. I, however, could have gone round the walls blindfold, so that this was to me a matter of indifference, and I stepped out on the battlements. I had proceeded some way, when I was startled by seeing the bright rays of a light flashing across the courtyard before me. I stopped, and watched, with astonishment, for I could not surmise who could be in that part of the castle at that hour of the morning. I must state that on the side of the castle nearest the sea, within the outer walls, was a small chapel, dedicated to our Lady of the Rock, and here, on saints’ days and Sundays, and on certain other occasions, the priests from a neighbouring convent used to come and perform the services of the Church; for my father did not keep a regular chaplain, as is generally the custom. He was not a man to support the drones they usually are. The light, I was convinced, whose beams I saw, was in the chapel, through the windows of which it must come. By going on a little further along the battlements, I had a more extensive view of the chapel; and I now beheld a bright light streaming from all the windows. My astonishment was still further increased by hearing the voices of persons within: they were silent, and I then distinguished the voice, I thought, of a priest, engaged in the performance of a service. From a turret, some way on, a stone stair led down into the chapel; and as the key of the door was attached to the one I held in my hand, I determined at once to solve the mystery. Hastening on, I opened the door in the turret, and descended noiselessly. I reached the bottom of the steps, and a few paces more brought me to the door which opened into the chapel.

“I confess that, at that moment, all the stories I had ever heard of the power of the spirits of evil to assume the human form, or of the departed to return on earth, or of horrors mysterious and undefined, rushed into my mind, and, for a time, I stood irresolute and trembling.

“At length, I mustered courage and burst open the door. The scene which met my sight made me recoil with a feeling very different to what I expected.

“A priest was at the altar—a stranger, whom I knew not; and before him stood my young sister Nina, her hand clasped in that of the man whose life I had saved—of whom I had now so many dark suspicions, Argiri Caramitzo. I rushed forward with a cry of rage, and would have borne Nina off from him. He put me aside with a contemptuous smile, for I was unarmed, and far weaker than he. I snatched a dagger from a man standing near, and would have plunged it in his heart, when the voice of the priest arrested my hand, uttering the word—

“‘Forbear!’

“Nina had looked confused and alarmed; she shrieked out—

“‘Oh! injure him not, Paolo, he is my husband—my life; till me, if I have done wrong; but he would have it so.’

“‘She speaks truly,’ said the priest. ‘She is the wedded wife of Signor Argiri Caramitzo, or by whatever name this signor is known.’

“‘I can bear much from you, Paolo,’ said Caramitzo, speaking to me for the first time; ‘but you must not interfere in a case of this sort. Your sweet sister has bestowed on me her hand, as she has long given me her heart; and this very night I bear her hence to my home upon the waves.’

“As he said this, he pressed Nina to his bosom, and seemed about to bear her away, while he stretched out his other hand, as if to prevent my approach. ‘Whether wife or not, she leaves not this castle without her father’s consent—with one, too, whose name and profession are doubtful,’ I again exclaimed, springing forward, and attempting to seize her.

“‘If you will have it so, you must take the consequences,’ he replied, in the same cool tone. ‘Seize that young signor, and bring him along; I will not be interfered with.’ He turned, and spoke to a number of men who stood round, armed to the teeth, and whom I had not before remarked. They immediately seized me, and I saw at once that resistance would be useless.

“‘It is folly, Nina, to be alarmed,’ I heard the Greek say, in answer to my sister’s tears and remonstrances. ‘No injury shall be done him, and we will shortly return and claim your father’s pardon, and explain the reasons of my present proceedings.’

“Nina was not convinced, for she had not expected to be thus suddenly carried off; and she made every resistance in her power to what was being done, entreating also that I might be set at liberty.

“The Greek, however, was deaf to all her entreaties, and soon succeeded in pacifying her fears. Had I indeed been able to arouse the other inmates of the castle, it would have been of no avail, for it was now completely in the power of Caramitzo, as I have hitherto called him—for under that name I then knew him; though I need scarcely tell you that he was no other than the pirate Zappa. He had, it appeared, during his former stay at our castle, secured the key of a small postern-gate, through which he and his followers had gained admittance. For a long time his arrival had been looked forward to by my deluded sister, as he had arranged the means of communicating with her before his departure; and he had persuaded her of the necessity of a private marriage, all the arrangements of which he promised to make, provided she would undertake to follow his directions. The priest he had brought with him from a distant part of the coast, having induced him, by high bribes, to accompany him, and, I believe, keeping him in ignorance as to the place to which they had come, or who was the lady he had married. A book, however, was left on the altar in the chapel, with the signatures of the married couple, the priest, and witnesses; either intended as a consolation or an insulting mockery to the unhappy father who had been deprived of his child. My eyes were instantly blindfolded, and I felt myself lifted up and carried along for some distance, till I was placed in a boat, from which, after rowing for some distance I was hoisted on board a vessel, and placed by myself in a cabin, the door of which was fastened on me. After a vain attempt to get out, I threw myself down on a couch in the cabin, and considered how I should proceed to liberate my poor sister and myself. The rippling noise of the water against the sides of the vessel showed me that she was under weigh, and I felt how hopeless was our fate. The morning must have been far advanced when the door of the cabin was opened by two powerful men, with arms in their belts. A third person appeared behind them, who spoke a little broken Italian.

“‘We have come,’ he said, ‘Signor Paolo, to request you to take the oath; without signing which no person is allowed to remain alive on board this vessel beyond twelve hours. When you have been longer with us you will see the necessity of our rule. You will not refuse to take it.’

“‘I shall certainly refuse to take any oath which may restrain my liberty,’ I answered; ‘I desire that my sister and myself be at once restored to our home.’

“‘Whatever we may ultimately do, it is necessary for you to take the oath before you can quit the cabin. It is the rule of the ship, and the captain himself, as well as any of his friends must abide by it.’

“‘What is the character of the ship I am on board, then?’ I asked—the dreadful truth for the first time flashing across my mind.

“‘That you will be told when you have taken the oath,’ replied the interpreter. ‘The captain has brought you on board, and will not have you injured; but we claim our privilege, which he cannot refuse us. The oath to betray neither vessel nor crew, by sign, by word, or deed; to obey our chief in all things, and to abide by the laws of the ship, or,’—and the two men drew out their glittering daggers from their sashes—‘death. You preserved our captain’s life, he says; but he cannot save yours, unless you accept our terms, and then, on that account, we will gladly receive you as a brother.’

“I considered, as well as I was able, under the circumstances, how I should act. I was young—life seemed full of charms. They were in earnest, and I saw nothing unreasonable in the oath they imposed on me. I had no longer any doubt that I was on board a piratical vessel. I could not expect her crew to act otherwise than they were doing towards me; and the true character of Caramitzo now appearing more evident, I felt that there was greater reason to rescue my betrayed sister from his power; and I thought that the only way of so doing would be to affect no hesitation even in joining them.

“‘I consent to take the oath,’ I replied, with as firm a voice as I could command. Had I known the abject slavery to which those words would reduce me, I would have died sooner than utter them.

“‘Come,’ said the men, ‘we are prepared to administer it without delay,’ and, blindfolding me, they led me into another cabin, where I was ordered to kneel down on a cushion, and a book was placed in my hands, which I was told was the Bible. The oath was then administered, and it made me call down the most dreadful maledictions on my head, and on the heads of all those dear to me, should I ever break it. The bandage was then removed from my eyes, and I found myself in a large cabin, surrounded by men with drawn swords in their hands, and at the head of them appeared the pirate Zappa.

“A cross was then formed by the swords of the two men standing nearest to me, which I was compelled to kiss, and then to sign my name in a book with my own blood. The ceremony completed, I was told to rise, a sword was placed in my hands, and I was hailed as a comrade. I shuddered at the name. Zappa then advanced towards me, and, with the same smile which had once fascinated me, he exclaimed. ‘Welcome, my dear Paolo, now doubly my brother. I have been compelled to use a little gentle force to win you to me as I have long been anxious to do. You are yet unable to appreciate the advantages I can offer you, so I will not complain of your angry looks. Now come on deck, and I will introduce you to your brother officers—for I consider you one of this ship, and I will try and make a seaman of you.’

“I was meditating, while he spoke, whether I should fly at him, and endeavour to wreak the bitter vengeance I felt at the moment; but the oath I had just uttered came to my mind, and for my sister’s sake, by a violent effort, I restrained my passion.

“‘I cannot pretend, Signor Caramitzo, not to complain of the violence to which you have subjected me, and of the deceit you have practised on my sister,’ I replied; ‘yet, I am in your power, and I trust to your honour to make the best amends you can—to treat her with tenderness, since she has given herself to you—and to allow me the opportunity of communicating with our unhappy father, and of endeavouring to mitigate the grief he will feel at the loss of his children.’

“‘I do not forget that you saved my life, Paolo, and that alone would make me obey your wishes,’ he answered, in a mild, conciliating tone. ‘Your sister is dearer far than that life, and, therefore, you need not fear for her. I will not pretend to disguise from you, Paolo, what I am; but that she need not know. The world calls me and my companions pirates.—Let them—the lion is a nobler animal than the beast on which it preys. Ours is a glorious life; you will learn to think so, too. There is danger, it is true. But there is excitement far higher than that the gambler, who stakes his fortune on a cast, can enjoy, and who generally, when he loses, seeks the worst that can befall us—a speedy death. But I will not now stay to sing the praises of the life I have destined you to lead, till, grown weary, we some day retire from the busy scene, and become honoured chiefs and nobles in our own country, with lands and wealth, and surrounded by our family and dependents. Eh, Paolo, I draw the picture well! But we will on deck, and see how our barque speeds over the waters.’

“I repeat his words, to show the character of the man in whose power my unhappy sister was placed. For myself I feared not, nor grieved—I could easily break my bonds; but she, alas! hers were indissoluble. Fortunately for her, she did not guess who he was, nor the character of his ship. She believed, and I trust, to this day believes, that he commanded a Greek man-of-war, and is all he represented himself to her.

“We sailed on, meeting with various adventures, till we reached this island, where, in a neighbouring tower, he at once established my sister. I felt also that it would be cruelty to undeceive her, and would answer no good object. My sister, I believe, he really loves, or did love, as far as his nature would allow; but lately I have fancied his affection was decaying, and he has always treated me without severity, and generally with kindness, though my spirit has rebelled against the shackles which galled me, but which I had no power to shake off.

“My story is drawing to an end; but I have still more to say. I urged Zappa, day after day, to allow me to return to my paternal home, and endeavour to comfort my father, if consolation was still to be found for him on earth, and to explain to him the cause of my sister’s absence, with the wish of palliating the folly of her conduct in his eyes, vowing solemnly at the end of four months again to return to the island. To my surprise, he at last consented to comply with my wish, undertaking to land me on the coast of Italy, and to call again for me at a spot and a period he would afterwards fix on. His object in so doing was, not to allow me to know the position of this island. He fulfilled his promise, and I at length returned to the castle. Alas! though my father still lived, I saw at once by the pallor on his cheek, and trembling voice, that his days were numbered. I appeared to him like one returning from the dead; for he had believed that I was slain in endeavouring to prevent my sister from being carried off. He blamed her not—he pardoned her weakness and folly, and his longing desire was to see her once more before he died.

“I had yet another blow to receive. My eldest brother, whom I loved dearly, had been slain by the dagger of an assassin at Naples, and I became the heir to the family property, which I neither wished for nor could enjoy. My whole anxiety was now to return to the island, and to endeavour to persuade the pirate to allow my sister to accompany me back to see our father ere he died.

“At last I received a letter desiring me to repair to a certain port, where I was to be met by a person who would convey me on board a felucca, whence I was to be transferred to the pirate vessel. I thought not of the dangers and difficulties of the undertaking, but, embracing my father, with a bleeding heart I tore myself from him, and hastened to the appointment. Zappa received me cordially, and I was in hopes, would consent to my request; but when I at length made it, he at once positively refused to grant it.

“He said that Nina was now happy and contented; and that she knew not of her father’s illness; and that if she was allowed to leave him she would hear things to his prejudice, and might refuse to return; and that, as she was only going to see her father die, it could not possibly benefit her. The more I urged my request, the more he appeared determined to refuse it, till at length I saw that all attempts to gain him to consent would be worse than futile, so I ceased from importuning him. I did not the less meditate how I could best accomplish my object.

“As soon as I reached the island, I told Nina, the first time I was alone with her, of our father’s wish to see her, at the same time binding her not to mention the subject to her husband, as I assured her he would not consent to part from her. As soon as I explained our father’s state to her, and told her he was heartbroken at her loss, she wept bitterly, and promised to enter into any plan I might arrange to enable her to visit him, fully intending again to return here. My purpose was, to separate her from the pirate for ever, by informing her, though at the risk, I knew, of blasting her happiness, of his true character; but yet, signora, I knew that the evil day must come, and that, when he deserted her, I might not be by to protect her.

“I had brought a considerable sum of money with me, which I had concealed about my person for any emergency, and with it I bribed two men of the village on the opposite side of the bay, to prepare a boat, in which, with their aid, I hoped to reach either the main land, or one of the larger islands, or to get on board some vessel which would convey us to some civilised place, whence I might find the means of reaching Italy. I waited for an occasion when Zappa should have gone on one of the piratical expeditions he was in the habit of taking, and when, according to custom, he would have compelled me to accompany him. To avoid this I had planned to feign illness, and, as soon as I saw the preparations making for embarking, I pretended to be seized with a dangerous sickness. He expressed great regret, and so convinced me that he regarded me with affection, that I felt some qualms of conscience at deceiving him, stained, though I knew him to be, with a thousand crimes. He even delayed his departure, and I saw it would be necessary to pretend to recover to get him off.

“The night at last came, in which the enterprise was to be attempted. I left my room, to which I was supposed to be confined by illness, and, going down to the bay, I found the boat and the men in readiness. I then returned to my sister’s tower, whence I bore her trembling with alarm, and overwhelmed with grief at the thoughts of quitting the man whom she so fatally loved, we safely reached the boat. We were not observed, for no one suspected us, and we launched forth into the deep. I had arranged for an ample supply of provisions, and I had previously carried down the means of sheltering my sister from the weather; so we were prepared for a long voyage. For three days we steered to the west and south, with the sea calm, and the wind favourable and moderate, passing only small islands, where the men assured me we should have no chance of assistance. By this calculation, it would take us two days more before we could reach the main land; when, on the fourth day, as the morning broke, I discerned a vessel standing towards us. As she drew nearer, my horror, as well as that of the islanders, may be supposed, when they pronounced her to be Zappa’s own brig, the Sea Hawk. It was hopeless to expect to escape her by outstripping her in sailing; so, we lowered the sail on the chance of our remaining unobserved, while Nina and I crouched down in the bottom of the boat, in order that, if the pirate vessel should pass at some little distance, we might be mistaken for one of the fishing-boats of the neighbouring islands. All our care was futile. On so smooth a sea, and in so bright an atmosphere, an object as large as we presented might be seen at a great distance, and we had not escaped the vigilant eyes of the pirates. On came the vessel. Nina was bathed in tears; the Greeks trembled, for they knew their lives were at stake. I nerved myself for the worst, for I knew not what the rage of Zappa might prompt him to do, though I feared for my sister more than for myself.

“The boat was not only seen but recognised, and the Sea Hawk ran up close to us. The men were ordered to pull alongside, and we all soon stood on the deck of the brig.

“‘Such, then, is the love you bear me, that the first moment of my absence you would desert me,’ said the pirate, looking reproachfully at Nina, without taking any notice of me and my companions. ‘I believed, I felt sure, that you loved me, but now I know that I was bitterly mocked.’

“‘Oh, no, no!’ exclaimed Nina, who had stood trembling and abashed before him, ‘I loved you better than life itself. I love you now, and no human power should have prevented me from returning to you. Do with me as you will, but do not wring my heart with greater anguish than now it suffers by believing that I do not love you. My duty to a dying parent would alone have prompted me to take the step I have done.’

“‘I believe you, Nina,’ said Zappa, taking her in his arms. ‘I will not part with you. As to you, Paolo, you have deceived me, and have instigated your sister to leave me. I shall take means to prevent your behaving thus in future.’

“Saying this, he carried my sister below, and placed her in his cabin; he then returned on deck, and walked up to where the two Greeks were standing, awaiting their sentence. I had never before seen his fiercer passions aroused.

“‘You know what you have to expect,’ he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder. ‘You have broken the laws of our community. You would have deprived me of the two persons I most regard in the world, and purposed—nay, deny it not—for I know your vile natures, to have murdered them for the sake of the gold still in their possession. Take, therefore, the consequences.’

“As he uttered these words he drew two pistols from his belt, one in each hand, and, levelling them at the heads of the men, they uttered a shriek for mercy, as their eyes caught the direction of his hands; but it was too late. Ere they could spring back, he fired, and they fell dead at his feet.

“‘Cast the bodies overboard, and let their boat go adrift. We will keep no memorial of the wretches,’ he exclaimed; then, turning to me, he observed, ‘You see, Paolo, how we treat traitors; and let me tell you, you have had a narrow escape; and your sweet sister—I tremble to think what her fate would have been. Had I not fortunately found you, you would not have been allowed to live another day, and let this be a lesson to you for the future.’

“Two days afterwards we reached the island, and Zappa quieted my sister’s anxiety, by promising to gain information respecting our father’s health. He did so, and the reply was, that he was dead. I remained still subservient to the pirate. I would not desert my unhappy sister, and I could not break through the fetters the pirate had thrown around me. He confides in me, and insists on my accompanying him on his expeditions, when I can render great assistance to his men from my knowledge of surgery; and I am at times able to mitigate the fate of those who fall into his power. Had I the will also, my oath would prevent my betraying him, and thus, signora, you will be able to account for my appearance on board the speronara, and afterwards in the Sea Hawk. Such, lady, is the outline of my unhappy history—”

“And one on which it would have been wiser for you to have held silence!” exclaimed a voice behind him; and, looking up, he and Ada beheld the tall form of Zappa standing in the doorway. He advanced into the room, making a low reverence towards her, at the same time that he stretched out his hand in the direction Paolo was standing. “Go, foolish youth!” he exclaimed, in a tone in which contempt blended with anger. “You will some day try my patience more than I can bear.”

The young Italian stood for an instant irresolute—his bosom heaving with emotions of pride and indignation, and his lips parted, as if he would have defied his tyrant; he felt, too, that he was in the presence of the woman for whom he had declared his love, and all the more manly qualities of his nature rose up to his aid; but he had been too long accustomed to yield to the influence which the pirate had gained over him—he quailed before the stern, unrelenting eye fixed on him, and his soft, unresisting character, too similar to that of his unfortunate sister, made him falter in his half-formed purpose. With an expression of agony, of shame, and humiliation on his countenance, he turned and fled down the steps.

Ada at once felt the importance of maintaining her own dignity. She rose, and as calmly as she could command her voice, she asked,—“May I know, signor, to what cause I am indebted for this visit?”

“Beautiful lady!” said the pirate, still standing at a distance, which would have showed respect had his words been different, “can you suppose it possible that I should always resist the influence of your attractions. Am I to be the only one in this island who is to be debarred the happiness of basking in your smiles? Is yon weak youth ever to be preferred to me?”

“In pity’s name, cease this insulting mockery, signor,” said Ada, her heart at the same time sinking with a fear she had hitherto happily not yet experienced. “Does not every manly quality of your heart rebel at the thought of thus addressing one so totally unprotected, so helpless as I am. With regard to the unhappy gentleman who has just quitted the room, I am innocent of any other feeling than profound pity for his misfortunes; and with regard to yourself, how can you expect me to feel other than indignation at the outrage to which you have subjected me. Every day that I am kept here a prisoner can but serve to increase that feeling; and my only request is, that I may not be insulted by the presence of one who has been the cause of the misery I endure.”

There is a majesty and dignity, a commanding power in the eye and expression of a pure, high-minded, resolute woman, which will abash even the boldest and most unscrupulous men. That is their shield and buckler, their defence against the attacks of the profligate. It is like the steadfast gaze of a dauntless man, which is said to have the power of awing even the fiercest of the beasts of the forest; but let her beware how for an instant she withdraws it, how she allows the softer feelings of her woman’s nature to shake her firmness; her opponent is ever watchful, and should she allow the faintest gleam of hope to enter his bosom, the potent charm is broken. Thus, in the bright dignity of her nature, stood Ada Garden.

The blood-stained, reckless pirate advanced not a step nearer; he stood abashed and confused, nor gave utterance to a word of remonstrance at her resolution. He seemed to feel that it was she, indeed, whose right it was to command—his duty to obey. He hesitated as he spoke.

“Pardon me, signora, I came not to offend you, but to endeavour to win your regard and esteem. Time may reconcile you to your lot—may soften your feelings—may create a tenderer sentiment in your heart than you are now disposed to entertain. I am not one who is in the habit of yielding a point on which I have once determined; I must be content, however, to look forward to the future, while I submit to your dictates for the present. Farewell, signora, I acknowledge myself conquered; but another time, be not too confident that you will gain the victory.”

Ada endeavoured to maintain her composure, but the tone assumed by Zappa alarmed her more than he was probably aware of. Silence she felt was now her best safeguard. She placed her hands before her eyes to shut out his hateful sight, while she endeavoured to nerve herself for what might next occur.

The Greek, however, it appeared, had no wish to proceed to extremities. Perhaps he really felt affection for her; perhaps he calculated on receiving a handsome ransom for her. Whatever was his motive, he determined to persecute her no more for the present, and he took the opportunity to quit the chamber.

When she removed her hands from her eyes she was alone. She heard the pirate descending the steps of the tower, and when she had ascertained that he had to a certainty left it, she knelt down, and her deep sobs told of her outraged feelings, and the anguish of her heart. She was aroused by the return of Marianna, who promised never again to be tempted to leave her.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Zappa had hitherto contrived to prevent the meeting of Ada and Nina, by compelling both of them to remain shut up in their respective parts of the castle. The cause of this conduct it is scarcely necessary to explain. His object was to keep Nina ignorant of the presence of her rival, and he also hoped to bend Ada’s haughty spirit by the confinement to which she was subject. It could not, however, be supposed that Nina should not hear rumours of the presence of a stranger in the island, although Paolo had been careful not to hurt his sister’s feelings needlessly, by speaking of her. Little Mila, the only personal attendant with whom she could converse, had been warned not to mention the arrival of Ada and her attendant; and for some time she kept the secret which was burning on her tongue; but as she suffered somewhat from that infirmity which is said, I suspect unjustly, to be peculiar to her sex, she at last began to think that she had kept it long enough. She did not, however, at once announce the information she had to communicate, but reserved to herself the pleasure of giving it out by driblets.

“We shall have the whole castle built up as it used to be, one of these days, I suspect, signora,” she observed, as she was assisting Nina to dress. “It would be difficult, though, to arrange a more handsome room than this.”

“No, Mila, scarcely could anything be more beautiful than this. But why should you say so?” asked Nina, whose suspicions had already been aroused by her attendant’s previous remarks.

“Why, signora, I was comparing it with a room I have seen elsewhere, which is also very magnificent,” returned Mila.

“You have seen! Why, you have never been off this island,” exclaimed Nina.

“That is true, signora,” said the Greek girl; “but the room I speak of is on the island, and I confess it is at no great distance from this tower.”

“I was not aware that any other part of the castle was inhabited, except the tower and the house close to it,” observed Nina.

“There you are mistaken, signora. The other old tower to the east of this, has had a room lately fitted up, very much like this, and there lives there a good-natured, lively girl, who tells me—for we manage to talk very well together—that she was born in an island like this, only larger. I like her very much, though she is not at all pretty; but she has a mistress, a young lady, who also lives in the tower, who is a complete angel—so fair, and kind, and beautiful, though she does not speak much, as she does not understand a word of Romaic; but I loved her the moment I saw her, and I am sure you would do so also, signora, were you to see her.”

“A lady! young, and fair, and beautiful,” repeated the Italian girl, a feeling gushing into her bosom which was very far from being allied to love. “Who is she? how long has she been here? what is she like?”

“As to who she is, signora, all I know is, that they say she belongs to a people who have big ships, and have never been slaves to the Turks; then she has been here ever since our chief came back; for he brought her in his vessel with Signor Paolo, your brother, who knows more about her than I do; and I suspect, loves her also not a little. And with regard to what she is like—she is not so tall as you are, signora; but her skin is as clear as yours, and fair as the foam blown across the ocean in a winter’s storm, with some of the hue stolen from the rose on her cheeks; and her eyes—so soft they are, and of the same tint as the brightest spot in the cloudless sky above our heads.”

How long little Mila, having now ventured once to let her tongue run loose on the forbidden subject, would have continued recapitulating the praises of the stranger lady—little dreaming of the wounds she was inflicting on the feelings of her older friend and mistress—it is impossible to say, had not Nina interrupted her.

“I must go and see this stranger lady!” she exclaimed, in a tone which startled the little girl, and taught her that it would have been wiser to have obeyed orders, and not mentioned her. “Come, Mila, we will go at once, and you shall run up into her room, and announce me.”

“Oh, dear! signora, that will never do,” answered the Greek girl. “You forget that the directions of our chief forbid you to quit your tower; and what would he say, were he to hear that you had visited that of the stranger lady. He is certain to come back, and find you there.”

Nina had, however, so determined to satisfy her jealous suspicions, that she overruled all Mila’s scruples.

“If I find them fatally true, a speedy death will be my only resource, or, ah! that of my rival;” so ran the current of her thoughts. “I could not let her live in the triumphant enjoyment of what I had lost—his love. I could not bear to think that other ears but mine own hear the tender accents of his voice, which speaks so eloquently to me of love. ’Twould be madness to know that I were flung aside for one more young and beautiful, perchance, but one who could not feel for him one tenth part of the intense love I bear him. I must go and see her. If she is—oh! God, what?” And her hand touched, unconsciously, the hilt of a small dagger she wore in her girdle.

Ada Garden was sitting in her chamber when little Mila hurried into her presence, and intimated, as well as she could, that a lady desired to see her, flying out at the same speed with which she entered.

As it happened, Ada did not, in the least, understand what she meant, and supposing it was a matter of no importance, continued the perusal of a work she held in her hand. She was startled by hearing a deep sigh, and looking up, she saw a graceful female figure standing at the other end of the room, with her eyes fixed intently on her. For the first moment, the idea glanced across her mind, that her senses must have deceived her, so statue-like was the form—so rigid was the gaze; but a few seconds served to assure her that a human being was in her presence. Her own look, as she lifted up her eyes, betokened surprise, though not alarm, and there was that sweet and tranquil expression, that purity, the consciousness of innocence, in her countenance, which the beautiful Italian—for she was the intruder—interpreted aright. Nina did not utter a word for some moments; but with the passionate impulse which had, unhappily, too often guided her, she advanced towards her supposed rival, and knelt down before her, bending her head to the ground. She soon looked up, and gazed in her countenance with an expression of earnest inquiry, as if she would read her thoughts.

“Lady,” she at length exclaimed, “I have wronged you—I feel—I know—you cannot be the base, the cruel being I have believed you. You would not seek to estrange the affections of a husband from one who lives for him alone. Say you do not love Argiri Caramitzo, the chief of this island—you do not wish to win his love.”

Astonishment prevented Ada from answering this extraordinary address, and she hesitated, while she considered in what terms she should speak, so that she might quickly tranquillise the agitated feelings of her visitor, and, at the same time, avoid wounding them.

Nina seemed to mistake her silence for an acknowledgment of guilt, for she sprang to her feet, and her dagger-blade flashed in her hand. In another moment, it would have been stained with blood, had not Ada exclaimed—

“Indeed you do me wrong, signora. I would not rob you of your husband’s love, for all the world can give. I am not mistaken in supposing you to be the sister of Signor Paolo Montifalcone; and if so, I already know your history, and, far from seeking to injure you, would do all in my power to preserve you from harm.”

“You can but injure me in one way, and that you might do unknowingly and unwillingly,” exclaimed the Italian, still regarding her with a glance of distrust; while she clutched the weapon in her right hand, which hung down by her side, the other being stretched out before her, as if to prevent her supposed rival from approaching her.

Ada felt an unusual courage come to her aid. She neither trembled nor turned pale, nor did she show any attempt to defend herself from Nina’s mistaken vengeance; but she lifted her mild blue eyes, full of commiseration, towards the now flashing orbs of the Italian, and, in a sweet, calm voice, she said—

“There is a Power above, which, if we seek, will arm us both—you against such vain fears, me against the guilt, unknowing though it may be, of winning affections which should be your alone.”

A fresh impulse seized the unhappy Nina; flinging away her weapon, she rushed forward, and throwing herself on her knees, clasped Ada’s hand and covered it with kisses.

“I have not the heart to injure you, though you should prove my destruction,” she exclaimed. “But you will not allow him to pour the words of tender endearment into those ears; nay, if he does but think or utter one word of love, remember, the time has come to act for your own safety. Here, take this weapon, and promise me to employ it, should the necessity arrive, for should you fail to do so, neither your beauty, nor his shielding arm could save you from the maddened impulse of my hand—the last dying effort of my strength.”

As she spoke, she rose, and lifting her dagger from the ground, she returned with it towards Ada.

“Nay, fear not, lady,” she said, as she saw Ada start. “It is harmless now. Take the dagger, and keep it as remembrance of the unhappy Nina Montifalcone.”

Nina presented the weapon, as she said this, with the hilt towards Ada, who considered it would be more politic to accept the gift, though, indeed, she shuddered as she did so; but she felt that she might herself unhappily be driven to the dire necessity of employing it. She took it, therefore, and placed it on the table by her. She then raised the excited and unhappy girl, who had again sunk on her knees, and placed her on a seat by her side, when, after some time, she succeeded, by slow degrees, in completely tranquillising and re-assuring her mind.

“You are no stranger to me, Nina,” said Ada Garden, affectionately holding her hand. “Your brother has told me the whole of your history, and his own unhappy fate. His devotion to you seems unparalleled. Do you feel that you give it a just return?”

“Alas! no,” answered Nina. “He has, I fear, sacrificed himself to me from that dreadful night when I left my native home, confused, bewildered, and little dreaming that it was to be for ever. But I do not detain him; if he wishes to return he may do so.”

“He came with you, and without you he will not go back,” observed Ada.

“While my father lived, I would have returned to see him, at the risk of my life—at the risk of the displeasure of one dearer than life; but now that he is no more, no earthly power should make me quit my husband.”

“But your brother has doubts of the truth of the report of your father’s death, and would still induce you to accompany him,” said Ada.

“What! and allow you to remain?” whispered Nina, her fears, in a moment, rushing back to the baneful course from which they had been diverted. “No, lady, that were folly too great even for me to commit.”

Ada saw that she was touching on dangerous ground.

“Indeed, again you wrong me, Nina,” she said, tenderly pressing her hand. “I did not believe my intentions could be so misconstrued; but I will not mention a subject which is so painful to you.”

“There are few which are not, lady,” returned Nina, again appeased; “for the very language we speak reminds me of the home I have lost, the misery I have caused—it reminds me that I may be stigmatised as a murderess; that the death of the best, the kindest of fathers, may be laid to my charge; and often would such thoughts drive me to madness, and to seek a speedy end to all my misery from the summit of yonder cliff; but for what I have lost, I have gained a prize which recompenses me for all—the love of one without which death would have been welcome; a love I value more than all the earth’s brightest treasure. They say the maidens in your country are calm and cold as the snow on the Appenines, and it were in vain, therefore, for you, lady, to attempt to conceive what that love is. He might abandon me—he might forget me—he might spurn me, but still I should love him, though I slew him for his perfidy; and should die happily on the tomb to which I had consigned him. Then do not speak to me again of quitting him;—he is my world, and all else I have abandoned for him.”

Ada, after this, did not again attempt to renew the subject—indeed, pirate though he was, Zappa, she remembered, was, there existed every reason to believe, the young Italian’s husband; and though utterly unworthy of her devoted affection, as she had herself too strong a proof to doubt, Nina still owed to him the duty of a wife. She had severed other sacred ties, in a way they can never be severed without ultimately bringing grief and remorse to the heart of the guilty one; but she now must abide by the consequences of her fault, and had no power to quit him to whom she had bound herself, even to visit the deathbed of a father. It was painful, however, to Ada, to reflect what must be the ultimate fate of her lovely and interesting companion, when the pirate’s already waning love was burnt out—when the cast on which she had staked her all on earth was lost for ever; or, should the lawless adventurer meet the fate his daring expeditions seemed to court, and when death should claim his own, she should learn that he whom she had so truly loved was a murderer, and a robber, and had died the death of a malefactor, what anguish, what shame, was in store for her—what a dreary future.

The two girls, both equally beautiful in their separate styles, sat together, without speaking, for some time, lost in their own reflections. Both were sad—for one was a prisoner, without a prospect of release: to the mind of the other, a picture of the home of her youth, and her deserted, dying father, had been conjured up with the vividness with which they had never before presented themselves, and some pangs of remorse were agitating her mind. They were startled by a loud peal of thunder, which reverberated through the sky, and looking out through the casement they beheld the whole air of heaven covered with dark rolling clouds, and the sea a mass of white foam, which a blast, like a whirlwind, blew furiously over the surface; while the sullen roar of the lately aroused waves was heard as they lashed the rocks beneath the cliffs. One of those sudden tempests had arisen, which at times visit the shores of the Mediterranean with peculiar fury; their anger, like the rage of a human being, though short, yet causing havoc and destruction wherever it falls. The wind, as it increased, howled and whistled through the ruined building; the lightning darted, with vivid flashes, from the lowering sky; and the waves, worked into fury, rose every instant higher and higher, till they appeared like the water of a boiling cauldron, as their white-headed crests leaped up towards the tower, which they seemed to shake to the very base.

Marianna, followed by little Mila, rushed into the room, shrieking with alarm; crying out that the building was going to fall about their heads; at the same time, the rain descended so furiously, that they were afraid to venture into the open air.

“Oh! signora, we are all going to be washed into the sea, and we shall never more be heard of; oh! Santa Maria, have mercy on us,” cried the Maltese, rushing up to Ada, and crouching down by her side.

The Greek girl was not so much alarmed, as she had witnessed similar tempests before, and knew how speedily they terminated; so also had Nina, who gazed at it devoid of all fear; and whose agitated state of mind it seemed rather to allay than increase.

“Do not be alarmed, lady,” she said, smiling, as she turned to Ada. “You may also quiet the fears of your attendant, for the masonry with which we are surrounded has already stood firm for several hundred years through many a fiercer storm than this; and the shocks we now feel are not likely to shatter these old towers. They are caused by the waves dashing under the caverned rocks beneath our feet. How furiously the waters rage and foam at the opposition this little island makes against them. It was during a storm like this that Argiri Caramitzo was first brought to my father’s castle. Heaven grant that he may not have been tempted out on the sea this morning. Mila, do you know if your chief left the harbour since I came here?”

The latter sentence she spoke in her broken Romaic, and in a tone which showed her agitation.

“Yes, lady,” answered the Greek girl, “He went on board one of the misticos as soon as he reached the harbour, and immediately set sail.”

“Great heaven, and is even now on yon troubled waters,” exclaimed the poor girl almost fainting with agitation. “And I am here, nor even till this instant thought of him. Cannot we send out the other mistico to assist him. Surely some of his brave followers will be found ready to search for him. I myself will accompany them.”

“Alas, signora, it would be in vain now to attempt to put to to sea,” replied Mila, who knew more about nautical affairs than did Nina. “Yet we need not fear for the safety of our chief—he is even now probably taking shelter under some of the neighbouring islands. He and those who are with him are too well accustomed to the signs of the weather not to have perceived this storm in time to have escaped from its fury.”

“Ah, I think I see a white sail flying before the wind, like a sea-bird’s wing on the summit of the waves,” exclaimed Marianna, who had been looking through the telescope at the object of which she spoke.

“Oh, it must be the mistico, then,” cried Nina joyfully, hastening to the telescope, through which she saw the white canvas, closely reefed, of a small vessel standing for the island.

“Oh, it is the mistico,” she exclaimed eagerly. “I know her by the shape of her sails. It must be her, and they are returning in safety.”

As soon as Nina had withdrawn her eye from the glass, which she did not do for a long time, till she had fully persuaded herself that the vessel in sight was the one she hoped, with her husband on board, Ada’s curiosity and interest were excited to watch the progress of the mistico. On she came, careering across the foaming sea, now lifted on the summit of a curling wave, now sunk into the deep trough between the watery mountains, where she would remain, her sail alone visible, apparently about to be overwhelmed by the wave which lifted its crested head close astern of her; but again she would rise once more on the summit of another, and as it were seated on it would fly onwards for a long distance, again to plunge down to the dangerous depths from which she had just emerged. To Ada the little vessel appeared in the most imminent danger, and she expected every instant to see it disappear beneath the waves, and wondered how she could have so long continued to buffet them successfully. As she watched, she observed that the mistico, instead of steering towards the west end of the island, so as to fetch the mouth of the bay, was gradually verging towards the east; and it struck her also that she was smaller than the mistico she had been accustomed to see from the stern windows of the brig, while she was living on board. But of that, of course, she was not able to form any correct judgment, as from so great a height and distance the eye even of the most experienced is easily deceived. She feared therefore that the sail in sight was a stranger, and would, to a certainty, be wrecked on the coast, without the chance of receiving any aid from the inhabitants, who were much more likely to murder any of the unfortunate crew who might escape the perils of shipwreck, for the sake of their clothes, and any money they might have about them, than to assist in preserving their lives.

Nina also had been watching, with still more intense interest, the progress of the sail, now seen without the aid of the glass; but so persuaded was she that it was her husband’s mistico, that she did not remark the difference of size, nor that she was not steering directly for the harbour.

“Ah, he will be here soon, and in spite of the storm I must return to my tower, to receive him when he comes on shore,” she exclaimed in a cheerful voice. “Lady I must bid you farewell, and as I cannot now tell you all the love and gratitude I feel for you, I must entreat you to allow me to visit you again. You will forget my passion and folly, and remember only any redeeming traits you may have discovered in me. Say you will do this, my sweet friend, before I leave you.”

“Indeed I will,” answered Ada, pressing both the hands which were held out to her. “I shall think of you always with the affection of a sister; but I must not let you go even now; for I fear greatly you will be disappointed in your expectations. See, yonder bark; mark how her head is turned; and tell me if she is steering for the harbour.”

“Alas! that is not our chief’s mistico, after all,” exclaimed little Mila, corroborating the opinion Ada had formed. “She will be wrecked, too, and all in her will, to a certainty, perish.”

“I cannot think that it is not his,” said Nina. “He has some reason for approaching the further end of the island, if, indeed, he is not about to enter the harbour—perhaps he may purpose going round it to anchor on the northern side.”

“That vessel, as she now steers, would not get round the island, lady,” observed the Greek girl. “I wish my grandfather were here—and he would understand clearly all about it. Ah, there he is; and now the rain is over I may venture out and call him up here. He will explain matters clearly to us.”

Saying this, without a thought of the consequences either to herself or to her, should the morose old pirate think fit to inform his chief of Nina’s visit to the stranger lady, out ran the lively girl into the open air.

She was almost blown away down the ravine by a furious gust of wind, which caught her just as she got outside the door; but, undaunted, she managed to work on her way, shouting loudly all the time to her grandfather to come to her assistance; but as he was to windward, and rather deaf, he did not hear her.

At last she reached him, and seized him by the arm to support herself, after her fatiguing run, while she insisted on his accompanying her back to the apartment of the stranger lady.

He looked very angry at first at being asked to go; but little Mila’s eloquence conquered, and she led him in triumph back, holding on by his arm; but this time it was to prevent herself from being fairly lifted off her feet, and blown along over the ground.

He made a somewhat unwilling salute to the two ladies, as he entered the room, while Mila dragged him up to the window.

“Now tell these ladies what you think about that mistico there, which is driving towards the shore—let me see, where is she? Alas! she has come frightfully near.”

“That mistico, why she must be a stranger to these parts, or she would not venture near our shore; and she has a crew on board who know very little about their calling, for they are going to wreck themselves as clearly as possible, somewhere at the east end of the island. They could not do it better if they were to try; and as there are only two places on the whole coast where they have a chance of escaping, probably in a few minutes they will have gone to the other world.”

“Then you think that she is not my husband’s mistico,” said Nina.

“Think! why no, of course not; she is not unlike her either, lady,” answered the old pirate. “They are strangers, who, as they are not invited to come here, will probably have their throats cut for their intrusion, if, by chance, they happen to get in shore alive.”

“But your chief—what think you of your chief?” exclaimed Nina eagerly.

“He is safe enough under shelter of one of the islands, and will be back here right enough to-morrow morning,” answered the old man.

“Grant heaven it may be so,” ejaculated Nina. “And now, Vlacco, you must obey me in this. Collect all the men you can, and hasten along the shore, to where that vessel will be wrecked. Remember, the life of your chief was preserved in a similar manner, and it were impious to allow any to perish whom we can save. Bring such as escape safe to my tower; and beware that no one robs or injures them.”

The old man, who had found that he had been very much too severe to Nina during the last absence of Zappa, was glad of an opportunity of regaining her favour, and accordingly promised to obey her directions.

In spite of the violence of the storm, he immediately set out to collect some more youthful and active men to attend him; and he was soon again seen crossing the causeway in the direction of the place towards which the vessel was driving.

As it was scarcely possible for Nina to reach her own tower, she continued, with Ada Garden, watching the awful progress of the mistico.

On came the little vessel, scarcely visible, amid the foam and spray which surrounded her.

She had now got completely to the east side of the tower, whereas, when first seen at the greatest distance, she was in the south-west. Her course must, therefore, have been about northeast, as nearly as possible, directly before the wind; and whatever old Vlacco might have said to the contrary, she must have been steered by no timid or ignorant hands.

“She may even now get round the east end of the island!” exclaimed Nina, whose eye had seldom been off her. “If she can once do that, the unhappy men on board her may yet escape with their lives.”

“But suppose she does not, will not the old Greek and his followers be able to rescue them?” asked Ada; who, though less apparently excited, felt an equal, if not a greater interest in the fate of the stranger.

“Ah! she appears even now to be full a mile short of the point. And see yonder wave which lifts her up—in another instant, it will dash her on those frowning rocks, and all on board must perish. Oh! Heaven, have mercy on them. There—there—they are lost.”

As she spoke, a huge wave came rolling on, lifting the little vessel on its curling summit, and, with a loud roar, bore her, with the wildest impetuosity, towards the frowning cliffs. Downward it came with a terrific crash, its crest flying upwards in showers of foam, and hurling the bark, she was lost to sight among the rocks. All the females, as they beheld the sad spectacle, uttered a cry of horror, and they fancied that they could hear, amid the howling of the storm, the despairing shrieks of the drowning mariners, and could distinguish, among the foam, their dying forms, with their arms stretched out, in their agony, for assistance, where none could come.

“They are all lost!” cried Nina, hiding her face in her hands to shut out the dreadful sight her imagination had conjured up. “May the saints intercede for their souls!”

Her example was followed by Marianna and Mila, while Ada, though pale and trembling, had pointed the telescope towards the spot, for the purpose of discovering whether any human beings had succeeded in gaining the shore. Not a vestige of the wreck could she see; but on the summit of the cliff, above where she supposed the vessel must have struck, she beheld a person, whom she concluded was old Vlacco, waving, as if to some one below. He and his followers then disappeared down the cliffs.

“There is hope yet, Nina—there is hope yet!” she exclaimed joyfully. “Thank Heaven! some may have escaped.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

The morning preceding the storm I have described was very lovely, and the pirate chief had gone out at an early hour; and was standing on the edge of the cliff overlooking the harbour and the sea, while he meditated on the plan of some future predatory expedition he had proposed to himself to undertake on board the Sea Hawk. He was interrupted in a short time by the appearance of one of his followers, who had come up the ravine from the bay below.

“Pardon, chief, for my thus coming on you without warning; but I have tidings of importance to communicate,” said the man, making a reverential obeisance.

“What is it, Baldo?” asked Zappa. “Haste, I am always impatient of news.”

“It is this, chief. A boat arrived this morning, soon after break of day, from the island of Naeiri, and a man, who has come in her, Gerassimo Listi, one of the scouts, states that a British ship of war has been anchored some days at the farther end of it, and that he suspects—”

“Where is the man, this Gerassimo Listi?” exclaimed Zappa, interrupting him suddenly. “I want not to hear his suspicions—I will examine him—where is he, I say?”

“Under the walls of the tower, chief, waiting your return,” replied the man.

“Send him hither instantly,” said Zappa. “Then go in search of Vlacco, and tell him I would speak with him—I may have need of his counsel.”

The man hurried off to obey the orders he had received, while Zappa stood, with his arms folded on his bosom, waiting the coming of the messenger.

“A ship of war, and British,” he muttered. “There must be some cause for her coming here. She may possibly be in search of me; but yet, how can it be known where I am to be found? and that English merchant vessel, I took good care that neither she nor any on board should tell tales. Well, friend, what news do you bring me?” he asked, turning to a man in the costume of a Greek fisherman, who now approached. “Haste, tell it me.”

“Why, chief, for the last six days, in a sheltered bay, to the west end of our island, a brig of war, carrying eighteen guns, has been at anchor. When she first came in, I thought she had come to remain one or two nights only, to supply herself with water, for there is a fine spring there, and perhaps with fuel; but she hoisted no flag, and seemed to have no intention of communicating with the shore; and, instead of going away, there she remained, day after day, till my suspicions of her intentions were excited. I watched her narrowly for some time, and even pulled close round her two days ago; and I am convinced, from her appearance, and the language I heard spoken, that she is British. Now, it struck me, knowing what sort of character were the people of that nation, that she had come there for the purpose of looking out after the Sea Hawk, or the mistico; and as soon as I arrived at this conclusion, I hurried off to bring you the information.”

“I believe your suspicions are turned in the right direction; and it will be necessary to be on our guard,” replied the pirate, who had listened somewhat impatiently to the man’s account.

“But here comes Vlacco—we will hear what is his opinion on the subject.”

The consultation between the pirate and his lieutenant-governor—for so we may designate old Vlacco—was earnest and brief.

The result was that Zappa instantly descended the cliffs, down to the bay, where the loud blast of a horn speedily collected a large number of his followers, always ready to undertake any exploits in which he led them.

He selected as many as he required for his purpose, and ordered them to prepare for embarking in the mistico, called the Zoe, in the space of a quarter of an hour. Meantime, he despatched a messenger to the tower to bring his arms and some dress, which might serve him as a disguise should it be necessary.

The island spoken of lay about thirty miles to the westward of the harbour; and, towards it, the mistico, as she emerged from between the cliffs, shaped her course under all sail, with the wind on the larboard beam. The little vessel flew across the water at a rapid rate; for, though the sea was smooth, there was a fresh breeze to fill the sails.

All the crew were in high spirits—they invariably were when Zappa led them, as they believed he would always show them where plunder was to be obtained; and they were not a little disappointed when he thought fit to inform them that he now required them to perform a service not only of no profit, but with considerable danger attending it; and yet one which was absolutely necessary, as the safety of the island demanded it.

“You must understand, my friends, that, if the brig we have heard of, is, as I have every reason to believe, a British man-of-war, her purpose is either to watch for our Sea Hawk, and to attack her the next time she goes out of harbour, or to destroy our strongholds on shore. How, though, in the latter point, I do not think she would have any chance of success, we should find her a remarkably disagreeable antagonist to the brig; in fact, to confess the truth, it would be wiser to run away than to fight her. Those English are determined fellows; they will tight as long as their own ship is afloat; and, on your decks afterwards, if they can manage to get there. Now, if I find that my suspicions are correct—and I shall venture on board even to ascertain their purpose—my proposal is, that we treat the enemy as we treated the Turks; we will watch our opportunity; and, during some dark night, we will let a fire-ship float down across their bows when they are not dreaming of any such thing—and we will blow them all up together. We must be near to knock on the head any stragglers, who are not killed at once by the explosion; and then, as no one will survive to say how the accident happened, it will be supposed her magazine caught fire; and we shall escape all suspicion.”

This speech which was made in choice Romaic—and which, doubtless, sounded much more heroic and elegant in that idiom than in simple English, was highly applauded by his followers—indeed, had they ever heard of Homer, they would have considered it equal in substance and talent to anything ever uttered by the most valiant of the heroes he speaks of. It was scarcely concluded, however—and they were still discussing the subject, when the man at the helm, who had kept his eye to windward, exclaimed that he saw a black cloud to the south-east, which he was certain betokened a sudden storm, and would advise the postponement of all discussions till they got safely into port. He was an old Levant mariner, who, unlike his race in general, was rather fonder of action than words; and, though he had no objection to cut a throat, or plunder a ship, he did not approve of talking about it. Though he was a sulky old rascal, Zappa had great confidence in his sagacity, and accordingly turned his eye in the direction to which he pointed. He there saw, too certainly, a mass of black clouds which had, by this time collected, and which, every moment adding others to their number, came sweeping towards them.

“We must look out for ourselves, my men,” he exclaimed. “Lower the sails while we have smooth water, and close reef them. We will try to get under the lee of the land, till the fury of the tempest has passed.”

The order was no sooner given than obeyed; and the sails were closely reefed and hoisted again before the first blast of the tempest struck the vessel. She had by this time performed rather more than two-thirds of her voyage, so that she had some eight miles more to go over before she could get under shelter of the land. If she could succeed in doing this before the height of the storm came on, she would be in comparative safety; and if not, she might be driven far up the gulf, before she could get under the lee of any other shore. The safest plan would be at once to run back for their own port, which there was every probability of their reaching, though not quite a certainty, as a shift of the wind might possibly drive them to the northward of it. As, however, Zappa was anxious to ascertain all about the English ship, he determined to persevere. I have already described one or two storms, and may probably have to introduce two or three more, so I will not weary my readers by telling them how the waves leaped and tumbled, and foamed; and the wind roared and the vessel struggled madly through them. It is enough to say that it blew a very hard gale, and that the oldest mariners on board never wished to be out in a harder. Even Zappa himself, who was accustomed to take things very philosophically, began to think, when it was too late, that it would have been wiser to have gone quietly home again.

They had, fortunately, kept well to windward of their course, and were thus able to keep well away to fetch the north of the island; thus bringing the wind and the sea abaft the beam. Two or three seas came rolling up after them, just before they got well in with the land, and very nearly swamped the Zoe, and drowned Zappa and all his crew; which event would, doubtless, have been a very great benefit to society in general, although, fortunately for the interest of my history, which it would have materially injured, it did not occur; but the pirate and his followers got safely into a little bay, where they dropped their anchor, and offered up their thanksgivings to their patron saints, for having preserved them from the great danger they had just encountered.

After having thus piously performed their religious duties, they set to work to prepare the materials for a fire-ship, with which they purposed to blow the English brig and all her crew to the devil. The storm had soon spent its fury, and in the evening they again got under weigh, and beat round to the south side of the island to the bay, where they had at first intended anchoring, it being, by far the safest, as the wind was very likely to shift round, and blow with almost equal violence down the gulf. Among the islands of the Archipelago, the gales generally come from the northward, and it is consequently considered always more prudent to anchor under a southern shore. The pirates now recollected, as they were congratulating themselves on their own escape, that the English brig had been seen anchored in a bay to the south-west of the island; and they began piously to hope that she might have been driven on shore, and lost with all her hands, which would have saved them the expense and trouble of fitting up their fire-ship, and the risk of attempting to use it. Before, however, they took any steps in that direction, Zappa determined to pull up into the bay, where she was reported to have been, and to ascertain what she was, and her purpose in coming there. By daylight next morning, for he was an early man when work was to be done, he was prepared to set out on his expedition.

The bay where the Zoe had anchored, was about five miles from where he believed the British vessel was to be found, so he had a long pull before him. His boat pulled eight oars, and he selected as many of the strongest of his hands to man them. She was a clumsy-looking craft, and did not appear as if any amount of force could drive her through the water; indeed, she seemed to be a mere fishing-boat, such as are used in those waters. He had the precaution also to pile up a couple of nets in her bow and stern, and also to take on board a large supply of fish, which he got from some fisherman of the place, so that nothing was wanting to complete the deception; for he had taken care that all his men should be habited in the ordinary fisherman’s dress as he was himself.

As the boat left the side of the mistico, she had, in every respect, the appearance of one belonging to a harmless fisherman just returned from his day’s avocation. Although Zappa had with justice full confidence in his own masquerading talents, he wisely did not wish to run any unnecessary risk, and he, therefore, ordered the mistico to get under weigh, and to sweep close in shore after him, that he might, in case of necessity, have some support at hand; she was, however, not to come nearer than a mile from the harbour, where he expected to find the brig, for fear of causing his character to be suspected. Every arrangement being made, the boat shoved off—away she pulled, while he quietly sat on the top of the nets, smoking his pipe with perfect unconcern, as if he had nothing else to think of besides where he should find the best market for his fish.

For about four miles the men pulled on at a rapid pace, laughing and joking as they toiled at their oars. A headland, from which a reef of rock projected some way out into the sea, then presented itself, and, as they pulled round it, the mouth of a harbour gradually opened on them. It was a secure and landlocked place, and some way up it Zappa discerned the tall masts of the brig he was looking for. His practised eye at once recognised her as a brig-of-war, and, as he drew nearer, he had little doubt from her build that she was British. He had, however, made up his mind to run every risk, so he pulled boldly up the harbour towards her.

“Now, my men,” he said, addressing his crew, “remember, everything depends on your coolness and courage. We are going to put our heads into the lion’s mouth, and, by all the gods of our ancestors, if we give him cause he will bite them off without the slightest ceremony. Do not stir from your seats, and pretend not to understand a word which is said to you, which it is not very likely you will do; but should any on board speak Romaic, make any excuse which occurs to you for not leaving your boat while I am on board.”

By the time he had finished this address, they were within a cable’s length of the brig.

“What boat is that?” hailed the sentry on the poop.

On which Zappa, concluding that the hail was intended for him, held up a large fish in his hand.

“A fishing-boat coming up astern, sir,” said the sentry to the officer of the watch.

“Let her come alongside, then—we want some fish,” said the officer in return.

“Ah! I think I know that brig!” exclaimed Zappa—“I am certain of it—she is no other than the one which lay in Valetta harbour when I was last there; and her captain, too, was, I learnt, the very officer I met at the ball, who was dancing so frequently with my fair prisoner. Now, by some wonderful chance or other, he has discovered that she was not lost in the Zodiac, and has come here to look for her—I see it all at once, and if I am right—good luck befriend me; for, should he discover me, I have not a chance of escape. It would be wiser not to venture on board, but to pull quietly back to the mistico, and to wait till night, when we may try the effect of our fire-ship; but, then again, it is not likely that any one but he should know me at all, and my dress is so different to what it was when he saw me, and my beard is so grown, that even, should I be brought into his presence, he will not probably recognise me. I may gain something of what they are about, and the venture is, at at events, worth making.”

Zappa arrived at this conclusion as his boat ran alongside the Ione, when it was rather too late to think of turning back; indeed, he felt that his attempting to do so would at once bring suspicion on him. It now occurred to him, that to gain any information, it would be necessary to employ some means of exchanging ideas, and for that purpose, he must speak a little of the lingua Franca so generally made use of. With a dauntless air, therefore, he sprang up the side, and, as he stood at the gangway, he ordered his men to hand him up some of the finest of the fish. While they were doing so, his eye ranged over the decks, fore and aft, and he was glad to see that Captain Fleetwood was not among the officers who were collected on the poop, watching him and his boat. The gun-room steward was the first to become the purchaser of a fine dish of fish for his master, at a very low price, too, which much astonished him. He smelt at them, and examined their gills, and turned them over most critically; for he could not help fancying that there must be some defect.

The fact was, Zappa had entirely forgotten to learn what price to ask; for, as he had seldom before acted the part of a fishmonger, he had not the slightest conception of what was their value, and was very nearly betraying himself thereby. He saw, however, with his usual acuteness, that he had made a mistake, and took care to correct it with the next purchaser, who was the midshipmen’s steward, and who came accompanied by their caterer; but though they had to pay more, the price was still so low as to induce them to lay in a stock for future consumption. The warrant-officers and ship’s company next commenced purchasing, and all suffered as Zappa gained experience in his new calling.

“But does not the captain eat fish?” he asked of a Maltese seaman, who had been acting the part of interpreter. “Has his servant come to purchase?”

“The captain does not want any fish, he is not on board to eat it,” answered the Maltese carelessly. “I wish he were; for he must have been out in that storm yesterday, in one of your little feluccas, and Heaven knows what may have become of him.”

“Where has he gone, then?” asked the pirate. “It would have been wiser to have trusted himself in your fine brig here, than in one of our native boats, which our seamen only know how to handle.”

“Oh! don’t ask me, my friend; we seamen have no business to talk of our captain’s doings,” replied the Maltese, laughing. “But let me know where you have learned to speak the lingua Franca so well. It is not often that I can understand ten words uttered by the fishermen of these parts.”

“I will reply to your question, friend, though you do not answer mine,” returned Zappa. “I sailed as a boy to all parts of the coast of the Mediterranean, till my father died, and I came home and married. I have now a mother and sisters, besides a wife and family to support; so I can go roving no longer. And so your captain has gone on an expedition, has he? Have many people accompanied him, for I suppose he did not go alone?”

“As many went as he chose to take with him,” replied the Maltese. “If he had ordered them, the whole ship’s company would have gone.”

“A clear answer, friend. Does anybody else wish to buy more of my fish. Just ask them; for I must be off again to catch a fresh supply for the support of my young family,” said the pirate carelessly. “And can you not tell me then where your captain has gone to?”

“I shall begin to think you have some reason for your curiosity, if you ask so many questions,” observed the shrewd Maltese. “I was joking about our captain, and, if you want to see him, I can take you to him.”

“Is it so?” answered Zappa, who easily divined the reason of the man’s answer, and was far too keen to be deceived by it, or to want a reply.

“I care nothing about your captain, further than that I thought I might sell him some fish if I met him. But you can do me a service, by telling me if I am likely to fall in with any other ships of war, or merchantmen, with whom I may drive my trade?”

“Ah, padrone, I cannot assist you there either; for we seamen know little of what happens outside the ship’s planks,” returned the Maltese. “It is not often, though, one goes long in these seas without meeting with a cruiser of our own country, and as for merchantmen they are thick enough; but neither one nor the other are likely to come to such out-of-the-way islands as these are.”

“When will that man have finished selling his fish there?” sang out the officer of the watch. “Manuel, there—Tell him, as soon as he’s done, to shove off. We ought not to hold any communication with the natives,” he muttered to himself, as he continued his quarter-deck walk. “These fellows are as sharp as knives, and, if we let them near us, they’ll be ferreting out something they ought not to know to a certainty.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Manuel. “Come, Mister Fisherman, the officer says you must not be standing talking here all day, so I’ll wish you farewell, and a good haul the next time you let down your nets.”

“Thanks, friend, I am generally tolerably successful in that way,” answered the pretended fisherman. “Farewell, I shall come alongside again to-morrow, and I hope to find plenty of buyers. I live a little way down the coast, and shall sure to be back, so do not buy of any one else. Caralambro Boboti is my name. Don’t forget it. Farewell, again—”

Just as he was uttering these words, and making the usual salaam to the poop, or rather to the officers walking on it, his eye lighted on the countenance of a man ascending the companion-ladder which made even him for an instant turn pale. At first the idea glanced across his mind that he saw an apparition, but the shoulders and the body and legs came next, and he was soon convinced that the person before him was real flesh and blood. No less a person, indeed, than Colonel Gauntlett ascended from below closely followed by his man Mitchell, and stood on the deck of the Ione, glaring at him with a look which convinced him that he was recognised through his disguise. There was not a moment to be lost. If he remained where he stood, the probability was that he would be seized; if he exhibited any fear or hurry, it would be equivalent to condemning himself, and he and his companions would be shot without mercy, as they attempted to escape. He felt at once that his only chance depended on his own coolness so as to make the old officer fancy that he was mistaken in his identity. With the most perfect self-possession, therefore, he repeated his farewell to the Maltese, and was about deliberately to lower himself into his boat, when the colonel threw the whole ship into commotion, by exclaiming in a voice of thunder—

“That’s him!—The scoundrel—the pirate—stop him—fire at him. I’m right, Mitchell, am I not? That’s the villain who attacked the Zodiac, and carried off my poor niece?”

“Not a doubt of it your honour. It’s the thief of the world who murdered us all, and by the holy poker I’ll have him.”

As he uttered these words he sprang towards the gangway, nearly capsizing his master, and almost grasped Zappa by the croup of the neck before anybody else understood what the commotion was all about. He missed him, however, and the pirate, with a spring, which the imminence of his danger would alone have enabled him to take, leaped into his boat, and as he did so, he exclaimed to his crew, who saw that something was wrong—

“Shove off, or we are dead men!”

The pirates waited no further words to excite them to exertion, and a few strokes sent the boat clear off the brig’s side.

So great, mean time, was the impetus Mitchell had gained, that when he missed catching Zappa, he could not again bring himself up, and souse overboard in the water he went, his head fortunately escaping the gunnel of the pirate’s boat by a few inches. In revenge, an old pirate attempted to give him his coup de grâce with the blade of his oar, but missed him.

“Arrah, ye cowardly thief to hit a man like that in the water, but I’ll mark ye—remember—bad luck to ye,” exclaimed Mitchell, as after his first immersion he rose to the surface, where his spluttering and cries drew the attention of the sentry off from the pirates.

“A man overboard,” was the first intelligible cry which was heard, and scarcely was it uttered, when three or four men, headed by a midshipman, were overboard to attempt to pick him up. Mitchell’s own eagerness to stop the pirates, very nearly prevented them from saving him, for though he had little enough notion of swimming, he struck out manfully after the boat, which the confusion had enabled to gain a good distance from the vessel before any means had been taken to stop her progress. At this juncture the first lieutenant, hearing a noise, came on deck, and soon brought matters into order.

“Silence there, fore and aft,” he exclaimed. “Let the proper crews stand by the falls of their boats. Lower the starboard quarter boat, and pick up the man in the water. What is it all about?”

“The pirate, sir—the villain, Zappa was in that boat. Shoot him—stop him, Mr Saltwell, I say!” exclaimed the colonel, scarcely able to speak from his agitation and rage.

“Sentries, fire at the men in that boat,” said Mr Saltwell, in a calm tone, which sobered down all who heard him to the proper pitch for comprehending orders. “Hand up a dozen muskets from below, and some ammunition. Lower the larboard quarter boat, and give chase after that fellow.”

Each order was obeyed with the rapidity with which it was given; but in lowering the starboard gig, the after falls got jammed, and her head came right into the water, and almost filled her. This delay prevented the other gig from going in chase, till she had picked up the people in the water, and taken them on board; but all caused delay, and both boats set off in chase nearly together.

Meantime Zappa heard the noise on deck, and guessed that the colonel was explaining who he was, and that he should soon have the boats sent after him.

“Pull till your sinews crack, my friends,” he shouted to his men. “We have no child’s play now; but keep a good heart, and we shall get clear.”

Just as he spoke, he looked back at the brig, he saw the barrel of a musket glancing in the sun, and a shot came flying over his head. Another followed, and buried itself in the pile of nets against which he leaned.

“If they have no better shot among them we need not fear,” he shouted. “Keep a good heart, my men. The Zoe will be close outside, and, when we reach her, we may set the boat at defiance.”

He was, by this time, nearly an eighth of a mile from the Ione, and pulling directly out towards the mouth of the harbour. Several other musket-shots had been fired at him, and hit a man in the side, and severely hurt him, but he still declared himself able to keep at his oar.

A long brass gun had, however, been got up on the poop, which, loaded with musket-balls, was let fly at them. The shower fell thick around them, and had it not been for the shelter of the nets, more than one shot might have proved fatal to Zappa.

Another pirate was wounded, but, fortunately, not enough to disable him, or their prospect of escape would have been much diminishes. The man turned pale as he tried to bind a handkerchief round his arm to stop the bleeding; but he still continued tugging at his oar.

“Never fear, my chief, we will all be pierced through and through before we give in,” he exclaimed. “Row on bravely, my comrades, row on.”

The two gigs were now in full chase, rather more than a quarter of a mile astern, and the brig had ceased firing, leaving all the work to be performed by them. Linton had command of the first gig, Tompion of the second, and both had some loaded muskets in their stern sheets, and all the men had their cutlasses and pistols; all these necessary arrangements having considerably delayed the boats, but Saltwell judged rightly, that it would be worse than folly to send unarmed men against such desperate characters as the pirates. There was a strong breeze blowing nearly across the harbour, from the north-west, and, as soon as Zappa had got from under the lee of the land, and felt the full force of it, he considered that he should be able to make more way under sail than by pulling. Two of the people were obliged to lay on their oars for the purpose of hoisting it, and, as soon as the English saw this, they set up a loud shout, thinking the chase was going to give in. They soon saw their mistake, and, as the large lateen sail rose above the little stump of a mast, the boat felt the force with which she was pressed onward, and away she darted over the water. The English bent to their oars till the good ash sticks almost cracked, each boat vying with the other to get ahead. Do all they could, however, they could not overtake the Greek. Linton saw that, if they were to catch the pirate, they must kill each man who came to the helm, so as to keep the boat luffed up in the wind. He accordingly raised a musket and fired. It was a good shot, and, though Zappa escaped, the man next him received the ball in his bosom. He fell back with a deep groan, a convulsive shudder passed through his frame, and he was dead.

“If that is to be the game,” exclaimed the pirate, grinding his teeth with passion till now not expressed. “I must try which of us is the best shot.”

And forthwith he drew from under the nets two rifles which had been concealed there.

“Steady the helm here, Baldo, while I try to punish our pursuers.”

He fired. His first shot seemed to take no effect. He raised the second; a wild shriek came across the waters, uttered by the poor fellow who pulled the stroke oar of Linton’s boat, on whom his too sure aim had taken effect. Both boats now, in revenge, began firing as fast as the muskets could be loaded, and the Greeks were compelled to crouch down in the bottom of their boat to avoid the shot. Zappa kept his seat boldly at the helm. A reef, as I said, ran off the mouth of the harbour on the eastern side, and, to double it, so as to regain the mistico, it would be necessary to make one if not more tacks, and here the light gigs would have an immense advantage over him. The distance to the point round which he must go was about three-quarters of a mile, but he already had a good start, and, if no other accident happened, he might hope to beat round it before the gigs could come up with him. He must now, however, depend entirely on his sail, for neither of the two wounded men were fit to pull an oar, and, with a diminished crew, the chances would be against him, should the wind fail. It was an animating struggle, and equally exciting to pursuers and pursued. Zappa encouraged his followers, and urged them to persevere to the last, hinting at the certainty of a rope and running noose, as the alternative, if they were caught. Linton, on his part, cheered on his men, and told them the safety of their beloved captain, as well as that of a young countrywoman, depended on their overtaking the pirate.

The body of poor Knox, who had been killed, was laid down at the bottom of the boat, and Togle, who was midshipman of the gig, took his place, so that they very soon recovered the ground which had been lost. As they cleared the western shore of the harbour, the wind was found to draw more up its coast, and fresh off the water, and a slight sea came rolling in, sparkling brightly in the sunshine, adding a life and beauty to the scene, with which the work of death going on was sadly disconsonant. The British seamen cheered, and bent to their oars with renewed vigour, making the spray fly in showers, full of rainbow hues, over the bows, as Linton spoke to them, though they wanted no fresh stimulus to urge them to exertion.

“They will have to tack presently, and we shall soon be alongside them,” he exclaimed. “We will pay them off, my men, and, if we do not catch them the first tack, we will the second.”

Meantime Zappa held on his course, firing occasionally at the boats, but with less success than at first. When also he round that the wind headed him, he began to calculate that the enemy would, to a certainty, be alongside him before he could weather the point, and that if they once got there, his chance of escaping was small indeed. He felt, in truth, that he had put his head into the lion’s mouth, and that the lion was wagging his tail.

“Curses on the wind, to fail me just as I wanted it the most,” he exclaimed, measuring with his eye the distance between him and his pursuers. “If it was not for the reef, we should have done well, and there comes the Zoe, beating up to our assistance. They have heard the firing, and guessed that something has gone wrong. Does any one know if there is a passage through the reef? It struck me, as we came in, that there was a spot free from sea-weed, where the water looked deep, which should be just now on our larboard bow. Per Bacco, I see it, and will try it. If we strike, we shall fight there to better advantage than under weigh, and the mistico will be, soon up to our assistance.”

None of the pirates had been through the passage, if passage there were, but all expressed the wish to try it, instead of having to beat round the point. The helm was accordingly kept up, and, to the surprise of the pursuers, away the Greek boat darted directly towards the rocks. There was, as I have said, some little sea, sufficient, as it met the impediments of the reef, to make a long line of breakers. There was one small spot where it could not be said that there was no foam, but where the water was rather less agitated than elsewhere. It was here that the pirates expected to find an opening, but, as they drew near it, they almost doubted the wisdom of making the attempt, so little prospect was there of their being able to cross it. The English, meantime, were rather divided in their opinions. Some thought that, driven to desperation, they had resolved to destroy themselves and their boats; while others were as far wrong on the opposite side, and fancied that they were well acquainted with some passage through which they intended to pass. Another minute would decide the question.

On the Greek boat flew with redoubled speed, as she was kept more away. She was already among the broken water. Zappa, his nerves unshaken, stood up to steer, while a man, leaning over the bow, tried to make out the channel. As soon as the pirate showed himself, both the English boats opened their fire on him; but, though several shot whistled round his head he remained unharmed. Sea after sea, huge masses of glittering foam came rolling in on them, threatening to fill the boat, should she for one instant meet with any impediment.

Every man held his breath, and looked with an anxious glance ahead. On either side, the water came dancing up and lapping over the gunnel, and beyond, the heads of the black rocks appeared amidst the frothy cauldron through which they sailed. Now the side of the boat almost grazed a rock, which, had she struck, would have sent her into a thousand splinters. A short distance more and they would be safe. The Zoe had observed them, and was standing towards them to render them assistance. Even their enemies forbore to fire, so perilous was their situation, and so certain appeared their destruction. On they rushed.

“I can see no passage,” exclaimed the man in the bows. “We are all lost! Ah, no! Starboard the helm—starboard! Haul off the sheet a little! Up with the helm again! Ease off the sheet. Huzza! huzza! We are safe!”

The last great danger was past; a bend in the channel had been discovered, through which the boat glided; and now she floated in clear water, and held her rapid course towards the mistico. No sooner was the chief on board the Zoe, than the helm was put up, and off she ran under all sail, with her head to the island of Lissa.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Doubtless, the reader will be anxious to hear by what wonderful event Colonel Gauntlett and his man, Mitchell, had escaped from the death they were supposed to have suffered, and whether poor Bowse, and any of the survivors of his crew, had been equally fortunate; but, as I have matter of still more importance to communicate in this chapter, I must entreat him to have patience till I can return to that part of my history. We left the old pirate, Vlacco, on his way, by Nina’s directions, to give his assistance to any who might have survived the wreck of the Greek mistico. He had no particular wish to turn philanthropist in his old age, so he went rather in a sulky humour, as he would very much rather have knocked them on the head than have had, not only to save their lives, but to refrain from touching any of their property. The orders of his chief’s lady were, however, not to be disobeyed; so he and his companions hurried on as fast as they could go with the rope and spars they had with them.

“Ah! there she drives,” he muttered. “She might just as well have come on shore here, and saved me the trouble of going so far. The boat is well handled though, and her crew don’t seem inclined to give it up to the last. They don’t know what they are coming to, or they would be throwing up their arms in despair. Well, it’s some people’s fate to be hung, and some to be drowned, so they must have made up their minds to go out of the world in the last way.”

He walked on for some distance further, by which time the little mistico was close in with the rocks.

“I don’t know though,” he continued. “She has got past Point Ausa, and I’m not quite so certain that she won’t run right up into Ziyra Bay. So, by the saints, she has; and if she had tried to get there, she could not have done it better. Now, on my sons, or the sea will be too quick for us, and will have carried those strangers away before we get there.”

A few minutes more brought him and his party to the edge of a lofty cliff, from whence they looked down into a small sandy bay, where, already almost high and dry, lay the mistico they had seen approaching the shore. The entrance to the bay was through a very narrow passage between two rocks, which could only just have allowed her to scrape through; but once inside, the force of the sea was so much broken by them that she had received little or no damage. The waves were, however, sufficiently high to break over her, and almost to fill her, so that the crew were compelled to land as fast as they could. This they accomplished by dropping down from the little stump of a bowsprit as the water receded, and running up on to the dry sand before it returned.

“You are lucky fellows to get on shore so easily,” muttered old Vlacco. “But now you are there, you are very like mice in a trap, you cannot get out without my assistance.”

From the appearance of the bay, there seemed to be much truth in his observation, for so perpendicular were the cliffs, that no one could by any possibility, have scaled them.

He counted the people as they landed, and saw that there were four men and a boy; and he was now watching to learn what they would do. There was, as he was well aware, a narrow pathway cut up the side of the cliff; but the lower part was concealed, by leading into a small cavern, so that no strangers were likely to find it. It had been formed, probably, in the days when the island was a regular fortress, and had been thus arranged, that no enemy should land there, and take them unawares.

The crew of the mistico immediately set to work to try and find their way to the summit of the cliff; and it was while they were so doing that Vlacco showed himself. He went to the lowest part of the cliff, and beckoned to them to come under it, and then driving two of the spars into the ground, he made a rope fast to them, and lowered it over the cliff. It was immediately seized by the boy, who, with the agility of a monkey, commenced hauling himself up by it, towards the summit. It was nervous work to see him now swinging in the air, now placing his feet on the narrow ledges of the rock, and thus making play for a few yards to rest his arms. At last, he stood safely at the top, and taking off his cap, cheered to his companions to follow his example.

“Many thanks, signor,” he said, addressing Vlacco in a language which sounded something like Maltese, to which nation he apparently belonged, by his dress and the excessively dark hue of his skin.

One after the other followed, till the whole crew were safely landed.

They were all dressed as Maltese; but one of them addressed Vlacco in Romaic, and said—

“He and his shipmates had to thank him for the assistance he had afforded them. If our master was here, he would thank you, too; but, poor fellow, he and the mate were washed overboard, and we now know not where we have got to, or where to go. We must get you and your friends on shore here to aid us in getting our vessel afloat, and we must then try to find our way back to Malta.”

“You’ll not find that so easy,” muttered the old pirate. “But how came you to hit the bay in the clever way you did? No one could have done it better who knows the island well.”

“Our good luck served us, and our prayers to the saints wore efficacious,” returned the Maltese. “We did not expect to succeed so well, I can assure you.”

“Some people are not born to be drowned,” muttered, in a gruff voice, the old pirate, who, since he had given up robbing on his own account, had no further fears on the score of the alternative generally mentioned. “You’re in luck, I say; and since you happen not to be food for fishes, as I expected you would be by this time, I must tell you, that I have orders to bring you into the presence of the chief lady of this island, by whose directions I came all this way to try and save your lives, for I should not have taken so much trouble of my own accord, I can tell you.”

“The chief lady of the island,” repeated the Maltese, who saw that it would be folly to take notice of the rude tone a the old man’s observations. “Who is she, friend?”

“Who is she? Why, the wife, or mistress, or lady love, or whatever you like to call her, of our chief, Zappa,” answered Vlacco.

“Ah?” ejaculated the Maltese, and he turned to one of his companions, and interpreted what he had heard in a language Vlacco did not understand.

It seemed much to affect the man, who was a young, dark-skinned Maltese, though with features more of the European cast than theirs generally are. He spoke a few words to the interpreter, who then said—

“But, tell me, my friend, is the lady you speak of a Greek of these islands, or a stranger? We are anxious to know who our intended benefactress is.”

“I don’t see how it matters to you, who or what she is, provided she is of service to you,” returned the pirate. “But as you want to know, I’ll tell you, she’s a foreigner, and our chief seems very fond of her; and she is of him, I should think, by the way she looks at him. Will that answer serve you?”

The interpreter repeated what he had heard to his companion, who was evidently greatly agitated, though he tried to master his feelings, so as not to allow them to attract the attention of the islanders. He was able to say a few words to the interpreter, who immediately asked—

“Has the lady been long in the island, or has she lately arrived, friend?”

“I am not going to answer any more of your questions,” replied old Vlacco, who had gradually been losing the little amiability he ever possessed. “I don’t know why I said anything at all to you. My orders were to see you safely into the lady’s tower, where I must lock you up; and, as soon as our chief comes back, if he takes my advice, he’ll heave you all off the top of the cliff together.”

“What, is your chief absent then?” said the Maltese, with a gleam of satisfaction in his countenance.

“He is,” replied Vlacco.

“Where has he gone, friend?” asked the persevering interpreter.

“Hough,” was all the old pirate would answer.

“When do you expect him back, friend?” inquired the interpreter.

To this Vlacco would not deign a “Hough;” but looked as if he was very much inclined to shove his interlocutor over the cliff.

This put an effectual stop to further conversation with any of the islanders; but the strangers continued every now and then, making observations to each other in a low tone, as they proceeded on their way to the tower.

Old Vlacco hurried them on to the causeway, and past the eastern tower, which was the one where Ada Garden resided, till they reached the habitation of poor Nina. He then opened the door, rudely shoved them all in, and told them to amuse themselves as they best could in the dark, while he went to inform the lady of their arrival.

The fury of the summer tempest had subsided, and the dark masses of clouds had passed away, leaving only a few loitering stragglers to follow, in order to restore the sky to all its usual brightness. The untiring waves still continued lashing the base of the rocks; but their roar had lessened, and the white foam no longer flew in showers of spray up the steep cliffs.

Ada Garden and the young Italian sat at the window watching for the appearance of the shipwrecked mariners. As Ada saw them at a distance, she at once recognised them from their dress as Maltese, and she longed to question them, to learn if they had come lately from their native island, and could give her any information respecting the vessels of war which were there; and whether the Ione had yet sailed for England.

At all events, she thought, if they could effect their escape, they might convey intelligence of her situation to Malta; and she doubted not, trusting to the chivalry of her countrymen, that even should Captain Fleetwood have sailed for England, every effort would be made for her release. She whispered her hopes to Nina, who understood and promised to forward her wishes.

“I should much like to speak with these poor men myself,” she observed. “But my so doing might excite suspicions which might effectually counteract it, and bring destruction on their heads.”

“Fear not, lady; I will speak to them, and urge them to convey tidings of you,” said Nina. “For though I think not my husband would allow innocent men to be injured, yet of late he has done acts and said things which make me very wretched, though I do not comprehend them. Even Paolo has of late come to see me but seldom, and is more silent and reserved than I ever before remember him. I know not where it will all end, but now and then dark shadows pass before my sight, and congregate in the distance, till the whole future seems full of them. But I rave, lady. Ah! here come the strangers.”

Ada had scarcely listened to what her companion was saying, so intently had she been watching the Maltese seamen. Her heart beat so quick with agitation, that she felt it would overcome her strength; hope and fear rose alternately in her bosom, yet she was sure she was not mistaken. Notwithstanding the disguise, the dark-stained skin, she was as certain nearly as of her own existence, that she beheld Charles Fleetwood. Love cannot be mistaken. And yet his air and walk were not as usual; the independent, buoyant step was not there, the free, bold carriage of the gallant sailor was gone, and he seemed to drag on his steps as if weary of life, instead of being engaged in an expedition, which she well knew must be to rescue her. She had loved him before, but as she now saw him risking his liberty and his life for her, all the tenderest feelings of a woman’s nature gushed forth, and she longed to rush into his arms to tell him of her gratitude, and deep, undying devotion. She longed to call him to make him look up, to soothe his heart by letting him know of her safety; but prudence restrained her; she felt that the slightest sign of recognition might prove his destruction, and she endeavoured to conceal her feelings even from him. But the quick glance of the young Italian soon discovered that she was suffering from some powerful emotion, and the direction of her eyes betrayed the cause. She at once saw that there was some one she knew, but as Ada said nothing, she thought it kinder not to utter her suspicions.

“I shall soon discover when I see them together,” she said, mentally. “And I will not agitate her by asking her questions.”

In her heart of hearts, Nina hoped that the strangers would be able to assist Ada in her flight, for though she felt herself attracted to the beautiful stranger, she was not the less anxious to get her safe out of the island.

Nina accordingly rose to take her departure, observing that the storm was over, and that she must hasten to make arrangements about the shipwrecked strangers, and to send for her brother to aid her, as they were not likely to receive much assistance or commiseration from Vlacco. She looked attentively at Ada as she said this, and the expression of thankfulness which she saw on her countenance convinced her still more that she was right in her conjectures.

As soon as the shipwrecked seamen found themselves alone, the one who had hitherto appeared of the least importance, and had been seen to put on so dejected an air, on hearing that they were to be conducted into the presence of the chief’s wife, was now evidently considered by the rest as their leader. By a strenuous effort he aroused himself, observing, in a language which was much more like pure English than Maltese, “We must, while we can, examine the condition of the fortress in which we are confined; we may find it necessary to try and let ourselves out. Except the door, there seems, however, to be no outlet; but there is a gleam of light coming down from the further corner, and there must be an aperture to let it through.”

“I will go in, and see all about it,” exclaimed the Maltese lad, also speaking remarkably good English, and in a few minutes, his voice was heard calling on his companions to find their way to the foot of the steps, and to follow him into the chamber above.

In a few minutes, the whole party were assembled in the apartment I have described as the pirate’s chief store-room.

“The enemies have chosen to put us in possession of the fortress, and have given us every means of keeping it,” exclaimed the Maltese lad, examining the arms and ammunition. “All we have to do, is to barricade the door below, and we might hold out a long siege.”

“And very little use that would be, when our object is to get away as fast as we can,” returned another. “However, we know where to find a good supply of arms if we want them.”

Meantime, their leader, and the one who had acted as interpreter, had gone together into the story above.

“It is too true, then,” exclaimed the first, after they had examined the apartment, looking as if he could scarcely restrain his grief. “This is evidently a lady’s chamber, and furnished, too, with all the luxury and treasure the pirate would lavish on his wife. Yet it cannot be hers. I know her too well—gentle and affectionate as she is, she would die rather than submit to such degradation. But what is this?” he took up a book, which lay on the table.

It was one he had often seen in the hands of Ada Garden, and her name was on the title-page. Charles Fleetwood, for he it was who had come to rescue her he loved, as he discovered this fatal confirmation of his worst fears, covered his face with his hands, and groaned. But he quickly recovered himself.

“No, no—I will not believe it. The thought is too horrible—too dreadful. I wrong her to entertain it for an instant. Yet, who can be this lady the old pirate spoke of? He said she would soon be here. Would to heaven she were come?”

The whole party had just collected together in the lower story, when they heard the gate open, and, a female figure appeared at the entrance.

Captain Fleetwood’s heart beat audibly, for, during the first moment, he could not tell whether it might not be Ada Garden; but the next, a gleam of light, and to him it was one of sunshine, exhibited a graceful and beautiful person; but a stranger. In his satisfaction, he was very nearly forgetting himself, and rushing forward to inquire for Ada. She stopped to address the old pirate, who had opened the gate.

“You have treated these poor men with scant hospitality, thrusting them down here, wet and hungry,” she observed to him, in an angry tone. “Conduct them up to my room, and I will inquire whence they come, and how they happened to be cast on the shore. Send, also, for Signor Paolo, for some of them seem hurt, and may require his aid; and, good Vlacco, see that food be supplied to them, of the best the island affords, and let a chamber be prepared for them in the house, near to the room where my brother sleeps. We will, at least, endeavour to be hospitable to the few strangers who are ever likely to visit our shores.”

Nina ascended to her chamber, into which Vlacco directly afterwards ushered the Maltese seamen. She inclined her head in acknowledgment to the reverence they made her, and then ordered Vlacco to retire, and to fulfil her directions.

“Do any of you speak Italian?” she asked in that language.

“Si, signora, I do,” said Fleetwood, stepping forward. “I am also eager, in the name of my comrades, to thank you for your interference in our favour; nor are we at all assured, that without it, our lives would have been safe, had we fallen into the hands of some of those islanders.”

“As to that,” returned Nina, “I cannot say. They are rude men, and are little accustomed to encounter strangers. But I am glad to be of service to you, and will be of more, if you can point out the way.”

“The greatest you can render us, signora, will be to order some twenty or thirty men to aid us in launching our mistico. She is, fortunately, uninjured, and we may thus be enabled to continue our voyage.”

“They shall do so to-morrow morning, by which time the sea will be calm,” said Nina. “I have ordered lodging and food to be prepared for you. And tell me, can I, in any other way, serve you?”

Fleetwood felt a strong inclination to confide in her completely. Before, he had dreaded seeing Ada as the mistress of the tower; and now, he almost wished that she had been, for the dreadful thought occurred to him that she might be dead. He was considering how he should frame some question to learn the truth, when his eye fell on the book, which he knew contained her name. He took it up, and, as if by chance, his eye had now, for the first time, seen it, he pointed it out to Nina.

“Lady,” he said, “do you know the person to whom this book belongs?”

“No,” returned Nina; “I know no lady of that name—but stay. Is the lady young, and fair, and beautiful, for, if so, I have just parted with her?”

“She is, she is!” exclaimed Fleetwood, in a voice of agitation, the colour rushing to his face, and showing through the darkly-stained skin. “Where is she, lady? Oh, tell me!”

Nina smiled.

“You have betrayed yourself, signor,” she answered. “But you may confide in me—I will not injure you. I thought from the first, that you were not a common seaman, in spite of your costume. Such speak not with the accent you do. You take a great interest in this fair girl. Confess it.”

“I do, signora; and, moreover, I would risk everything to rescue her.”

“I thought as much,” returned Nina. “I may find means to serve you—and will do so. But remember, signor, that I may also some day call upon you to assist one who, although you may look upon him as an enemy, may demand your aid. Promise me that, should I ever require it, you will exert all your energies—you will strive to the utmost—you will even risk your life and safety, if I demand it of you, to serve him I will not now name. Say you will do this, and you enable me to do all you require. Otherwise, I cannot; for in aiding your wishes, I am disobeying his orders, and I cannot justify my conduct to myself.”

“You must remember, signora, that a naval officer, and, I confess to you, that I am one, owes his first duty to his country; next that, gladly will I obey your wishes,” returned Fleetwood. “If any one, in whom you take interest, is in difficulty, and I have the means to save him, I promise, faithfully, to do so. More, I cannot say. Will that satisfy you?”

“It does. Say, whence did you come—and whither were you bound, when you were driven on this coast. It may be necessary to show that I have not forgotten the most important part of the examination.”

“We come from Malta and were bound for Smyrna, but were driven out of our course by a gale of wind, in which we lost our master and mate. Our vessel was wrecked, and becoming the purchasers of the mistico, we endeavoured to find our way home in her. None of us, however, understanding navigation, we were afraid to continue our voyage till we found some one to supply their place. This, lady, is the story we have to tell, to account for our appearance on the island; but, in one point, believe me, I do not deceive you, when I assure you, that we come not here to injure, in any way, the chief of this island.”

“Enough, signor; I trust to you,” replied Nina. “I will now have you and your companions conducted to the apartments prepared for you. There is but small habitable space in the castle, extensive as it once was, and it would lead to suspicions were you to be better lodged.”

She clapped her hands, and little Mila appeared, to conduct the strangers to the abode Nina had selected for them.

Left alone, she stood, for an instant, a picture of misery.

“Alas, alas!” she repeated to herself, “everything I hear and see convinces me that his course is one full of danger, if not, also, of crime. But I am acting for the best, and am gaining a power which may serve him at his utmost need. I am doing what is right.”

Poor Nina, the idol she had set up was gradually changing his god-like radiance for a sombre hue, his heavenly countenance for one of dark malignity. So must all false idols change. The brighter and more beautiful they appear at first, the blacker and more hideous will they become.

The adventurers had retired to rest. Their couches were composed of heather, scattered along the sides of the room; but it was covered with thick cloths and rugs, and formed no contemptible resting-place; their drenched clothes had been well dried, and they had enjoyed a plentiful meal. Even Fleetwood had done justice to it; and the Maltese lad, who was no other than our friend Jack Raby, astonished little Mila by the prodigious extent of his midshipman’s appetite.

Another seeming Maltese was a person the reader is probably not prepared to meet. He was our friend Bowse, late master of the Zodiac, who, having been rescued from the fate which hung over him, had entreated Captain Fleetwood to be permitted to accompany him, and to share his dangers in recovering Miss Garden.

The Greek captain, Teodoro Vassilato, was the person who had acted as interpreter. He had once been taken prisoner by the pirates, and having a little private revenge of his own to satisfy, he had offered his services, which were too valuable to be refused.

The last person was really a Maltese seaman, long a faithful attendant on Fleetwood. He was to be put forward as the most prominent person, should any doubt arise as to their being really Maltese.

As the reader may have suspected, the shipwreck was the result of design rather than chance or mismanagement; and though they had long been waiting for a gale of wind, better to account for it, and as the most certain means of getting a footing on the island, they had scarcely bargained for one of such violence.

As, however, Captain Vassilato was confident of the spot, they resolved to stand on. They well knew the danger they were running—for they felt that it would be almost certain death, should the pirates discover them; but they had strung up their nerves for the work, and all were anxious to serve Captain Fleetwood, and to rescue Ada Garden from captivity.

Fleetwood had thrown himself on his couch, thinking of Ada, and pondering how he might beat obtain an interview with her, when the door slowly opened, and a dark figure entered, holding a light in his hand. He attentively scrutinised the countenances of the sleepers, and then stopping before Fleetwood, he threw the light full on his face, so as to awaken him thoroughly, had he slept, and beckoned to him.

Fleetwood sprang to his feet.

“Follow me, signor,” whispered the stranger, in Italian. “I have come to conduct you into the presence of one you have long wished to meet.”

“To the English lady?” he asked, his voice trembling with agitation.

The stranger laid his finger on his lips as a signal of silence, and beckoned him to follow.

Chapter Twenty Six.

After the Ione had left Cephalonia, she commenced her intricate passage among the innumerable isles and islets of the Grecian Archipelago, towards Lissa, in the neighbourhood of which his new friend Teodoro Vassilato, the captain of the Ypsilante, had appointed a rendezvous with Captain Fleetwood.

On first starting, they were favoured with a fair breeze; but no sooner did they get among the labyrinthine mazes of the islands, than a foul wind set in, and delayed them in a manner which sorely tried Fleetwood’s impatient spirit. Any one who has cruised among those islands will know the difficulty of the navigation, and the necessity for constant watchfulness. Besides the thousand islands and islets, there are, in every direction, rocks of all sizes, some just below the water, others rising above it to various heights; and although there are no regular tides, there are powerful and very variable currents, and many a ship has been cast away in consequence of them—the master, by his calculations, fancying himself often well free of the danger, on which he has been in reality running headlong.

The Ione had stood to the southward, and had tacked again to the northward, with the island of Milo blue and distant on her weather beam, when, just as the sun, in his full radiance of glory, was rising over the land, the look-out ahead hailed that there were breakers on the starboard bow.

“How far do you make them?” asked Linton, who was the officer of the watch, as he went forward to examine them himself with his telescope. “By Jove! there is a mass of black rocks there; and I believe there is somebody waving to us on them,” he exclaimed. “Here, Raby, take my glass, and see what you can make out.”

“I can make it out clearly, sir,” replied the midshipman. “There are a number of people on them, and they have a sheet or blanket, or something of that sort, made fast to a boathook or small spar, and they are waving it to attract our attention.”

“They have been cast away, then, depend on it, and we must go and see what we can do for them,” said Linton. “Run down and tell the captain; and, as you come back, rouse out the master, and ask him how close we may go to the rocks.”

The captain and master, as well as all the officers, were soon on deck, and the brig was looking well up towards the rocks, within a few cables’ length of which, to leeward, the pilot said they might venture.

There was a good deal of sea running, for it had been blowing very hard the previous day; but the wind had gone down considerably, and Captain Fleetwood expressed his opinion that there would not be much difficulty in getting the people off the rocks, provided they could find an approach to them on the lee side; but on getting nearer, the rock appeared to be of so small an extent, that the waves curled round it, and made it almost as dangerous to near it on one side as on the other.

“I think that I can make out a part of the wreck jammed in between two rocks, just flush with the water,” observed Saltwell, who had been examining the place with his glass. “An awkward place to get on.”

“Faith, indeed, it is,” said the master. “If we hadn’t come up, and another gale of wind had come on, every one of those poor fellows would have been washed away.”

“It is an ill wind that blows nobody good,” remarked the purser, who was a bit of a moralist in a small way. “Now we have been complaining of a foul wind—and if we had had a fair one, we should have run past those rocks without ever seeing the people on them.”

“No higher,” exclaimed the gruff voice of the quarter-master, who was conning the ship. “Mind your helm, or you’ll have her all aback.”

“The wind is heading us,” muttered the man at the wheel; “she’s fallen off two points.”

“Hands about ship,” cried Captain Fleetwood. “We’ll show the poor fellows we do not intend to give them the go-by. Helm’s a-lee! Tacks and sheets! Main-topsail haul. Of all, haul.”

And round came the brig, with her head to the eastward, or towards the island of Milo. She was at this time about two miles to the southward of the rock, and that the people on it might not suppose that she was about to pass them, Captain Fleetwood ordered a gun to be fired, to attract their attention, and to show them that they were seen. This appeared to have a great effect; for the officers observed them through their telescopes waving their signal-staffs round and round, as if to exhibit their delight.

“They seem as if they were all drunk on the rock there,” said Linton. “I never saw people make such strange antics.”

“I fear it is more probable that they are mad,” observed the captain. “I have known many instances in which men have been thus afflicted, who having nothing to satisfy their hunger or thirst, have been tempted to drink salt water.”

“It proves that they must have been a long time there. We must not keep on long on this tack, master, I suspect.”

The Ione was soon about again on the starboard tack, and away she flew, every instant nearing the rock. It soon became evident that Captain Fleetwood was right in his suspicions; for, as they drew closer, they could see that some of the unfortunate wretches had thrown off all their clothing, and were dancing, and leaping, and gesticulating furiously—now joining hands, and whirling round and round, as fast as the inequalities of the ground would allow them, then they would rush into the water, and then roll down and turn over and over, shrieking at the top of their voices. Some, again, were sitting crouching by themselves, moving and gibbering, and pointing with idiot glance at their companions, and then at the vessel. Two or three figures were seen stretched out by the side of the rock, apparently dead or dying. In the centre and highest part of the rock, a tent was erected, and before it were several persons in a far calmer condition. Some were waving to the brig, others were on their knees, as if returning thanks to Heaven for their approaching deliverance, and two were stretched out on rude couches formed of sails, in front of the tent, too weak to stand up. At last the Ione got under the lee of the rock, and hove to.

“We must take great care how we allow those poor fellows to get into the boats,” said Captain Fleetwood. “I need not tell you how much I value every moment; at the same time, in pity for those poor wretches, we must endeavour to rescue them—I propose, therefore, to anchor the cutter at two cables’ length from the rock, and to veer in the dinghy till she drops alongside them; we must then allow only two at a time to get into her, and then again haul her off. How many are there—do you count, Mr Linton.”

“About forty, sir, including those who appear dead or dying,” returned the second lieutenant.

“Twenty trips will take about two hours, as the cutter must return once to the ship with her first cargo. It will be time well spent, at all events,” said Fleetwood, calculating in his mind the delay which would be thus occasioned in discovering where Ada had been conveyed, and attempting her rescue. “Mr Saltwell, I will entrust the command of the expedition to you,” continued the captain. “Mr Viall,” to the surgeon, “we, I fear, shall want your services on board; but, Mr Farral,” to the assistant-surgeon, “you will proceed in the cutter, and render what aid you consider immediately necessary. Take, at all events, a couple of breakers of water, and a bottle or two of brandy. You will find some stimulant necessary to revive the most exhausted—I should advise you, Mr Viall, to have some soft food, such as arrow-root, or something of that nature, boiled for them by the time they come off. They have probably been suffering from hunger as well as thirst, and anything of a coarse nature may prove injurious.”

The cutter was hoisted out, and every preparation quickly made. Numbers of volunteers presented themselves, but Linton’s was the only offer which was accepted, as he undertook to go on to the rock in the first trip the dinghy made, and to render what aid he could to those who appeared to be on the brink of dissolution, when even a few minutes might make the difference, whether they died or recovered. Mr Saltwell gave the order to shove off, and away the cutter pulled up towards the rock, with the dinghy in tow, on her work of humanity.

The captain and those who remained on board watched the progress of the boats, as well as the movements on the rock, with intense interest. It is scarcely possible to describe the excitement on the rock, caused by the departure of the boat. If the actions had before been extravagant, they were now doubly so; they shrieked, they danced, they embraced each other with the most frantic gestures; and, indeed, appeared entirely to have lost all control over themselves.

The cutter dropped her anchor at the distance it was considered advisable from the rock; but her so doing seemed to make the unhappy maniacs fancy that she was not coming to their assistance, and their joy was at once turned into rage and defiance. One of them leaped into the water and endeavoured to swim towards the boat. Linton, who had taken the precaution before leaving the ship to arm himself, as had Raby, who was his companion, instantly leaped into the dinghy, with the two men destined to pull her; and they urged her on as fast as they could to succour the unhappy wretch, slacking away at the same time a rope made fast to the cutter. They had got near enough to see his eye-balls starting from his head, as he struck out towards them, his hair streaming back, his mouth wide open, and every muscle of his face working with the exertion of which he himself was scarcely conscious, when, as he was almost within their grasp, he uttered a loud shriek, and throwing up his arms, sank at once before them. A few red marks rose where he had been, but they were quickly dispersed by the waves.

“The poor fellow must have broken a blood-vessel, sir,” said Raby.

“No, indeed,” replied Linton, “every artery must have been opened to cause those dark spots. A ground shark has got hold of him, depend on it. Heaven grant we do not get capsized, or our chance of escape will be small. But, hark! what language are those fellows speaking? It is French, is it not?”

“French, sure enough, sir,” replied Jack Raby. “I thought so, before we left the cutter.”

“Sacré bêtes Anglais! How dare you venture here? This is our island, far better than your miserable Malta. We have taken possession of it, and will hold it against all the world. Begone with you, or we will sink you, and your ship to the bottom; off, off.”

As they were uttering these words, they continued making the most violent gestures of defiance and contempt, but this did not prevent Linton from approaching the rock. It was larger than it had appeared to be at a distance; and at the spot to which he was making there was a little indentation where the water was comparatively smooth. I have said that there was a group of men in front of a tent, at the higher part of the rock, and these they now observed, were armed, and had thrown up a sort of fortification, with planks and chests, and spars, and other things cast on shore from the wreck, aided by the natural inequality of that part of the rock.

“Good Heavens!” thought Linton. “And on so small a spot of ground, could not these men rest at peace with each other?”

Just as the dinghy was within two boat-hooks’ length of the rock, a voice from among the group, hailed in English,—“Take care, sir, or those fellows will murder you all. They have been threatening to do it. But if we could but get up a few drops of water here, we should soon be able to quiet them.”

“I have the water for you, and I will try what I can do to pacify them,” shouted Linton, at the top of his voice. “A present, mes amis” he said in French; “we have come here as friends to aid you; we do not want to take your island, to which you are welcome; and to convince you that we do not come as enemies, any two of you can go off to the large boat there, where they may have as much food and water as they require.”

Two of them rather more sane than the rest, on hearing this, shouted out,—“Food and water, that is what we want—you are friends, we see—we will go.”

“No, no—if any go, all shall go!” exclaimed the rest, rushing down to the water; but, so blind was the eagerness of the mass that these were precipitated headlong into the sea, and would have become food for the ground sharks had not Linton and his companions hauled them into the dinghy. He was now afraid that he should be obliged to return at some risk with the boat thus heavily laden, but before doing so he determined to make one more attempt to join the people on the top. His first care, before letting the boat again drop in, was to pour a few drops of brandy-and-water down the throats of the two Frenchmen they had rescued. This so revived them, and with their immersion in the water, so restored their senses, that they rose up in the boat and shouted out to their companions:—“These men are friends—receive them as brethren among you, and we will be answerable for their honesty.”

“Now, messieurs, is your time,” said one. “Hasten, if you desire to get on shore, or their mood will change.”

“Pull in,” cried Linton, and in another moment he and Raby, who carried a breaker of water on his shoulder, sprang on shore while the boat was hauled back to the cutter.

There they stood for an instant confronting the most ferocious looking beings it is possible to conceive in human shape. Their beards were long, and their hair wet and tangled, and hanging down over their shoulders, their eye-balls were starting from their heads, and their limbs were emaciated in the extreme, lacerated, and clotted with blood and dirt—scarcely any of them having a rag of clothing to cover them.

“Now, my friends, allow us to proceed to a place where we may sit down and discuss our plans for the future,” said Linton, hoping thus to keep them quiet till he could get nearer the summit of the rock.

“Waistcoat bien, c’est bien,” they answered. “Monsieur is a man of sense,” said one, with a maniac leer at his companion. “We will allow him to make merry at our next feast, eh, comrades?”

And they laughed, and shouted at the wit of the poor wretch.

“We will proceed, then,” said Linton, who found them pressing on him. “Push on, Raby, and try and gain the top before these madmen break out again. Let us advance, messieurs.”

“What, and join our enemies in the castle up there?” sneered the maniac, who had proposed them joining their feast, of the nature of which they could have little doubt. “No, no. We see that you are no friends of the French, so over you go to feed the fishes.”

As he uttered these words, he made a rush at Linton, who with difficulty leaped out of his way, when the miserable wretch, unable to stop himself, ran on till he fell over into the water, where his companions derided his dying struggles. This attracted the attention of some; but the others made a rush at Linton, who had just time to draw his cutlass, and to keep them off from himself and Raby, who, hampered with the water-cask, could do little to defend himself.

So rapidly had the events I have mentioned taken place, that there was not time even for the dinghy’s return to bring them assistance. Had Linton chosen to kill his assailants, he might easily have preserved his own safety; but unwilling to hurt them, unconscious as they were of what they were about, he was very nearly falling a victim to his own humanity. As he and Jack Raby sprang up the rock they got round them, and on a sudden they found themselves attacked from behind. On turning his head for a moment, a powerful wretch seized his sword by the blade, and though it was cutting his hands through and through he would not let it go. At the same instant others threw their arms round his neck, and were dragging him to the ground, where in all probability they would instantly have destroyed him, when two persons sprang down from the top of the rock with heavy spars in their hands, and striking right and left on the heads of the maniacs, compelled them to let go their hold, and allow Linton and Raby to spring to their feet.

“Now, sir, now is your time!” exclaimed one of their deliverers. “Up to the fortress before they rally. They have had such a lesson that they will not think of coming there again.”

Neither of the officers required a second call, and in an instant they were in front of the tent.

“You have brought us water, sir. Thank Heaven, the breaker has not been injured!” exclaimed the man, who had aided them so effectually, taking it from Raby’s shoulder, who poured out some into a cup which he had brought for the purpose. As he did so Raby examined his countenance, which, though haggard and emaciated, he recognised as belonging to an old friend.

“What, Bowse!” he cried. “Is it you?—I am, indeed, glad to find that you have escaped from the pirates, though we find you in a sorry condition enough.”

“Ah, Mr Raby, I knew the Ione at once, and glad I am to see you,” answered Bowse, filling the cup with water. He was about to carry it to his own mouth, but by a powerful effort he restrained himself, muttering, “There are others want it more than I do.”

And he handed it to Linton, pointing to one of the sufferers on the ground. Linton took the cup, and pouring a few drops of brandy into it, gave it to the person indicated.

“What!” he exclaimed, as he did so. “Do I, indeed, see Colonel Gauntlett? Tell me, sir, is Miss Garden here? I need not say how much it will relieve the mind of Captain Fleetwood to know that she is safe.”

The colonel groaned as he gave back the cup, saying—

“Indeed, I know nothing of my poor niece.”

In a few minutes a cup of water had been given to each of the persons round the tent, the reviving effect of which was wonderful on even the most exhausted. Meantime the unhappy wretches on the lower part of the rock were shrieking and gesticulating as before, but instead of looking at the boats they now turned their eyes towards those who were quenching their raging thirst with the supply of water brought by Linton and Raby. At this juncture the dinghy returned, and the men in her succeeded by a coup de main in getting two men off, when by a less forcible manner they would probably have failed. The moment they reached the rock they leaped on it, holding the boat by the painter, and before the Frenchmen were aware they had seized two of them who had jackets to catch hold of, and had hauled them into the boat. A second time the manoeuvre had equal success, and thus six were got off without much trouble. Linton now bethought him of trying to soothe some of them by giving them water, and at last he succeeded in attracting one of them up the rock by holding up a cup of water. The man took it and quaffed it eagerly.

“C’est mieux que le sang,” he exclaimed in a hollow voice, followed by a fierce laugh. “More, more, more.”

The lieutenant considered that he might give him a little more, and others seeing that their comrade was obtaining that for which they had been longing, came up and held out their hands for the cup, their manner and the unmeaning look of their eyes showing that they were more influenced by the instinct of animals than the sense of men.

By degrees the whole of them came up and obtained a cup of water, and Linton had the satisfaction of seeing that they had become much calmer and more manageable. He, in consequence, thought he might venture down to examine the condition of the still more unfortunate beings who sat by themselves, altogether unconscious of their condition, as well as of those he had seen stretched out at their length near the edge of the rock. Bowse, however, recommended him not to attempt to do so till a greater number of the maniacs had been got off. “If Mr Raby and I, and Mitchell, there,” (meaning the colonel’s servant, who was the second man who had come to their rescue), “were to accompany you, and it would not be safe for you to go alone, those poor wretches might attack our fortress and murder all in it; and to say the truth, I am afraid you can do very little good to any of them.”

Bowse’s arguments prevailed, and Linton and Raby set to work to get the people into the dinghy. He found the best way was to give them a little water at a time, and then to promise them more directly they should reach the cutter. In this way several more were got off, the seamen seizing them neck and heels the moment they got near the dinghy, and tumbling them in. At last Linton, leaving Bowse in charge of what he called the fortress, proceeded with Raby and Mitchell, carrying the remainder of the water to aid those who either could not or would not move. The first man they came to lay moaning and pointing to his mouth. No sooner did his parched lips feel the cooling liquid than he sat upright, seizing the cup in both his hands, and drained off the contents. Scarcely had he finished the draught than, uttering a deep sigh, he fell back, and, stretching out his arms, expired. On the next the water had a more happy effect: the eye, which at first was glazed and fixed, slowly acquired a look of consciousness, the muscles of the face relaxed, and a smile, expressive of gratitude, seemed to flit across the countenance of the sufferer. The next, who was sitting by himself, almost naked, with his feet close to the sea, received the cup with a vacant stare, and dashed the precious liquid on the ground, while the cup itself would have rolled into the sea, had not Raby fortunately saved it. They, however, again tried him with more, and no sooner did the water actually touch his lips than he seemed as eager to obtain it as he was before indifferent to it. When the dinghy returned, these two were lifted into her, and conveyed on board the cutter. The cutter had, by this time, a full cargo on board, which she transferred to the Ione, and then returned, anchoring closer in with the rock than before. While Linton and his companions were attending, as I have described, to the most helpless of the French seamen, they were followed closely by the remainder, who watched their proceedings with idiot wonder.

The threatening gestures of the gang, who were behind, made him glad to find a way by which he could retreat to the summit of the rock, where he found assembled, besides the persons I have already mentioned, the second mate and three British seamen of the Zodiac, as also the captain of a French brig-of-war, which it appeared had been wrecked there, four of his officers and five of his men, who were the only ones who had retained their strength and their senses; and many of them were so weak that they had not sufficient strength to walk down to the boats. Linton accordingly sent for further assistance, and two more hands came off from the cutter, both for the purpose of carrying down the sufferers, and of defending them in the mean time from any attack the maniacs might make on them. Colonel Gauntlett, although at first unable to walk, quickly recovered, and insisted on having no other assistance than such as Mitchell could afford in getting to the boat. The French captain had suffered the most, both from bodily fatigue and mental excitement.

All this party having been embarked, Linton advised that the cutter should return to the ship, and begged that four more hands should be sent him, with a good supply of rope-yarns. While the boats were absent, he tried to calm and conciliate the unhappy beings on the rock; but, although they no longer attempted to injure him, it was evident that they abstained from doing so more from fear than good will.

They were in all, remaining alive, twelve persons; and, when the dinghy returned, he found his party to amount to eight men, with whom he considered he should easily be able to master the others. The unfortunate Frenchmen had not sense to perceive what he was about, and he had captured and bound three before they attempted to escape from him. Then commenced the most extraordinary chase round and round the rock. In a short time three more were bound, and these Linton sent off before he made any further attempt to take the rest. There were still six at large, fierce, powerful men, who evaded every means he could devise to get hold of them without using actual force. He was still unwilling to pull away, and leave them to their fate; at length he ordered his men to make a simultaneous rush at them, and to endeavour to trip them up, or to knock them over with the flats of their cutlasses. Pour of them were secured, though they had their knives in their hands, and made a desperate resistance; the others, they were two, who appeared to be the maddest of the party, darted from them, and, before they could be stopped, leaped off, on the weather side, when they were quickly swallowed up among the breakers. Linton and his companions shuddered as they left the fatal spot.

The Ione, with her new passengers on board, kept on her course, and the wind still continuing foul, Captain Fleetwood steered for Athens, off which place, the French commander said he was certain to find a ship of his own country to receive him and his crew.

A French frigate was fallen in with, as was expected, and the French captain and his surviving officers and crew were transferred to her. They were all full of the deepest expressions of gratitude for the service which had been rendered them, and all united in complimenting Bowse for his behaviour during the trying time of the shipwreck, which had been the chief means of preserving their lives.

I will not describe Fleetwood’s feelings on seeing Colonel Gauntlett, and on hearing that Ada had, to a certainty, been carried off by Zappa. He had been prepared for the account; for he believed, from the first, that it was for that purpose he had attacked the Zodiac.

Such, however, was a conjecture a lover would naturally form, as he considered her the most valuable thing on board; but, perhaps, the more worldly reader may consider that the rich cargo had greater attractions, as well as the prospect of a large sum for her ransom. He was not aware that, at that very time, Zappa had sent to Aaron Bannech, the old Jew of Malta, to negotiate with her friends for that very purpose. The colonel, of course, remained on board to assist in the search for his niece, while Bowse begged that he might be allowed to remain also for the same object, and his men entered on board the Ione, which was some hands short.

A few words must explain the appearance of Captain Bowse and his crew and passengers on the rock. When Zappa had left the Zodiac he had bored holes in her, for the purpose of sending her to the bottom; she, however, did not sink as soon as expected; and Bowse, with some of his people who were unhurt, were able to put a boat to rights, and to launch her. The boat carried them all, and they were making for the nearest coast when they were picked up by a French man-of-war. The French ship was soon after wrecked on a barren rock, on which they existed without food for many days, and where many of the Frenchmen went mad. Here they remained till the Ione took them off.

Fleetwood had been very unhappy at having been compelled to go so much out of his way to get rid of the Frenchmen; but he was well rewarded for the delay, by falling in, when just off the mouth of the Gulf of Egina, with the very brig he had chased before touching at Cephalonia, the Ypsilante. Captain Teodoro Vassilato came on board, and expressed his delight at meeting him again, insisting on being allowed to accompany him on his search.

“I was once taken prisoner by the rascals myself, and narrowly escaped with my life, and I may have some little expectation of satisfaction in punishing them,” he observed. “Indeed, without my assistance, I do not think you have much chance of success.”

This last argument prevailed, and Fleetwood, warmly pressing his new friend’s hand, assured him of his gratitude for his promised assistance. The two brigs, therefore, sailed in company to search for the pirate’s island.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Captain Fleetwood followed his unknown guide into the open air without a word having been exchanged between them. He felt no fear, and scarcely any doubt as to the object of the summons he had received; for he had, from the first, persuaded himself that it was in some way or other connected with Ada Garden, and that he was either to hear of her, or to be conducted into her presence. The guide stopped at the door of the building to conceal the light, and looked cautiously around to ascertain, apparently, that no unwelcome eyes were near to watch their proceedings. Having convinced himself that he was unobserved, he again beckoned the English officer to advance, leading him round close to the line of ruins, which at one time formed the outer walls of the castle, and the shadow of which now served to aid in concealing them from any person who might; by chance, be crossing the more open ground.

As Fleetwood was passing beneath Nina’s tower he looked up at her casement under the vague impression that he should there find her whom he was so eager to meet; but no light was visible, either there or in any part of the building; and he had little time for observation, for his guide led him on with a step so light and rapid that he had to do his best to keep up with him. The night was one of the most perfect with which that eastern clime is blessed. The air though warm was pure and fresh after the storm—the golden stars were shining forth with a brilliant lustre, from the intense blue of the sky, on the dark tranquil sea, which lay in calm majesty at their feet, the gentle hush of its slumbering waves being the only sound to break the tranquil silence of the hour.

It was a night formed for the holy meeting of those whose hearts, though bound together, had long been parted, a night for pure happiness and love. Fleetwood felt its benign influence, and had he before been inclined to despair, it would have reassured him. A moon reduced to a thin crescent was sinking towards the horizon, and casting a bright shining line across the ocean, its light being just sufficient to throw the tall shadows of the towers and ruins along the open ground, and to tinge their summits with a silvery hue.

The guide every now and then stopped and listened, as if apprehensive that some one might be abroad, and interrupt their proceedings; and then hearing nothing, on he went again as rapidly as before; Fleetwood each time imitating his example, and stopping also. He had scarcely before remarked his conductor’s appearance; but he now observed, while thus stopping, that his figure was small and light, and that he wore a dark capote, with the hood drawn over his head, so as completely to conceal his features and to envelope his form. They went on till they got close to the tower in which Ada resided, when the guide once more came to a stop, and beckoned Fleetwood to approach.

“Zitto, hush!” said the guide, in the softest Italian. “I have risked much to serve you, and her you love—my life—and even more than my life—yours also, perhaps—and, therefore be cautious. I can allow you only a short time to say all you long to utter; but remember what might happen were you discovered. I will remain below to watch and warn you of danger, and afterwards to conduct you back to your lodging, as I must lock you in there. No one yet suspects you; but when our chief returns I know not how that may be—therefore be advised by me; what you have to do, do quickly. Now go—a short half-hour is all the time I can allow you.”

Fleetwood, as he listened, was certain that he knew the accents of the voice, and that the speaker could be no other than the Signora Nina; but he did not stay to utter empty thanks. He thought he could do that as well on his return, but sprang towards the door, which she opened for him, as she spoke; and again taking the lantern from beneath her cloak showed him some steps by which he might ascend the tower.

“Be cautious,” she whispered, seeing that he was about to leap up them at the rate his impatience would have urged him to proceed. “Tread lightly, and speak not loud, lest any one passing may hear you. Now, go.”

She held the light to show him the turnings in the stairs. He stepped up two or three at a time, with the light tread of a seaman; and on the summit a door stood open, a bright gleam of light streaming through it. A female figure stood in the centre of the apartment. He would have known her among a thousand. She sprang forward to meet him, and in another instant Ada Garden was clasped in her lover’s arms. For some minutes the hearts of both were too full to allow them to speak, and joy such as is experienced but seldom in the life of any, and by many never, was their predominant feeling. How much of the precious time allowed them to be together they had thus spent, I do not know, when Marianna, who had been standing retired in a corner of the room, thought it incumbent on her to make her appearance, and embracing Fleetwood’s knees in her delight, she poured out a torrent of thanks to him for his having come to rescue them. However much they might have wished the good little girl anywhere but where she was, her presence was very useful to them, as it sobered Fleetwood down to the things of this world; and reminded him that he had all his plans and arrangements to explain to his mistress, and numerous directions to give her for her guidance. Ada also was recalled to her present position, and as the first ecstasies of her joy subsided, fears for her lover’s safety took possession of her mind.

“Oh! Fleetwood,” she exclaimed; “you have risked your liberty and your life for my sake; and I fear the treacherous and fierce man who brought me here will wreak his vengeance on your head, when he finds himself disappointed in obtaining a large ransom for me—his object, I expect, in carrying me off.”

“But, my sweet Ada, I do not intend to give him the power of so doing,” returned Fleetwood. “We have stanch friends to assist us, and our arrangements are excellent, so that provided we are not suspected we have every chance of success.”

“I will not then, Fleetwood, damp your generous energy with my own, perhaps too weak, fears,” answered Ada. “But I am ready to do whatever you think best.”

“That is my own brave girl,” said Fleetwood, pressing her to his heart. “We must succeed; and now, Ada, listen to what I have to tell you.”

“I will—but first tell me, for I have been undutiful in not asking before, have any tidings been received of my poor uncle, and the brave crew of the Zodiac?”

“Your uncle is safe on board the Ione, and our good friend Bowse is one of the companions of my adventure,” replied Fleetwood. “The gallant fellow insisted that, as you had been in a manner under his charge, when you were carried off, it was his duty to come in search of you; and I was too glad to have his assistance.”

“Thank Heaven for my uncle’s safety! And I trust, Fleetwood, that he has conquered the prejudices he entertained against you since he has been on board your ship,” said Ada, smiling. “Indeed, his nature is generous, and I know that he must.”

“I trust that he has, dearest,” returned Fleetwood. “I have treated him as I believe I should any other person in a similar position; and I may, recollecting that he was your uncle, have shown him more respect and tenderness than I might otherwise have done; but, at all events, he appears well disposed towards me. However, in two days, I hope you will have the means of judging for yourself.”

“So soon!” exclaimed Ada. “Is your ship so near?”

“But a few hours’ sail from hence; and I would, this very night, have put our plan in execution to carry you away, had we been at liberty; but first, the kindness of the pirate’s young wife prevented our examining the harbour and the boats in it; and we afterwards found ourselves locked up in the room allotted us to sleep in. I do not, in consequence, think we are suspected; for it is very natural that the gruff old pirate, who seems to act as lieutenant-governor, or major-domo, of the castle—I scarcely know what to call him—should not think fit to leave a party of strangers at liberty to wander about and examine into the state of his defences. I have now to thank the Signora Nina for the happiness I enjoy of seeing you. But, tell me, Ada, do you think she is to be thoroughly trusted?”

“Poor girl, I believe so,” said Ada. “Intentionally, I feel sure she would not betray us, but will do her very utmost to aid us.”

Ada did not give the reasons for her confidence. Her maiden modesty made her unwilling to tell her lover that she believed that Nina, besides her wish to do what was right, was also influenced by her anxiety to get her out of her husband’s way.

“She has already given proof of her willingness to serve us; but, in her brother I have not the same confidence, and you must be cautious not to let him discover who you are. I may wrong the unhappy youth, for he appears to have many generous and good qualities—and his devotion to his sister, the original cause of his misfortunes, is extraordinary. However, he, at times, appears to wander in his mind; and, except in a case of urgent necessity, do not trust him; and, if you have occasion to do so, appeal to his generosity and honour, and he is more likely to serve you.”

“I will do as you advise, Ada; and I confess that I would rather trust to that beautiful Italian girl, than to the sort of person you describe her brother to be;” said Fleetwood. “But our time is short; and I have not told you one word of our plan. You must know that I was fortunate enough to fall in with a Greek captain, who knows the island, and entertains a laudable hatred for Signor Zappa; and he undertook to pilot us here, either in the Ione, or in any way I proposed; but strongly urged me to employ stratagem to recover you. I accordingly resolved to pretend to be a Maltese seaman, as the character I could best personate, and to be unfortunately wrecked on the island. Once here, I felt sure I should find means to communicate with you; and I then proposed to cut out a boat from the harbour, and to carry you off in her. I directed our pinnace and jollyboat to wait every night just out of sight of land, to the windward of the harbour, with the men well armed, all the time I am here, to assist us should we be followed when escaping. I, at first, intended to have come alone; but my Greek friend first insisted on coming, then so did Bowse, in a manner I could not refuse; and I was glad when a real Maltese volunteered, as he could act as spokesman if necessary. Young Jack Raby also begged very hard to be allowed to accompany me; and, as he can speak Maltese and looks his character, I felt that he would be of great use; as, if it were necessary, while he remained hid away in the bottom of the boat, you might make your escape in his dress. The party I have mentioned left the ship yesterday morning in a mistico I bought for the purpose; and we agreed to pretend to have lost our own ship, and to be endeavouring to find our way back to Malta. Though we wished for a strong breeze to give a plausibility to our being wrecked, we did not bargain for quite so much wind as we had, and we were fortunate in having so good a pilot as the Greek. I have not much hope of getting the mistico off—and scarcely intend to use her if we do—but she will be very useful in turning suspicion aside; and if the pirates think fit to watch us, they will keep their eyes in that direction while we are taking our departure in another. By the by, as I felt sure Marianna would be with you, from the account Bowse gave of having seen you both carried off together, it was arranged that young Raby should pretend to be her brother, that we might the more easily make the necessary arrangements: so the moment he sees her, if they meet by chance, she is to rush into his arms and cover him with kisses. What do you say to the arrangement, Marianna?”

“Me no mind it,” answered the little Maltese, laughing. “But, signor, say which the brother is, that me no kiss the wrong person. No do well to have brother who won’t say me is his sister.”

“He is a little dark fellow, with a face as brown as mine, for we painted from the same pot,” said Fleetwood. “But if I know Master Jack Raby well, he will not leave you long in doubt. He has seen you with Miss Garden, and you will very soon have proof of his fraternal affection, so pray remember to acknowledge him.”

“Me take great care to kiss very much,” said Marianna, simpering.

“I shall trust to you; but be careful not to recognise any of the rest of us; and now, my sweet Ada, I must bid you farewell. Be prepared to-morrow night for our exploit. Somewhere about midnight I hope to be with you. Put on some dark, close-fitting dress, which is less likely to be seen in the dusk than a light-coloured one; and if you could procure capotes from Signora Nina, such as she now wears, it will be still better. Should we be met by any of the islanders we may be mistaken for their friends. Our present purpose is to escape from the harbour, and to leave the mistico in lieu of the boat we take. Young Raby and I will come up for you and Marianna, while the rest prepare the boat. Once outside, I have little fear of what may happen, for we shall soon be under shelter of the Ione’s boats, and they will be a match for all the craft of this place, with the exception of the brig, which they will scarcely think of taking out after us. I must keep the Signora Nina no longer waiting. Again, dearest, farewell!”

They parted as lovers under such circumstances would part; and when he reached the foot of the tower he found that nearly an hour had elapsed since he left the Italian lady.

She had remained outside the tower, under the deep shadow in the angle formed by it and the ruined wall, which ran off towards the other tower.

“I fortunately calculated on your want of punctuality,” she whispered. “But delay might be dangerous, so you must hasten back to your dormitory, and breathe not, even to your companions, that you have quitted it this night. They sleep soundly, and will not awake.”

“I forgot to watch how time passed, and I thought not it had flown so rapidly by,” said Fleetwood. “I should deeply grieve were I to cause you greater risk than you have already run for Ada Garden’s sake.”

“No harm is yet done,” replied Nina. “I took care, thanks to my brother’s knowledge of drugs, that all who were likely to interfere should sleep soundly to-night. I tried it as an experiment, that, on another occasion, I might be able to assist you in the same way. Now let us hasten back.”

“Stay, lady, for one moment,” exclaimed Fleetwood, who had the natural horror of all right-minded Englishmen to the employment of any but open and fair means to obtain even the most important object, and an especial disgust at the thoughts of having drugs used to send his enemies to sleep; though, whether, in that respect he was over particular, we will not stop to discuss; at all events, being very certain that if there was a doubt, he kept on the right side of the question. “Stay,” he said; “you risk too much for our sake. Give us but our liberty. Take care that we are not locked up again, as to-night, and we will manage every other arrangement. The means you hint at employing are dangerous; and, I believe, we have no right to use them. I again repeat my promise, that I will not use force nor injure any one for whom you have regard, unless driven to it by the most dire necessity.”

“You act, signor, nobly, according to the dictates of your conscience,” answered Nina. “Perhaps you are right, and I will follow your wishes, unless absolutely obliged to encounter force and injustice by stratagem and fraud, the only resource of the weak. It is agreed then. To-morrow I will manage that you and your companions shall be allowed to range at will over the island. I need not counsel you to make use of your time. And now we must delay no longer, or the morning light will be breaking in the sky before I have returned to my tower.”

Saying this she hurried back, followed closely by Fleetwood, towards the other part of the ruins. She observed the same precautions as before on approaching the building.

On a sudden she stopped, and drew back close to him, beneath the shade of the wall. A footfall was heard; and he saw that she trembled in every limb. Presently a figure emerged from behind the tower, and stood, for some minutes, gazing up in the sky, as if contemplating the glorious galaxy of stars, which shone down from it. At length it advanced towards the spot where they were standing, and Fleetwood felt that they were about to be discovered, and prepared for the emergency.

“I must save this poor girl at every cost,” he thought. “Whatever be her motive, she has placed herself in peril on my account.”

Just as the person came close to them, he turned round, evidently not observing them, and walked forward in the very direction from whence they had come.

As soon as he was out of sight, Fleetwood heard the Italian lady whisper,—“It is poor Paolo. He would rather aid than betray us; but, for his sake, while I have other means, I would not willingly employ him. He has suffered much for me, and I would not bring further vengeance on his head. Now go in and sleep till the morning.”

The door was carefully closed, and Fleetwood heard it locked after he entered the room, where his companions slept soundly.

Nina, mean time, hurried back to her tower, where she found little Mila sleeping on her couch. She awoke her with a kiss.

“Your task is nearly over for to-night,” she whispered, putting, at the same time, two keys into her hand. “Go, now, and lock me in, and return those keys whence you took them. I am grateful for your zeal, and you shall have your reward. Keep your own counsel as before; and no one will suspect you.”

Mila nodded, took up the keys, and slipped noiselessly back to the house tenanted by her grandfather.

Fleetwood tried to follow the example of his friends, but it was not till daylight broke that he closed his eyes in a deep slumber.

“Humph,” muttered old Vlacco, as he came into the room in the morning rubbing his eyes. “There was little use locking up these lazy Maltese, unless they are addicted to walking in their sleep. At all events they are honest, or they would not snore so loudly.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The greater part of the population of the island residing near the harbour were assembled on the shores of the bay to enjoy, under the shade of the high cliffs, the deliriously cool air of the evening, and to welcome the return of their chief, whose mistico was seen approaching from the westward.

There were old men and women, the elders and parents, as well as the young men and maidens, who had come with happy hearts, to amuse themselves with various light sports, but chiefly to dance their favourite Romaika, which has been handed down to them from the earliest days of their heroic ancestors, when it was known under the more classic name of the Cretan or Doedalian dance.

Century after century has seen it danced by the youths and maidens of successive generations, on the self-same spots—always the most beautiful in the neighbourhood—both on the islands and on the main, since the time when Greece was young and strong—the fit cradle of the arts and sciences; when that literature was produced which will last as long as the world exists; when those temples arose, and those statues came forth from their native rock, which subsequent ages have never been able to equal; when all that the human mind could conceive most elegant had its birth; when her ships traversed all known seas, and her colonies went forth to civilise the earth; when her sages gave laws to the world, and a handful of her sons were sufficient to drive back thousands upon thousands of the vaunted armies of the East; from those glorious epochs to the time when, sunk in effeminacy and vice, despising the wisdom of her ancestors, she fell under the sway of the most savage of the tribes she had once despised—yet still, in abject slavery, while all that man cared for was destroyed, the sports of their youth were not forgotten; and what was learned in youth, the parents taught their children to revive, as their only consolation in their misery and degradation.

Thus, Homer’s description of the dance in his days would answer perfectly, even to the very costume, for that danced in a remote island of the Archipelago:—

“A figure dance succeeds:

Chapter Thirty Three.

The triumph of Zappa at recovering Miss Garden was great, in proportion to his anger against those whom he suspected to have assisted at her escape; but once having got her again in his power, and safe inside his well-fortified harbour, he felt as a cat does towards the unfortunate mouse it has caught and killed—that he might leave and return to her when he pleased, without a chance of her again running away: he therefore hurried off to the fort, at the summit of the cliffs, to superintend the destruction of the English flotilla, which he believed had been sent against him; for he could not have supposed that so small a force as was really there would have thus boldly followed him to the very mouth of his den.

On his arrival at the fort, he found old Vlacco busily engaged in pointing the guns to bear down on the British boats; and on his sounding his well-known bugle, a large number of his followers collected with their fire-arms, to assist in the defence of the post. While they all were occupied in firing at the enemy, Vlacco sent into the tower to bring a supply of powder for the guns, from some casks, which, with the usual carelessness of the Greeks, had been left there without the slightest precaution against accident. A cask was broached, and much of the powder scattered about. After the boats had disappeared, the pirates were retiring from the fort, when Tompion’s gallant attack on the mistico called them back, and it was at this time that a spark from the lantern of a man, sent for a further supply of powder, fell among the scattered grains, and produced the conflagration I have before spoken of. As the flames burst forth, and burnt with terrific energy, Zappa flew towards the building, in vain endeavouring to find means of entrance. Wherever he attempted it at the door or window, the fire drove him back. In vain he called on the name of Nina. She neither answered nor did she appear at either of the casements. His usual calm demeanour had completely deserted him, and he seemed like a madman as he rushed round the building, urging his followers to bring ladders to enable him to mount to the story, where he expected to find her. Two were at last found, but they were far too short to be of use, and he was soon warned to retire to a distance by the explosion of another cask of powder, which shook the old walls to their foundation, and he had scarcely got to a secure position, when the remainder igniting, the whole edifice came tumbling down at once, and lay a heap of smoking ruins on the ground. Some of the burning embers had fallen on the roof of the adjoining building, and that now blazed up, and being very dry and rotten, burnt with equal fury, so that in a very short time it was reduced to a heap of ashes: the old walls of the castle, against which it was built, alone standing. It was thus that all traces of the means by which the prisoners had made their escape were obliterated. The islanders could do nothing to stop the progress of the flames, for the only water procurable was from a deep well, whence only a small quantity could be drawn up at a time, and there were no means at hand to get it from the sea, over the cliffs.

The conflagration had the effect of attracting the population, far and near, to the spot—the fishermen and other inhabitants of the neighbouring village, the seamen from the vessels, and indeed everybody in the bay, came rushing up the ravine to see what was taking place.

Zappa stood at a distance, contemplating the scene of havoc. He thought of Nina in all her youth and beauty, of her fond affection, her deep devotion, of all the sacrifices she had made for him—and callous and bad as was his heart, a transient pang of bitter regret visited it, for the cruel return he had made her.

“This, then, Nina Montifalcone, is the fate I have reserved for you. An agonising death the only reward I can give you for that love which still endured after I had torn aside the bright veil with which your fervid imagination had clothed me, and showed myself to you in my real colours—that love which I verily believed would have endured after you knew that my heart had been captivated by one still younger, still more beautiful, than yourself.”

As he gave vent aloud to these feelings, so strange to his bosom, which now agitated him, he suddenly stood like one transfixed, his breath came thick, his eye dilated, for there before him, with the full glare of the fire falling on her, stood the figure of Nina. Her countenance was pale as death, and she neither spoke nor approached him.

“Who are you?” he exclaimed at length, in a voice trembling with emotion; “speak, if you would not drive me to distraction. Tell me whence you come, and why you now come to seek me.”

“I am Nina Montifalcone,—some time your wife, whom you oft have told you loved,” she replied, in a tone of deep dejection. “What I soon shall be, the greedy worm may best tell.”

Her voice recalled him to his senses, though her words seemed strange.

“Nina,” he exclaimed, “you overheard my vain ravings when I thought you had fallen a victim to yon devouring flames; but think no more of them, and tell me by what miracle you escaped from the tower, before the flames burst forth—for afterwards, no power could have saved you.”

“I had gone to comfort and succour the unfortunate, those whom your injustice has made prisoners in this island, and I sought you even now to plead for them,” she answered boldly; the tone of meek sorrow with which she had before spoken being no longer discernible.

“You take me unawares, and would work on me at a weak moment, Nina,” he replied. “But know you, girl, that the persons of whom you speak are spies, come here in disguise to work my destruction? Ah! you look surprised, incredulous! Yes, these men—these pretended Maltese—are no other than Englishmen, belonging to a ship of war lying at no great distance from this island, for the express purpose of capturing my vessel, my gallant Sea Hawk, if they can fall in with her; and I have not told you all—their leader is the captain himself, the very man to whom that fair English girl, of whom you are so foolishly jealous, is betrothed. I knew this, I say, from the first; but I pretended ignorance, for I wished to discover who were their accomplices among those I trusted. He even now lies dead or dying in the bay below, and I left the fair girl with him, that she might know I did not kill him; but I tell you, Nina, if he were to recover, he should not live to escape, and to bring destruction on me. If he dies now, it is through his own folly, and no one can accuse me of having slain him; so, except you would wish to make his blood rest on my head, do not pray for his recovery.”

“Oh! you would not do so black a deed—you would not slay an innocent man because he came to regain the bride of whom you had deprived him! for I feel assured that for no other object did he visit this island; and that should he recover, were you to give her to him, and allow him and those who came with him to depart, he would promise never to molest you, or to take advantage in any way of the knowledge he has obtained by his visit to this island.”

Nina spoke with firmness and energy, as she said this, for she fancied that her arguments were so good, she could not fail to gain her object.

“Ah! have you been consulting with the English signora and her lover, that you plead their cause so well?” he exclaimed, with the bitter tone in which he often spoke. “Well, I will see to it, and now come to the fair lady’s palace, she will afford us lodging there, since ours is burnt down; which, Nina, it appears, troubles you but little. Know you not, girl, that I have there lost property to the value of many thousand piastres? That is alone enough to sour a man’s temper, till he can replace them, which, were I to follow your wishes, it would be long enough before I could do.”

“My mind was too much occupied with the object I have spoken to you about, to think of the loss, even though everything I possessed was destroyed,” she replied, quietly. “But I still felt thankful that I was preserved from the dreadful fate which would have been mine had I remained in the building; and if you also feel gratitude to Heaven for this, show it by granting life and liberty to the English captain and his friends. You accuse me of being influenced by them to plead their cause; but it is not they who influence me,—it is honour, justice, right, and oh! my husband, remember that their fate may soon be yours, and that if you show not mercy to them, you can expect none in return.”

“I know that, Nina, I expect none,” he answered, fiercely. “Were I to fall into the power of my enemies, they would tear me limb from limb, and mock my dying agonies with their laughter, ere they showed me mercy or gave me liberty. I do, Nina, as I expect to be done by; I hope for nothing else. But why do I stand prating here? My house is burnt to the ground, and my property destroyed, so we must go and crave shelter of the Signora Ada, for you and I have many things to do before I again close my eyes in sleep.”

When they arrived at the Stranger’s Tower, as the Greeks had called the building inhabited by Ada, they found that she and Marianna had already arrived there, and returned to their former quarters, according to Nina’s advice, as if nothing had happened to disturb them. She had, indeed, seen them safe lodged there before she sought her husband; and she now returned to them by his directions, to take some rest, which she much required, while he occupied the lower and still unfurnished chamber as a sort of council-hall, where he summoned Vlacco and some of his chief officers to consult what, under the present circumstances, it would be necessary for them to do.

As soon as old Vlacco and one or two others had arrived, he sent to have all the prisoners brought before him, that he might examine them respecting their object in venturing on his island, and their motive for leaving it. His visit to the Ione must be remembered, and that he there only learned that her captain had gone on a secret expedition, and he naturally concluded that he was accompanied by his own crew. His surprise was, therefore, very great, when Captain Vassilato, Bowse, and the Maltese, Pietro, were dragged rudely into his presence.

“What!” he muttered, as he saw the honest skipper. “Have my people again done their work so clumsily, that another vessel has floated to bear evidence against me? It must be he, and yet he looks so unconscious of having seen me before, that I must be deceived. There were five prisoners,” he remarked, aloud. “Where are the other two?”

“We cannot find them, chief,” was the answer. “We have looked in every direction, we have inquired of all, but no one has seen them or heard of them.”

“How is this?” exclaimed Zappa. “I left one of them, whom I knew to be no other than the captain of an English ship of war, sent here to watch the Sea Hawk, wounded and dying in old Listi’s boat, with the stranger lady and her attendant watching him, and as they, I hear, have already returned here, I suppose they would not have deserted him. Let them and the Lady Nina be summoned.”

In two minutes the two ladies and Marianna stood before him; but he neither rose nor showed them any courtesy.

“Can you inform me, signora, where Captain Fleetwood is to be found?” he exclaimed, with vehemence, addressing Miss Garden, in Italian. “Ah, you thought I was so blind as not to recognise him; you thought I did not observe the fond affection with which you bent over him as he lay wounded in the boat; indeed, you fancied that we keep so careless a watch in this island, that any strangers may come without our discovering them; but let that hope desert you for the future, and now answer me truly, madam.”

This was the first intimation that Ada had received that the disguise of Fleetwood had been seen through, and horror at what the consequences might be almost made her sink fainting on the ground; but by a strenuous effort, she recovered sufficiently to answer with apparent calmness—

“The person, whom you state to be Captain Fleetwood, was removed from the boat to the hut of a fisherman on the beach, as he was in no condition to be carried up here.”

“By whom—by whom was he removed?” asked the pirate, impatiently. “You could not have carried him.”

“By a man habited as a Maltese, and by your own surgeon, whom I had summoned to attend on him,” replied Ada, firmly.

“Why, that must be Salamonsi’s cottage,” remarked Zappa, turning to Vlacco. “Send down forthwith, and let the boy and Signor Paolo be brought up here; and mark you, if the English captain has recovered the use of his tongue, let him be conveyed here also—he shall answer for himself.” He said this in Romaic, so Ada did not understand the cruel order; but Nina did, and, with an imploring look, she stepped to his side, and besought him to revoke the command; but he roughly repulsed her, and, turning to the other three prisoners, he asked, in the lingua Franca, often used by him,—“By what right have you, who were hospitably entertained in this island, attempted to run off with persons whom you knew were my prisoners?”

On this the Maltese seaman, Pietro, stepped forward, and, with the volubility for which the islanders are celebrated, made the long statement which had been previously agreed on, finishing by stating that he and his two companions had been engaged by the lady to convey her on board an English ship, and that they had no reason to suppose they were injuring any one by so doing. As this was all said in Maltese, scarcely a word of which language Zappa understood, he was not a little puzzled, and was insisting on having it repeated in some more intelligible tongue, when Marianna, who was highly delighted with it, not the less so that she knew it contained scarcely a word of truth, volunteered to translate it into Italian, and immediately began with such little additions and touches of her own as she thought would increase the force and probability of the story.

“That will do,” said Zappa, who was not very easily imposed upon, as she was continuing her own commentaries on what had occurred; then turning to Captain Vassilato, “What defence have you to make?”

“As you do not understand my language, and I speak but little lingua Franca, I can say no more than my shipmate,” he replied between his teeth, in the language he mentioned.

“And you,” said Zappa, in the same patois, turning to Bowse. “What have you to say for yourself.”

Poor Bowse, who knew but little of any language except his mother-tongue, his accent undeniably betraying him whenever he did attempt to express himself, thought silence would be his best course, so shaking his head he pointed to his tongue and gave forth some inarticulate sounds, unlike any known dialect.

“You have spoken loud enough before, accursed spy,” exclaimed the pirate, in Italian, starting up, and menacing him with his dagger. “So you thought I did not know you either; you thought I should not remember the man with whom I once have crossed blades, even though I fancied he was food for the fish of the sea. Fools that you were to venture into the lion’s den; or, venturing in, to attempt to carry off his prey. But enough of this, your guilt is clear; you came as spies, and you shall meet their reward. Over the cliffs with the three; we will quickly send their companions after them.”

He said this in Italian, and then repeated it in Romaic.

Old Vlacco, who was now in his element, and delighted at the decision of his chief—indeed, he longed to propose that Ada and Marianna should be made to bear them company—seized the unfortunate men, and was dragging them off with the aid of others of the pirates, when Nina flew to the door to bar their exit.

“No, this must not, this shall not be!” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse and trembling with agitation, so unlike her own usual sweet tone. “Wretch, pirate, robber, murderer! You have crimes enough already on your head, without adding others of yet blacker dye, to drag me and all who witness them down to destruction with yourself. If you murder them, you murder me, for I will not live to be the wife of a wretch so accursed; and, think you that yon fair girl would yield to your wishes—would, forsooth, become your bride, even were I gone, and her brave lover also dead, and no one even on earth to protect her? I tell you, monster, no! You have seen, that meek and delicate as she appears, how much she can endure without complaining; you have yet to learn that she has an unconquerable spirit, and a reliance on the God of Heaven, which would enable her to defend herself from you. Now, do your worst! Murder me if you will. It will but be a fair return for what I have lost for you. Murder those men. Insist on your followers executing your vile commands, and, from that moment, you lose my love, valueless it may be, and you lose all hopes of gaining that of any other human creature whose love is worth the winning, and who knows of your misdeeds; and you bring down the sure and rapid vengeance of an outraged Heaven on your defenceless head.”

The pirate at first heard her thus boldly speak with astonishment, and then with rage, which increased till it passed his control. His hand had been clutching his dagger; and, as she uttered these last words, almost, it is to be hoped, before he himself was aware of what he was about, he hurled it with terrific violence at her, uttering a howl like that of a tiger. The weapon flew from his hand; it wounded her delicate neck, and stuck quivering in the rough planking of the door. She neither screamed nor sank to the ground, but stood, as before, unmoved as a marble statue, though her cheek blanched to a yet more pallid hue than before, while the red stream issued from the wound, and ran down her bosom. Ada sprang forward to support her, but she waved her off.

“Stay,” she said, “I must yet speak again. That unmanly blow has done more than pierce the frail body, it has cut asunder ties which I thought would have endured till life became extinct; it has unriveted links which I believed would have survived, in strength and beauty, the decay even of the cold grave; but I have been taught this night to abhor the false idol I once worshipped so devotedly; and now I shall welcome death, come when it may, as my only release from misery. Ah! that wound would have been less unkind had it ended at once the bitter mockery of life!”

Even the callous pirate, as he saw the blood flowing from the pure neck which had been so often bent in fondness over him, felt a pang of regret, and a dread of the consequences, not unmixed with admiration of a spirit so determined as she exhibited.

“Pardon me, Nina!” he exclaimed, springing towards her. “I knew not what I was about. I would not injure you, girl, for worlds! Say you forgive me—say you are not hurt, and I will do all you desire with regard to these men.”

“The wound is but a scratch, as you may see,” she answered, calmly, keeping him off with her hands, and still standing before the door. “That will quickly heal. My forgiveness can be but of little value to you, but you have it, and my petition is, that you do not injure these men.”

“You have preserved their lives for this night, at all events; but I cannot let them go free to betray me and my followers to our enemies,” he answered. “Vlacco, there are, I think, some chambers beneath this tower, and formerly used as dungeons, which may again serve the purpose when cleared out of rubbish. They will not be able easily to escape from thence; and, meantime, place a strong guard upon them in the basement story, and see that they hold communication with no one.”

The old pirate, with an angry look, showed the disappointment he felt at not being allowed to dispense summary justice to the prisoners, signified to his chief that his orders should be strictly obeyed; and, just as matters had been brought into this state, the messenger, who had been sent to bring up the prisoners and Signor Paolo, returned with the announcement that none of them were to be found. The old fisherman accompanied them, with great dismay in his looks, asserting that he had nothing at all to do with the matter. He had but one instant returned to his cottage, after having assisted in the endeavours to extinguish the fire; he found the door open, and some one had apparently been placed on the mats, which served as his bed, for there was some blood on them, and some pieces of linen and lint lying about, and that was all he knew. He had not spoken to, nor seen Signor Paolo that night. Zappa’s anger was very great at hearing this, and he was very nearly revoking the reprieve he had granted to the other prisoners. He believed that treachery had been practised, though, except Paolo and Nina, he knew not whom to suspect; and, while she denied all knowledge of the event, her brother was nowhere to be found; so, weary as he was, he set off with Vlacco and his officers to investigate the matter at the bay.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Left at liberty, Nina and Ada returned to the upper chamber of the tower, where the latter entreated the unhappy Italian girl to allow her to dress the wound in her shoulder, which was far deeper and more serious than she had acknowledged to Zappa; but she refused all assistance.

“No,” she said; “no hand but mine shall tend the wound which he has given; and it matters but little, for I feel that the clouds of my destiny are gathering over me, and that very soon the storm will burst to overwhelm me.”

But her will was more powerful than her frame, and as she spoke she sank down on the divan, and would have fallen to the ground, had not Ada and Marianna ran to support her. Overcome with agitation and loss of blood, she had fainted, and taking advantage of the opportunity, they placed her on a couch, and while they applied restoratives, they bathed the wound, and tried to staunch the blood. She gave signs at length of life; but hers was no ordinary faint, and for hours did she continue in that state, wavering on the verge of death. As Ada herself, fevered and weary, sat by the side of her friend, she felt almost equally overcome with alarm and anxiety for the fate of her lover. What could have become of him? Had Paolo proved treacherous, and, afraid of his recovery, spirited him away, and cast him over the cliffs? or was she wronging the young Italian, and had he not, mistrusting the mercy of the pirate chief, concealed him in some secret place till his anger had worn off? This she owned to herself was the most probable cause; but love, even on ordinary occasions, is full of doubt and fears, much more so then had she reason for dread under the circumstances in which he was placed. While she believed Zappa was ignorant of who he was, she trusted he was in no other danger than that resulting from his wound; but now that he was discovered, after the dreadful exhibition she had witnessed of the pirate’s temper, she trembled at what might be his fate. Why had she quitted him? she thought. Why had she not boldly avowed who he was, and her love for him, and dared the pirate to injure him? She had seen the successful effects Nina had produced by such behaviour on the daring outlaw—why had she not acted in the same manner? She bitterly accused herself of having deserted him, of having trusted him to strangers, and, more than all, of being the cause of his death. This thought gave her the most poignant grief, and she prayed that if Heaven had ordained that he must thus die, she might be spared the misery of knowing it. Daylight surprised her still sitting by the couch whereon lay the yet more unhappy Nina.

“And yet, compared to that poor girl’s fate, mine is blessed indeed,” she thought, as she, watched those pallid features, on which an expression of acute pain still rested. “She staked all for love, and has found the idol she madly worshipped turned into a demon, who she feels will destroy her. She, too, has an accusing conscience to keep happiness at a distance. She remembers that she burst asunder the bonds of duty, that she caused the death of a fond parent; while I, through Heaven’s mercy, have never been subject to the temptation to create for myself a retrospect so dreadful.”

It would be well, indeed, if all in a position likely to read these pages would remember, as did Ada Garden, when they are subjected to misfortune or suffering, that there are thousands around them in a far, far worse condition, deprived of all that can make life of value, without hope in this world or the next, and men they would never dare to arraign the dispensation of Providence, by which they receive the infliction from which they suffer, and would feel that even thus they are blessed above their fellows. Poor Ada saw that Marianna still slept, and, fearful lest Nina should require assistance, she was herself afraid of retiring to rest, though weariness made her head fall frequently on her bosom. At length she was aroused by a gentle knock at the door, and little Mila entered the room. She was evidently full of something which she wished to communicate, and told a long story, not a word of which Ada could understand. So eager had she been, that she did not perceive the condition to which Nina was reduced, believing that she was still asleep from simple fatigue, but her eye falling on her, she burst into loud lamentations of grief, which very nearly awoke her from the lethargy into which she had fallen. It was the means, however, of awaking Marianna, by whose aid she was able to make the little girl comprehend the importance of seeking out Paolo, and bringing him to attend on his sister. She was absent nearly two hours, but at length returned, accompanied by the Italian. Eager as Ada was to gain tidings of Fleetwood, she forbore to ask him any questions till he had recovered from the state of agitation into which he was thrown by seeing the condition of his unhappy sister.

“You need not tell me who has done this deed,” he muttered, in a hoarse voice, as he bent over her. “I knew it would come to this—I knew, when weary of her, he would cast her aside as a child its broken toy, or would thus destroy her in his mad passion. Yet it would have been kinder had he struck deeper, and thus ended her misery with a blow. I have remained near her—I have watched over her, ill-treated and despised as I have been,—that, when this should be her fate, though I could not shield her from it, I might yet avenge her death. Yes, my sweet Nina, indifferent as you may deem me, I love you deeply.”

“But, Signor Paolo,” said Ada, not knowing how long he might continue in this strain, “your sister is still alive, and I trust that by the aid of your skill, her wound may neither be mortal nor of much consequence.”

“Not mortal, lady,” he said, bitterly; “and yet, I tell you, it would have killed her had it but scratched the skin. It is the spirit with which that dagger was cast will destroy her far quicker than the wound.”

Ada now entreated him to examine into his sister’s condition; and at length, grown more calm, he set skilfully about his office, and he confessed that, if fever did not set in, the wound was of slight importance.

When he was at liberty, Ada at last asked him to give her tidings of Fleetwood; but he denied all knowledge of him, saying, that he had left him, with Raby watching him, at the fisherman’s hut, and that on his return, both were gone, and that he could nowhere discover them.

Mila, now having an interpreter, came forward with her version of the story. She said she had heard that their chief had, on quitting the tower, come down to the bay in a state of passion, in which he had never before been seen, at the non-appearance of the two other prisoners, whom he vowed he would execute the moment they were discovered; that he had caused diligent search to be made for them in every direction, with the same want of success, till, at last a small boat belonging to the Zoe was found to be missing, in which it was, consequently, supposed they had escaped.

“Thank Heaven!” ejaculated Ada, with a gleam of joy on her countenance, which showed how much her heart was relieved. “Oh, Signor Paolo, you know not how grateful I am to you for your generous assistance in the matter.”

“Do not thank me, lady, nor believe that I knew of, or had any hand in the escape of your countrymen, if indeed they have escaped, of which I would entreat you not to be too sanguine,” he replied; but, seeing the reaction his words were producing, he added, “and yet, remember, I have no reason to suppose that they are not in a place of safety. More I cannot say—and I beseech you not to ask me.”

“But I have not told you all,” interrupted little Mila, who guessed that he was no longer translating what she had said. “The moment the chief found that the boat was gone, he ordered as many men as she can carry to go on board the Zoe, and he himself accompanied them. She immediately set sail in pursuit, and they say that there is no doubt of the little boat being overtaken; and that even were he to meet the larger boats which made the attack on the island, the mistico will, without doubt, sink them all, and destroy everybody in them.”

Paolo translated to Ada what Mila said, and the account again renewed her fears for Fleetwood’s safety, though still she did not allow hope to abandon her.

It may seem that the Italian would have acted a more judicious part, had he not given the latter information; but he was unhappily himself influenced by two motives; the one right, and good, and generous—the spontaneous result of his better nature; the other arising from his yielding to temptation, which was selfish, mad, and wicked. The first prompted him to run every personal risk to save his rival from the pirate’s anger; the other made him wish for his death, and eager to deprive him of the love of the fair English girl, whom, he still fancied he might save from Zappa’s power, and win her for himself.

For the present, Paolo had a holy and absorbing employment for his mind, in tending his unhappy sister, who, under his judicious care, recovered, sooner than Ada had expected, from the effect of her wound, though she saw, too truly, that her words were verified, and that the weapon had struck deeper than the eye could reach.

Ada was now confined completely to the upper room of the tower, both because she would not quit her friend, and that she might avoid any risk of encountering Zappa, who had taken up his abode in the lower part of it. Paolo was her only means of knowing what was going forward in the world without, and she felt an unwillingness to hold more communication with him than was absolutely necessary; indeed, nothing he said could dispel her fears.

The Zoe, it appeared, had been out all day; but an ominous silence had been kept as to the result of her expedition. Some said she had overtaken the boat, and brought back the prisoners; others, that the pirate had, in his rage, ordered the guns to be pointed down on her, and sunk her, with them on board; while, again, some asserted that the prisoners had not escaped from the island at all, and that they were concealed somewhere in it.

This conflicting evidence was little calculated to alleviate her anxiety; but her heart was fresh and young—her health and spirits were unbroken, and the air which was wafted through her casement was bright and pure, and she still hoped on for the best. Meantime the pirates were not idle; and she observed from her window, that they were engaged all day long in strengthening and improving the fortification of the castle, as well as those on the other side of the harbour. They threw up embankments, also, across the neck of land which joined the rock on which the castle stood, to the right of the island, and planted guns to defend the approach to it, as also a whole line along the cliff, which overlooked the entrance to the harbour.

Provisions of all sorts were got in from every part of the island, and huts were erected, in which to store them; for the men, themselves accustomed from their youth to the roughest life, cared not for shelter, so that there was little chance of their being compelled, by famine, to yield.

Nothing, indeed, was neglected, which might enable them to defend their stronghold against any force sent against it.

The Sea Hawk was also carefully refitted, and the two misticoes made ready for defence or flight.

The Zoe was again sent out to reconnoitre. She had been absent for two days, and the pirate began to be alarmed for her safety, and to argue that the enemy were probably approaching, and that she had fallen into her hands. All was, consequently, activity and excitement. The crew of the Sea Hawk went on board to man her, and those of the islanders destined to garrison the castle hurried up there with their arms ready for action. At length, a sail was discerned approaching the island, and she was soon pronounced to be the Zoe. Nearer and nearer she drew to the land, till there was no doubt of her identity, and as she entered the harbour, she was warmly greeted by those on shore, who hurried down to learn the news she brought. Her crew reported that they had visited the island when the English brig-of-war had last been seen, but she was not there, nor could they gain any tidings of her; but that they had, on the following day, when standing to the southward, made out three sails, which, from the squareness of their yards, they conjectured to be men-of-war, and that they were standing on a bowline to the eastward, with the wind at north, but that they deemed it imprudent to approach nearer to ascertain further particulars.

This information prevented Zappa from taking a cruise in the Sea Hawk, as he had been intending, both to gain further intelligence of the enemy, and to pick up a few prizes to satisfy the impatience of his people, who began to murmur at the length of time which had passed since they had been engaged in what they considered useful activity, as well as to replace the property he had lost by the burning of his tower.

Ada had not neglected to inquire for the prisoners who had so severely suffered in her cause, and, though not allowed to communicate with them, she learned from Paolo that they were not treated with any unusual severity, farther than being confined in a chamber under ground, where very little light or air could penetrate, and that he believed their lives were in no danger.

Nina never spoke of the dreadful night when she had first felt the fierceness of her husband’s anger; but her sunken eye, her hollow voice, and faded cheek, showed what the effect had been, though, when she met him, she tried to smile as of yore, and to attempt to win him to his better mood.

His followers, however, remarked that an ominous change had come over him, and that his mind at times seemed wavering on its throne.

The unhappy Paolo still nourished in silence his love for Ada, and day by day he allowed it to increase, till he could scarcely conceal his feelings in her presence.

It was night, and he stood where he had spent many an hour, on the cliff beneath her window. No moon was in the sky, and the stars were concealed by a canopy of clouds which hung over the sea, and the wind moaned amid the rocks and ruined buildings with a melancholy tone well consonant to his feelings.

Suddenly the perfect silence which had existed was broken by loud, terrific cries; the roar of cannon—the rattle of musketry—the cheers, and shrieks, and fierce imprecations of men striving in deadly combat; where had lately reigned silence and darkness, all was now the wildest confusion and uproar, and lighted up with the blaze of the death-dealing musketry.

The pirate rushed by, and entered Ada’s tower, giving orders to his followers, the meaning of which no sooner did Paolo understand, than exclaiming, “Now is the time, or she is lost to me for ever,” he hurried after him.

Chapter Thirty Five.

We left the Ione, at the dawn of a fine morning, beating up towards a small boat, which had been observed running to the westward, while a mistico was seen off the island, directly before the wind, apparently in chase of her. The boat, it was judged, was about half way between the two vessels; but then the Ione was nearly dead to leeward, while the mistico was directly to windward, though it was a question how far she would venture to chase the boat, or whether she would attempt to carry her off within range of the brig’s guns.

As long as the mistico could keep well to windward, and out of gun-shot, from the closeness with which she could lay to the wind, and her fast sailing, she might carry off her prey, if such was her object, even before the eyes of those on board the English ship, without their being able to employ any means to prevent her so doing.

“Ah, the rascals know what they are about,” said the master, as he watched the Greek vessel through his glass. “She is one of those piratical craft belonging to the nest of scoundrels on the island there, depend upon it; and they were trying to get hold of the boat, or to run her down, which they are just as likely to do as not, and then they’ll be off again in the wind’s eye, like a shot, before we can get up to them, and snug inside their rocks.”

“I suspect you are right, master,” said Saltwell. “And I cannot help thinking, also, that the boat has some of our friends on board. Would to Heaven the breeze would veer a few more points to the southward, and enable us to lay up to her before the mistico reaches her.”

“I don’t see what more we can do to go along faster,” said the master. “Our canvas never stood better, nor did the brig ever make more way through the water with the same wind.”

“The mistico draws very fast on the boat, and, by Jove, the villains are firing at her,” exclaimed Saltwell, who had been again eagerly watching the chase through his glass. “Still she bravely holds her own. Oh, there’s no doubt of her having our friends on board. See that the guns are ready, and cover her as soon as we get near enough; but we must take care not to hit the boat instead of the mistico.”

The boat was now about two miles off, and the mistico threes. The former had only a sort of lug set; and, as well as could be seen at that distance, there was but the one person on board, who steered. If there were any others, they had wisely stowed themselves away at the bottom of the boat, to be more out of the reach of the enemy’s shot. The breeze, though fresh, was not too strong to permit of her carrying her whole sail, and she flew rapidly before it; but the mistico went still faster, and, as Bill Hawkins, the captain of the fore-top, observed—

“The little one looks for all the world like a small bird trying to escape from a hawk just ready to pounce down on it, and I hope we shall just come in to play the big eagle, and save her out of its claws.”

“She’s the very same craft as we chased into harbour this blessed night, I shouldn’t wonder,” remarked Tom Derrick, who had been one of the cutter’s crew. “It would be a real pleasure to get hold of her, to string up every one of the villains at the yard-arm, for wounding poor Mr Linton; I should be sorry, indeed, if he was to lose the number of his mess.”

“So should I, old ship, and if ever we get an opportunity, won’t we just pay off the murdering rascals for what they have done,” said Hawkins. “My eyes, look there, how the big one is peppering the little chap; one would think she hadn’t a whole plank left in her, and yet she stands on as bravely as if there warn’t such a thing as a round-shot within a hundred miles of her.”

Such was truly the case; the shot from the long guns of the mistico must have flown close over her, and on either side; and, probably, several had gone through her sail, but seemingly none had touched her hull. The Ione had now opened the mistico free of the boat to the northward.

“Stand by with the foremost starboard gun,” cried Mr Saltwell, as they did so. This was a long nine of brass, while the other guns were carronades. “Fire!”

The gunner, who considered himself a first-rate marksman, pointed the gun, and the shot going well clear of the boat, struck the mistico on the quarter, and those who were watching her with their glasses declared that they could see the splinters flying from her. Still, so eager was she in the pursuit, that she would not haul her wind, seemingly determined not to do so till she had sunk the chase. This there appeared every chance that she would do, for she had now got awfully near her, and it was surprising that her small-arm men had not contrived to pick off the helmsman, when the boat would, of course, have broached to, and have been her own. Mr Saltwell again gave the order to fire as fast as the gun could be loaded and run out, but the skill of Mr Black did not shine so brilliantly as at the first attempt he made, though they went near enough to show the pirates what they were to expect if they persisted in their attempt.

“Have the larboard gun ready there. Hands about ship,” cried the first lieutenant.

Bound came the brig, and the gun was let fly. The shot struck the mistico amidships, tearing away her gunnel, and creating the greatest confusion on board, if not destruction of life. She found that, in her eagerness, she had gone rather too far, and putting down her helm, she gave a last revengeful broadside at her tiny chase, as she hauled her wind, and away she stood on a bowline towards the island.

No sooner had she done so, than up sprung a figure in the stern sheets of the boat; and waving a cap round in his hand, seemed to be giving a cheer of derision. The incautious action was returned by the pirates with a discharge of their swivel guns, and a shower of musketry, and he dropped into the bottom of the boat.

“Poor fellow! the villains have killed him,” exclaimed Mr Saltwell.

“Yes, sir; and I’m sorry to say I think from the figure it is Jack Raby. It is just the thing he would do, too,” said Tompion, whose glass had been fixed on the boat at the time. “No—hurrah! the boat is standing on steadily with some one at the helm.”

“Thank Heaven! so she is,” exclaimed Saltwell. “Be ready there to heave the ship to, to let the boat come alongside.”

In five minutes more the brig was close up to the boat, and, to the surprise of all, the person in the stern sheets, who had been so long visible, was found to be a stuffed figure, covered with a capote, and a Greek cap on the top of it, while the head of Jack Raby was seen cautiously peering above the gunnel. He very soon brought the boat alongside, when a couple of hands jumped in to assist him.

“What, Raby, my good fellow, who have you there?” exclaimed the master, who was standing at the gangway with several of the midshipmen, eager to welcome their messmate.

“I am sorry to say it is the captain, who is very badly hurt; but I was glad to get him off at any rate, for we’ve had a narrow escape of our lives,” replied Raby, from the boat.

This announcement was received with an expression of grief from all on board. Saltwell, on hearing it, sprang to the gangway, to superintend the transfer of the captain to the deck, which was managed by lowering his own cot into the boat, and hoisting him up in it. He was somewhat revived, though he was scarcely sensible of what was occurring; and when he was carried below, all waited anxiously to hear the surgeon’s report. In this anxiety about getting the captain on board, the mistico was for the time entirely forgotten; and when at last Saltwell thought of her, and ordered the foretop-sail to be again filled in chase, she had got so far to windward as to be again almost out of gun-shot. A few guns were fired after her, but the shot did not succeed in cutting away any of her spars or rigging, and she drew so fast ahead, that it was seen to be useless following her further.

The brig’s helm was accordingly put up, and she stood away to the southward, towing after her Raby’s boat, which was kept in case she should be required for a future occasion.

Everybody now crowded round Jack Raby, to learn from him all the events which had taken place; but Mr Saltwell summoned him, and made him go circumstantially over them to him, and he afterwards had to repeat them to all his messmates, and to the surgeon and purser, who had not heard them.

As the reader is already well acquainted with most of them, I need only commence when he began his account of his successful escape from the bay, in which it appeared that he was assisted by no other person than Paolo Montifalcone.

“You must know,” he said, “that while the young Italian doctor was dressing the wounds, a fire broke out on the hill, above the bay, and the whole population rushed off to see the fire. No sooner was the coast clear, than Paolo, as they called him, said to me—

“‘Now would be your time to escape, if you had anybody with you to manage a boat.’

“Of course, I told him that I could do that perfectly well by myself.

“‘Well then,’ he replied, ‘Hasten down to the beach, you will there find a small boat which we passed on our way here. She has a sail in her, and oars, and if you are quick about it, you may get out of the harbour and join your friends before you are missed; and if you remain, you will be knocked on the head and thrown over the cliff, to a certainty.’

“‘You don’t mean to say that you expect me to run away and leave my captain to die hereby himself,’ I exclaimed, ready to knock him down, for I saw that he was in earnest in his proposal, though the idea had only just occurred to him. ‘A pretty blackguard I shall be, indeed.’

“‘But I tell you he cannot live, and you will be sacrificed if you remain,’ he argued.

“‘I tell you what it is, Signor Paolo,’ I replied; ‘a midshipman’s life is not reckoned of much value at the best, and I am not going to do a dirty action to save mine, I can tell you. I’m much obliged to you for what you have done, and for your good intentions; but if the captain is to die, why it will be a consolation to him to die under the British flag, on board his own ship, and if you will lend me a hand to carry him down to the boat, why I can just as easy escape with him on board as by myself. I’ll trouble you also for some of your physic, and some lint and bandages, to doctor him with, and I hope he may yet do well.’

“The Italian was silent for a few moments, when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he replied that he would do as I wished, though he warned me of the risk to which I was exposing the captain’s life by so doing; but as he had just told me he would die on shore, I did not listen to him—in fact, I had no great confidence in the honesty of Signor Paolo. There was something in his eye, as he looked at the captain, which I did not like, and besides, I should like to know how any respectable man came to be herding with such a set of cut-throat rascals. I accordingly went outside the hut, to see how the coast lay, and I found that all was silent round us, for every man, woman, and child had gone up to the fire; and had it not been for the glare of the conflagration, the night would have been pitchy dark; so, lifting the captain up in a cloak on which he had been laid, Paolo taking the head and I the feet, we bore him, as well as we were able, down to the boat, though I was afraid every moment of letting him fall, and hurting him; indeed, nothing but the anxiety I felt would have enabled me to succeed. At length we reached the boat, and placing the captain at the bottom, I again thanked the Italian for the service he had rendered us; indeed, after all, I was afraid I was wronging him by my suspicions. Then, with a lighter heart than I had felt for some hours, I got him to assist me in shoving the boat off the beach, and with the impetus he had given her I let her drift out into the harbour. I then, as silently as I could, paddled round by the west shore, keeping clear of the brig and the two misticoes, for the one which chased us had just come in; but I had not much fear of any of them, for I knew that the few hands left on board them would be looking up at the fire, and would not observe me: though, had any one turned, they might have done so, for the bright glare from the flames fell on the boat, and would have showed her distinctly, even right across the bay. Anxious as I was to get out of the harbour, I was afraid of pulling hard, lest any one should hear the splash of the oars; and so near was I to the vessels, that every instant I expected that the alarm would be given, and that a shot would be sent right into the boat. Fortunately, no one saw me, and it was indeed a pleasant moment to me, when finding the chain lowered, I rounded the west side of the harbour, and pulled fairly out to sea. I had not hitherto been perceived; but still it was necessary to be very cautious, for, of course, I thought the pirates would be keeping a lookout, lest any of our boats might again attempt to approach the harbour, so I pulled on as hard as I could, for I no longer feared making a noise, till my arms ached so much that I could pull no longer. I then laid in my oars, and though I fancied I could still hear the voice of the people on shore, I was so far to westward that I did not think the light would be reflected on the sail, even were I to set it. I therefore stepped the mast, not without some difficulty—fortunately, the sea was smooth, or I could not have done it at all—and got the sail ready for hoisting. Before doing so, I stooped down to examine how the captain was going on, and tried to place him in a somewhat more comfortable position. His heart seemed to beat regularly, and though he was still unconscious, from the wound in his head, he did not seem to have any fever about him. This raised my spirits, and I began to hope for the best. I did not much like to give him any of Signor Paolo’s doctor stuff, for at the best I have not much faith in it, and I have heard that those Italian chaps are much given to poisonous practices, so I hove it overboard, to be out of the way, and then hoisted my sail, and went aft to the helm. The breeze was still from the eastward, and I thought by keeping dead before it, I should make the island, where I expected to find you brought up. I considered that the boat was going about three knots an hour through the water; and when I had been out, as I calculated, about that time, I heard three guns fired, somewhere from the island, or near it. This did not give me any concern, and I steered steadily on, wishing for daylight, that I might see the island or you, in case you were off here, till at last, just as it came, and I was looking astern to see it, the first streaks had appeared in the sky, I beheld, to my dismay, a sail, which I was certain must be one of the pirate misticoes, running right down for me. Well, thought I to myself, it’s all up with the captain and me; but never say die, while there’s a shot in the locker, so I held on my course. It was not long, however, before my eyes fell on your topsails, rising out of the sea, and glad enough I was, you may be sure, when you made sail and stood towards me, for then I knew that I was seen. The rascally mistico was overhauling me fast, though, and as I feared she would get me within range of her guns before you could reach me, I thought I would give them something to shoot at instead of my head, so I rigged up a figure with a capote and cap, which I found in the boat, and stuck it up in the stern, and there fitting some lines on to the tiller, I made a berth for myself at the bottom of the boat to stow myself away in, as soon as they began to fire. It’s lucky I did so, for if I had had nine lives, like a cat, I should have lost them all; and what would have been worse, the captain would have been retaken. My eyes, how the blackguards peppered at me; but you know all about that, and now, to my mind, the sooner we set to work to pay them off, and to get Miss Garden out of their hands, the better.”

This account was given by Jack Raby in his berth to his messmates, that narrated to the first lieutenant was more concise, without his own remarks on the subjects; for instance, he left out how often he had kissed Marianna—and how often he had tried to learn Romaic of little Mila, and made love on the strength of it—though, to his messmates, he enlarged much on these points, and hinted that he had completely won the heart of the old pirate’s granddaughter, whom he described as a perfect angel in a red cap.

It was with almost a cheer of joy, and many a sincere thanksgiving to Heaven, and a glistening of many a manly eye, that, some days afterwards, the news flew along the decks that the surgeon had positively declared that the captain was out of danger, and would soon again be fit for duty.

Mr Linton had, notwithstanding his own prognostications, very much improved; and, though still confined to his berth, there was every probability of his soon recovering.

The Ypsilante had in the mean time been dispatched to summon any British ships she could meet, to the assistance of Captain Fleetwood; who, to strengthen his claim for their cooperation—for, as a junior officer, of course he could not order them to come to him—sent by her an account of the atrocities committed by the Sea Hawk; and a statement that an English lady and her attendant were held in durance vile by the pirates, which he justly calculated would excite all the chivalric feelings of his brother-captains, for which the British navy are so justly celebrated.

He, meantime, cruised in the neighbourhood of the island, in the hope, should she attempt to make her escape, of falling in with and capturing the Sea Hawk.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Captain Fleetwood once more trod the deck of the Ione; and though his cheek was pale, and his step had not regained its usual firmness, nor his voice its strength, his health was almost re-established, and grief, more than any other cause, prevented him from entirely recovering. Linton had also returned to his duty, and had produced several poetical effusions on the subject of the fate he had anticipated for himself, productions which he threatened to inflict on his brother-officers; but, as they earnestly entreated him to keep them fresh for those who could better appreciate them, he locked the papers up again in his desk—the purser, however, who did not intend to pay him a compliment at the expense of the rest, assuring him that it would be like casting pearls before swine.

The officers had just come up on deck from breakfast, and the captain was pacing the poop with his first-lieutenant by his side, the sea was smooth, with a light air from the westward, and the brig, under her topsails, was standing to the northward—in which direction lay the pirates’ island, appearing in the distant horizon like a blue hillock rising out of the water.

“Sail, ho!” was the welcome sound which reached the deck from the mast-head.

The usual question of “Where away?” was put by Mr Saltwell, in return.

“On the larboard quarter, sir,” was the answer.

“What does she look like?”

“A ship right before the wind, sir.”

“I trust she is a friend come to our assistance,” said Captain Fleetwood. “We’ll stand down to meet her. Put the ship about, Mr Saltwell.”

The brig having tacked, now stood under the same easy sail as before, to the southward, so as to cut off the stranger; a bright look-out being still kept astern, lest the Sea Hawk, or either of her tenders, should appear on the northern board.

It may easily be supposed how anxiously Captain Fleetwood had been expecting the arrival of some other cruiser to assist him in making the attack he contemplated on the island. Had he consulted his own inclinations, he would, as soon as he was able to grasp his sword, have attempted the exploit with his own ship’s company, whom he well knew would be ready to follow him; but he was unwilling to risk the lives of his gallant fellows on so very hazardous an expedition—especially after the sad lesson he had lately experienced—and the suffering, if not the destruction, to which he had subjected his brave companions.

Were he to make the attack and fail, he also thought the result would be too dreadful to contemplate; so he curbed his impatience as he was best able, till he could collect a sufficient force to enable him to undertake it with a certainty of success. He tried also to console himself with the hopes that the Signora Nina and her brother would protect Ada to the utmost of their power. Raby, wisely, had not told him his suspicions of Paolo—and, of course, he was ignorant of the events which had occurred in the island after he had been carried off, or he would certainly have been even less at his ease than he endeavoured to make himself.

“What do you make her out to be?” he inquired of Mr Saltwell, who had just descended from aloft, with his spy-glass over his shoulder.

“English, I think, sir. I could see to the head of her courses, and, I should not be surprised, from the look of her canvas, that she is the Vesta frigate, which was to be cruising somewhere off the Gulf of Egina.”

“I trust she may be. Captain Grantham is an old friend of mine, and I know that if he received my letter he would come, if he possibly could; and welcome he will be; for, though the Vesta is but an eight-and-twenty, we may do without further aid.”

Sail after sail of the stranger rose out of the blue water, till a towering mass of snow-white canvas floated above it, shining brilliantly in the rays of the forenoon sun, which fell directly on it. At last, the dark hull and bow ports, and even the thin line of glowing copper below the bends, could be perceived, and little doubt remained of the identity of the ship in sight; though, from her position, her signals could not be perceived. Had it been war time, the Ione would not have allowed a ship, so far her superior in size, to approach, without greater caution in ascertaining her nation; but, as it was, there was no danger of her proving an enemy, and, at the worst, she could be but a neutral.

While the matter was still in doubt, another sail was seen astern of her, standing in the same direction; and, in a little time afterwards, the frigate took in her studden sails, clewed up her courses, and bracing up her yards, rounded to, when the Vesta’s number blew out clearly to view.

The brig, now close to her, also backed her main topsail, when the captain’s gig was piped away, and Fleetwood, with a heart less depressed than he had long felt, went on board the frigate.

He was warmly received by Captain Grantham, who exclaimed, “I am delighted to see you, Fleetwood. From the accounts we received we thought it was all up with you; and I came more with the hope of avenging you, than of seeing you alive; but now you shall have that satisfaction yourself. By Jove! we must blow up the hornet’s nest without delay. When did you propose to make the attempt?”

“The very moment a sufficient force was collected,” replied Fleetwood, highly gratified at his friend’s zeal.

“Well, what do you say to this very night?” asked Grantham. “There is the Venus coming up after me, and your Greek friend cannot be far off. I am afraid she is not likely to meet any other ship of the squadron; but we are enough, as it is, to drive every one of the rascals into the sea.”

“To-night, by all means,” exclaimed Fleetwood. “I could not have hoped for anything better. We shall have a sufficient force to ensure success; and as there is no moon till a late hour, we shall have less risk of discovery before we are upon them.”

“Then to-night let it be; and I suppose there’s no use insisting on your remaining on board, on account of your illness, and letting Rawson, of the Venus, lead the attack,” said Captain Grantham. “He is a gallant fellow, and will do it well.”

“I trust, Grantham, that you will give the command of the expedition to me. I shall, indeed esteem it a most especial favour if you will do so,” pleaded Fleetwood. “I would, on no account, if I can help it, lose that post.”

“Well, I suppose, under the circumstances of the case, we must persuade Rawson to keep the ship, though, indeed, Fleetwood, I do not think you are yet strong enough for the exertion you must go through.”

“I have a Hercules of a coxswain, and I must make him carry me, if my legs fail me,” said Fleetwood, smiling sadly. “But you know, Grantham, I have motives enough to carry me through anything.”

“Yes, indeed, I know, and feel for you. I suppose the fellows will show fight.”

“Not a doubt of it, from the specimen we have had of them. They know that they have no mercy to expect at our hands, and that they fight with ropes round their necks.”

“We must give them enough of it, then; but I suppose, with the force we have collected, we shall have no great difficulty in forcing our way into the harbour I understand they have got there, though it seems to be well fortified.”

“We should be blown to atoms if we attempted it in the boats,” said Fleetwood. “You have no idea how strong the place is.”

“How, in the name of goodness, are we to get at them, then?” exclaimed Captain Grantham, who was more celebrated for his dash at an enemy, when once he saw him, than for originating any plan where stratagem was required. “But let me hear what you propose to do.”

“I have, as you may suppose, thought much on the subject, so I may claim for it more attention than I might otherwise venture to do,” said Fleetwood. “I would on no account attempt to enter the harbour; but there is at the east end of the island a small cove, with an entrance so narrow that one boat can alone pass at a time.”

He spoke of the one into which the Greek captain had steered the mistico, all the circumstances of which he explained.

“Now, I propose,” he continued, “that the three English ships should stand towards the place, as soon as it is dark, and there is no chance of our being seen from the shore, while the Ypsilante I will employ in another way. We will bring up close in shore, and have all the boats ready to drop into the water, at the same moment. I will lead in the Tone’s cutter, and, with my men, will mount by the concealed passage, and secure the approach to the summit of the cliff. When this important point is gained, the other boats can enter; and Raby, who knows the passage, will lead the main body through it. We will then proceed, as silently as we can, to the causeway, across which we must make a dash, and, I hope, may take the pirates by surprise. I would send the Ypsilante, meantime, to approach the harbour; and when we reach the causeway, we will throw up a rocket, and she must commence a feigned attack on the mouth of the harbour, blazing away as hard as she can. This will distract the attention of the pirates, and make them fancy that they have most to fear from their enemies on that side. As soon as she opens her fire, we will rush on; and as the Greeks will have hurried to the defences of the fort towards the harbour, I hope that we may have an easy victory.”

“I like your plan very much, and it has my hearty concurrence, as I have no doubt it will have Rawson’s,” said Captain Grantham. “We shall soon have him up with us, and when he comes on board you can explain your proposal. The Venus should be near us by this time.” He rang his bell, and the steward appeared. “Mason, learn from the officer of the watch how soon the Venus will be up with us, and beg him to signalise her captain to come on board.”

“She’s close to us now, sir,” said Mason, as he went to fulfil the rest of the order.

In about a quarter of an hour, Captain Rawson was ushered into the cabin. He was a short, fat man, with a large, round, red, good-natured countenance, and if he was a fire-eater, as he had the character of being, he certainly did not look like one, except it might be supposed that the ruddy hue on his cheeks could have arisen from that cause. He shook the hands of his brother-captains, as if he would have wrung them off, and then threw himself into a chair to recover from his exertions; but, when he began to speak, instead of the rough voice one might have expected, a soft, mellifluous tone was heard, which might better win a woman’s ear than vie with the howling of the tempest. He at once waived all the right he might claim to lead the attack on the island, and cordially agreed to the plan proposed by Captain Fleetwood.

“In fact,” he said, laughing, “there is no great credit due to me, Fleetwood; for I would much rather fight a ship twice the size of my own with the deck under my feet, than have to scramble up such a place as you describe, on a pitch-dark night, to thrash a few scoundrels of pirates.”

“If I don’t mistake, you tried the first, and with no little success,” observed Grantham.

“Oh, yes! that was when I was first lieutenant of the Pan, eighteen-gun sloop, and the captain being ill below, we fell in with the French thirty-gun frigate, Liberté, and instead of her taking us, as she expected, we not only beat her off, but gave her such a drubbing, that if we had carried as long guns as she did, we should have made her our prize. But I’m afraid, Grantham, neither you nor I will see any more of that fun. Well, we’ve had a good deal of it in our day, and have no right to complain.”

The friends, in talking over the adventures of the past, would very likely have forgotten what Fleetwood considered the much more important present, when they were interrupted by the entrance of a midshipman, who brought the agreeable intelligence that a sail, supposed to be the Ypsilante, was in sight to windward.

“Huzza, then!” exclaimed Rawson. “We shall have all your plan complete, Fleetwood,—and you think those fellows will fight? Well, on my word, I should much like to bear you company if it was not for the hill—mind, only as a volunteer though—I will keep alongside your friend, Colonel Gauntlett.”

Seldom had an expedition been undertaken under better auspices than that to rescue Ada Garden and her companions, and to punish the pirate. The night was very dark, and the breeze was just sufficient to enable the ships of war to get up to their anchorage at the proper time, while being from the west, or rather from the northward of it, the sea was perfectly smooth, which would enable the boats to enter the little bay without danger.

As the dusk came on the little squadron hauled up for the island, the Greek brig standing for the port, the others keeping more to the eastward; the former had, however, sent two of her boats to accompany the Ione, and to assist in landing the men, thus rendering herself rather short handed; but, as she had only to make a feint of attacking, this was not considered of any importance, nor was it supposed for a moment that the Sea Hawk would, or even could, make an attempt to quit the harbour in face of so superior a force.

It was so dark that it was scarcely possible to distinguish the shore; but Fleetwood, who led in the Ione, as she was the smallest vessel, kept the lead going, and, as he knew the coast, he had no fears. As he thought of the certain result of the expedition, and the unspeakable joy of releasing Ada, and bearing her off in triumph from the pirates’ island, the depression of spirits, from which he had so long suffered, wore off entirely, and every moment which intervened seemed an age in his sight.

“I am delighted to see you looking so well, my dear sir,” said Colonel Gauntlett, as, before getting close in with the land, they sat at table with some refreshment before them, of which, by the by, the captain took but little, though his guest did ample justice to it. “I must claim a post next to you, with Mitchell as my body-guard, and we must make it our business to find out my poor niece as soon as we get into the port. You will have to attend to the business of thrashing the pirates, and taking possession of the place, you must remember, so it is fortunate you have some one to assist you in rescuing the prisoners.”

“I shall be glad, indeed, to have some one with whom to place Miss Garden, as soon as she is released; but I expect that I shall be called on to perform that grateful duty at the head of my men, for round her tower, probably, the greatest resistance will be made by the pirates.”

“Well, then, my boy, we’ll keep together—we’ll keep together, and you’ll find, I hope, that an old soldier is no bad ally!” exclaimed the colonel with animation. “And now, Mitchell,” (he was standing behind his master’s chair, his head pressed against the deck above, and the tip of his nose just appearing from under a beam, which entirely concealed his eyes), “let me have another look at my arms. There’s nothing like having one’s weapons in order on an expedition of this kind, depend upon it, Captain Fleetwood. A good general always takes care that his army is well supplied with munitions of war.”

While he was speaking, Mitchell brought forth from his cabin his sword and two brace of pistols, which he placed on the table. The old soldier drew his sword from its scabbard, and regarded it with a look of the greatest affection. He turned it round to the light, to see that no rust had rested on it, and then pressed its point on the deck, and let it spring up again, to assure himself that it had not lost its pliancy.

“Ah!” he said, “this and my pistols were the only things I saved from the wreck of the Zodiac and the Frenchman; for I hold that no soldier should part with his sword till the last extremity. An old friend, too, and served with me right through the campaigns in the Peninsula, till the crowning fight of Waterloo. I have reason to be proud of it, Captain Fleetwood.”

“Indeed you have, sir; and I have no doubt that it will do good service to-night,” said the captain.

“I hope so; and, Mitchell, recollect the same orders as I have often before given you—never let this sword be left behind, should my arm lose the power of using it.”

“Yes, your honour,” said Mitchell, with all the gravity of a mute, putting his hand to the beam, as he could not reach his forehead. “I’ll not forget.”

The captain, followed by his guest, went on deck, and, in about half an hour, the brig he considered was near enough in to anchor. A light shown over the taffrail was the signal of what he was about to do, and as he clewed up his sails, his consorts followed his example, and all three dropped their anchors within a short distance of each other—the frigate being on the outside. Not a light was allowed to be shown, lest it might be observed by any sleepless eye on shore—and as little noise as possible was made, lest any ear might hear it.

The moment the anchors were let go, the boats were got out and manned, and rapidly collected round the Ione.

Fleetwood then summoned the officers, commanding them, into his cabin, where, on the table, was spread out a rough sketch of the part of the island across which they would have to proceed, and of the port and harbour; and he then repeated briefly the plan of the attack, and assigned to each his particular duties.

The frigate and corvette had each sent two lieutenants; and Linton insisted on being as well able to undergo the fatigue as his captain; the rest of the boats were commanded by the mates and midshipmen. Tompion had the jolly boat, and Jack Raby the gig, while the frigate sent also her lieutenant of marines to command those of the other messes.

“Now, gentlemen, you clearly understand my wishes. I will go in first, and climb to the top of the cliffs, and five minutes afterwards, Mr Raby, who knows the place well, will lead in the Tone’s gig, and show you the way to follow me, unless I should be attacked; and even then, do not come to my assistance till I call you. I need scarcely caution you to preserve the strictest silence among your men to the last moment—indeed, till we are actually upon the enemy; and could we surround, and take possession of the tower you see marked there, it would be of the most vital importance, though I fear the pirates will keep too brisk a watch to allow us to get thus far without discovery; and now, the quicker we set about the work the better.”

Everybody expressed their full comprehension of Captain Fleetwood’s directions, and he led the way on deck, followed by Colonel Gauntlett and Mitchell, and descended to his boat. There his big coxswain, Tommy Small, was waiting for him. Small had charge of the signal rocket, which the captain had, however, determined not to let off, unless they were first discovered by the pirates.

One by one the other officers stepped silently into their boats as they dropped alongside, and, with muffled oars, shoved off after the gig; and no one, two cables’ length off the ships, would have supposed that nearly two hundred armed men were about to land on the coast.

Fleetwood’s heart beat quick as he approached the shore, he felt sure that he could not have mistaken the spot; but still very great caution was necessary; and the entrance between the rocks was so narrow, that, even in the day time, it was difficult to find. Twice he pulled up to the black towering rocks, and was obliged to back off again disappointed in finding the passage. High above their heads they rose, looking like some impenetrable wall, the confines to a world.

“Give way again, my lads,” he whispered. “Port the helm a little, Small. That will do; I see it on the starboard bow. Now, give way gently, my men. In with your oars.”

And the boat was seen to disappear, as it were, into the very rocks. She glided, however, between them, and slid with a slight grating noise on to the soft sand, close to where still lay the mistico, which it seemed the pirates had not got off. All hands jumped out, with the exception of the boat-keepers, and Captain Fleetwood lost not a moment in leading the way to the cavern, which he feared to find blocked up. With cautious steps he groped his way to it, and to his great satisfaction discovered that it was open, and feeling for the steps he ascended them.

“Pass the word along for all hands to keep their left shoulders against the cliff, and there is no fear,” he whispered to Small, who followed him closely with his drawn cutlass, ready to guard him from any who might attack him.

This was, perhaps, the most hazardous part of the undertaking, for two or three resolute men stationed at the top might have kept the whole party at bay, or, indeed, have tumbled them all headlong down the cliffs. He well knew the cunning of the Greeks, and should they have discovered the ship by any chance, this was the point they would defend, in the hopes of destroying all those engaged in the expedition together. Darkness was around them, the rugged cliff on one side, a precipice on the other, and beneath their feet a steep path or rough steps, and yet no one hesitated to follow where he led. The most perfect silence reigned over the scene, except the sound of their tread, which could just be heard above the dash of the water on the rocks below, and the scream of some wild sea-bird as it winged its flight at a distance through the calm night-air. On he went—a few more steps would place him on the summit of the cliff, in comparative safety. His hand touched the grass at the very edge of the upper step—he sprang upwards and gained a footing on the top—he breathed more freely, and his followers, one by one, ascended and took their place by him. He then advanced a little distance to defend the position and to allow the rest of the party space to assemble as they came up. The five minutes passed away, and Raby led on, followed in a line by the other boats, for there was no room for two to pass abreast, and as they entered they all ran up side by side on the beach. Raby led them with the same good success as his captain, though the marines with their muskets had some difficulty in getting up, and ran no little risk of falling over again; but no casualty occurred. It was, however, a long business, thus getting up in a single file at so slow a pace, but at last the whole body were drawn up together. Captain Fleetwood, for greater convenience, separated them into two divisions, he leading the first, and Jack Raby, who was delighted with his own importance, acting at; guide to the second. It wanted just half an hour to midnight when they were put in motion. He found the greatest difficulty in passing over the rough ground, and keeping the direct path near the cliff, without the risk of some of his followers slipping from the precipice to their left. He had, it must be remembered, gone over the same path several times in the day, and once on the night of his attempted escape, when he and his friends went to get the rope, and the arms, and provisions, or it would have been almost impossible for him to find the way. On the party went, silent as the dead, and though the sound of the marines’ heavy and regular tread might have been heard at a distance, had any one been on the watch for them, the footsteps of the blue-jackets, as they sprang from rock to rock, were light almost as those of Indian warriors on any similar exploit. The weather, which had hitherto been serene, with a gentle and balmy breeze blowing from the west, now gave symptoms of being about to undergo a change. A low moaning sound was heard as the night wind blew among the pointed rocks, and it struck with the chilly feel of the north on the right cheeks of the adventurers. It served, however, rather to raise their spirits and strengthen their muscles; they knew that their ships were in safety, if the anchorage was tolerable on the lee side of the island, so they thought or cared little about the matter.

Two miles had thus to be travelled, every instant expecting discovery; for it was scarcely to be supposed that the pirates, after their late deeds, would not be on their guard against an attack. Now Fleetwood halted and listened, now he had literally to feel his way with the point of his sword, lest he should have inadvertently gone too close to the edge of the cliff, and in this manner upwards of an hour had passed away, slowly, indeed, to those eager to know the result. At length, with a beating heart, he stood on the causeway, while a tower, the one in which he believed Ada was to be found, was faintly perceptible, rising, like some tall spectre, in the gloom before him. A light for an instant glimmered through a casement of the story in which she resided—it was to him the beacon of his hopes, and served to confirm him in the belief that he had reached the approach to the castle, of which, otherwise, he was somewhat uncertain.

“Shall I let off the rocket, sir?” whispered Tommy Small, who had kept close to him all the time, ready to support him had he stumbled. They were the first words which had been spoken since the heights had been gained.

“Not till the enemy discovers us,” answered his captain—“then fire.”

He had been careful not to halt his men; for he had often observed, that while the actual tread, from breaking gradually on the ear, might not be noticed, the stop and the fresh start were nearly always heard. On a sudden, however, he met with an impediment he had not expected—a high embankment ran directly across the causeway, with a ditch before it. To slip down the side of the ditch, and to climb the opposite bank, was, to seamen, the work of a moment, and, without being discovered, the first few stood on the summit. Some noise, however, scarcely to be heard, was made, and as Captain Fleetwood, with Small on one side, closely followed by the gallant old colonel, was on the point of leaping down into the ramparts, they found themselves confronted by a number of the islanders, who started up from between the guns, where they had been sleeping.

To fire the pistols was the first impulse of the pirates, and the flash aroused their comrades, as well as showed them to their assailants, who dashed down among them before they had time to unsheath their swords, and cut them down without mercy.

“Now, Small, off with the rocket,” exclaimed Captain Fleetwood, as their first opponents were disposed of.

At the word, the coxswain, who had been expecting the order, let the beautiful firework fly into the air. Up it soared, making a curve towards the sea, into which it sent down a shower of glittering sparks, which had scarcely been extinguished before the Ypsilante, in gallant style, opened her fire on the harbour, making as much blaze and noise as she could. The British seamen, believing that all necessity for further silence was at an end, gave three hearty, soul-stirring cheers, which rung among the rocks, even above the roar of the artillery, and they then rushed on into the fosse after their companions. The sound, though it struck a panic into the hearts of the more timid of the pirates, at the same time showed them where the most imminent danger lay. The chain was across the harbour, and they knew no vessel could enter, and that their guns on that side would sink her when she attempted it, so many of the bravest hurried to the causeway, to defend the approach to the fort, while others manned the guns above the harbour, and began to return with interest the fire of the Greek brig.

All was now uproar, confusion, fire, smoke, shrieks, shouts, and curses—the roar of the brig’s guns, and the sharp reports of fire-arms. The latter, however, were but little used by the English, who trusted more to their cutlasses and the points of their bayonets.

The defenders of the causeway fought with the greatest bravery, the voice of their chief encouraging them to persevere, and none gave way till they were cut down or slain. The British poured on in overwhelming force, but still the pirates struggled obstinately, strengthened by the arrival of their comrades from other parts.

Fleetwood and Colonel Gauntlett both knew the voice of Zappa.

“On, on,” they exclaimed, trying to cut their way up to the spot, where at intervals, as pistols were flashing near him, they could see him flying from spot to spot, and encouraging his men, “Seize that man, their chief—take him alive!”

The seamen did their best to come at him, but his followers, with a devotion worthy of a better object, rallying round him, kept them at bay. At last the voice which had been heard so loud was silent, and though fire-arms flashed on each side, his figure was not to be seen. Yet the pirates did not give way, they even seemed to fight with more desperation than before, as if to make amends for his absence, or to revenge his loss. Nothing, however, could withstand the determined courage of the English; though, had not the pirates incautiously lost the post which Zappa had so judiciously formed, they might, perhaps, have been kept at bay till daylight, and, at all events, must have suffered a severe loss.

Fleetwood and the other officers encouraged their men to fresh exertions, and led the way. The pirates could no longer withstand the onset, and, within five minutes after they had leaped the ramparts, the British had gained the open space under the fort, and the enemy were flying in all directions before them, some to conceal themselves among the ruins, others throwing themselves over the cliffs, to avoid, as they supposed, another death; and the greater number, still facing round, retreating by the path down the ravine. A small, but more desperate, band, under old Vlacco, not active enough to run, and too brave to yield, had entrenched themselves among the ruins, on the point directly above the harbour; and while some of them were firing away on the Ypsilante, and thus defending to the last the entrance to their port, the rest had slewed round some of the smaller guns towards the interior of the fort, prepared to fire the moment they could distinguish their enemies from their friends.

Meantime, Charles Fleetwood, eager in pursuit of the great object which had at first brought him to the island, the rescue of Ada Garden, led on his men to the tower. He heard the scream of a female,—the gate was open—he rushed up the steps, followed by the colonel and several others—he reached the chamber she had inhabited, a light burnt on the table—it showed the confusion around; a slight form was on one of the couches—Fleetwood flew to it. Could it be his Ada?

There he beheld a sight to sicken his heart—it was the body of poor little Mila: a ball had entered her forehead, and, as in too many cases, the innocent life had been taken. What might be the fate of her he loved best? His eye fell on Marianna, who was kneeling on the ground in an agony of terror. She lifted her head with alarm, expecting that some of the pirates had entered to wreak their vengeance on her; but when she saw who it was, she gave a shriek of delight, exclaiming—

“Oh! save my mistress, signor captain,—save my poor mistress. They have carried her away—the traitor, the false man, Signor Paolo—he and the chief. You will never see her more.”

“Where, where! which way, girl, speak?” cried Fleetwood, with feelings which no words can in any degree express.

“Oh! I don’t know, signor,” answered the Maltese girl, weeping with fright and agitation, increased by the tone of his voice. “Down through the door, signor, she and Signora Nina.”

“But, my girl, did they neither speak nor say where they were going?” asked Fleetwood.

“Oh! yes, yes. They said the Sea Hawk,—the Sea Hawk. They will escape. Oh, Mother of Heaven! have mercy on us,” replied Marianna, through her tears.

“Enough. Down the ravine, my men. Follow me,” shouted Fleetwood, as he rushed down the steps. “Colonel, do you remain at this tower, and prevent the pirates entering, if any rally.”

At the bottom he fortunately met Dawson, the first lieutenant of the Vesta, and second in command.

“Dawson,” he exclaimed, “take charge of the high ground with half our men, and clear the point there of those fellows firing down on the harbour. The first division follow me: on, my men!”

Uttering these words, he led the way to the path winding down the ravine, followed eagerly by seventy or eighty of the blue jackets. As may be supposed, he flew rather than ran, and even Tommy Small could scarcely keep up with him. He had too good a cause to know the path, every turning of which he had noted with the greatest care, so he had no fear of missing his way. As he went on, he found the wind blowing strongly down the ravine; and this circumstance showed him, to his sorrow, that the Sea Hawk would have no difficulty in running out of the harbour, if the Ypsilante did not prevent her. Still the pirate could only have had a short start of him. All he could do was to shout, “On, on,” and to wish, though in vain, that he could move faster.

He might yet reach the shore, even before the boats could shove off, and Ada might be rescued. This thought supported him. The wind rapidly increased, and its howl was heard even above the shouts of his followers. At length he reached the shores of the bay; he rushed to the edge; he could distinguish some boats floating on the surface of the water, and further on, there was a sound as if men were engaged in shoving others into it; yet he dared not allow any one to fire, for he could not tell what boat might contain his Ada. He led on his party in that direction. The pirates had seen him, and defended themselves bravely. Some sacrificed themselves while their comrades were escaping, and, by the time they were overpowered, only three boats remained on the shore. Into these, Fleetwood did not for a moment hesitate to throw himself as soon as they were launched, with as many of his men as they could contain, but the oars of two only could be found, and in vain were those of the other hunted for. With a hearty cheer the gallant fellows gave way after the enemy. The retreating pirates fired on them as they advanced out into the bay. He could just distinguish, by the flashes of the guns, the brig, and the two misticoes in the centre of it. As he looked, their sails were loosened and swelled to the gale; the pirates waited not to secure their boats, as they leaped on board. The cables were cut, and the two misticos darted out through the narrow passage into the open sea. Old Vlacco must have known what they were about, for the fire from the fort towards the Ypsilante seemed to be redoubled in warmth, preventing her from aiming at them as well as she might have done.

The Sea Hawk had still several boats round her, and towards her Fleetwood now steered. His men urged on the boat to their utmost strength; he felt a hope that he might reach her, when her fore-topsail was let fall, and sheeted home. A spring was on her cable, her head turned rapidly round, her yards were squared away, the cable cut, and she darted out from among a crowd of boats, among which she left the English entangled, just as they were on the point of running alongside her, and following her tenders out to sea, discharging her broadside full at the Ypsilante, as she passed her. The Greek behaved gallantly, and instantly put up her helm, and bore away in chase.

Fleetwood, his heart almost broker with agony at his disappointment, saw that it would be in vain for him to pursue, and he also remembered that the Ypsilante, with her reduced crew, and severely handled as she had been by the fort, was in no way a match for the Sea Hawk, though her shot might injure her, who was, he feared, on board.

There was, however, a doubt, on board which of the vessels Ada had been carried, if she really had again been torn, almost as it were, from his arms, and he dared not entertain a hope to the contrary.

Quick in action as in thought, these ideas passed through his mind as he returned to the shore, with the purpose of hastening back to the ships, and getting them to start in chase of the pirates.

At least, he thought, the Ypsilante will know what direction the Sea Hawk has taken, and be able to direct us in the pursuit. Before, however, he could return to his ship, he had numerous important duties to perform as leader of the expedition, and, indeed, from the firing which still continued on the heights, he saw that even the fort was not yet entirely their own.

For him the great object of the enterprise had failed, totally, miserably failed. Not only was Ada Garden again lost, but she would certainly be placed in a position infinitely worse than that in which she had hitherto been. He scarcely dared to think what act the pirate might commit, now that he was driven to desperation; she had no longer her attendant with her, and the Signora Nina might have lost the little influence over him she had before possessed. He bitterly cursed the mistake he had made in not dispatching one at least of the British ships round to assist the Ypsilante in blockading the entrance; but he checked himself, as it occurred to him that, had he done so, Ada might have been placed in still greater peril, as Zappa might still have attempted to carry her off, and, on finding himself completely entrapped, without a hope of escape, might have blown up the Sea Hawk, with all on board her, and he remembered the principle which had often sustained him through adversity and sorrow, though he could not accuse himself of having, through his own conduct, brought on the misfortune, or the cause of grief, that Heaven ordains everything for the best, and that it is impious to repine at its decrees. With a far different feeling did he climb up the path than that with which he had rushed down it, and though his spirits, disappointed and agitated as he was, did not fail him, his bodily strength almost did, and, had it not been for Small, he would scarcely have accomplished the undertaking against the fierce gale which was blowing down the ravine.

As they climbed up, the occasional roar of the big guns, and the rattle of musketry, was still heard, and on the summit a sight met his view which he had scarcely expected, and which grieved him sorely. Some of the huts I mentioned as having been built to contain the pirates’ provisions and other stores, had caught fire, and lighted up the whole scene. Hedged up on the outer promontory were the band of islanders, under old Vlacco, who, without the remotest prospect of victory or escape, yet refused to yield or ask for quarter. The old pirate had saved his chief; he had enabled him to escape by the gallant way he had held the post. He was now fighting on his own account for revenge, and to sell his life as dearly as he could. He was determined the victory the British had obtained should not be bought cheaply; he and his men worked the guns with the greatest courage; while one party were engaged in loading them, the others would rush forward and defend them, and then retire at the moment they were fired, and be at their posts again before the British could reach them.

Their numbers were being gradually thinned; but, in the meantime, they were committing great havoc; and the ground in front of their entrenchment was strewed with the dead and dying marines and seamen, who had, with equal gallantry and true courage, ventured to attack them. The numbers of the British seemed, to Fleetwood, to be awfully decreased; the marines and a few seamen only appearing to keep the pirates in check, when a loud shout proclaimed the cause of it; and he saw Colonel Gauntlett at the head of a large party, dragging forward one of the guns from another part of the fort. They halted, and, opening on either side, the gun was fired directly at the centre of the gang of pirates.

“Now, on, my friends!” shouted the colonel.

“On, on!” cried the lieutenant; and, at the same moment, Fleetwood led on his party towards the devoted desperadoes. Not one cried for quarter; but they could not, for an instant, withstand such an attack; every one was cut down or driven towards the edge of the cliff, where, still inspired by their desire of revenge, they seized their opponents, and endeavoured to drag them over with themselves. Almost the last survivor was old Vlacco; and exerting all the remaining strength which age had left him, for he was still unwounded, he fixed his death grasp on the arm of one of the foremost of his assailants; slowly he stepped back, as he was forced to retreat, enticing his antagonist on, till, feeling his left foot over the edge, he sprang forward to grasp him.

“In Heaven’s name, hold me back!” shouted a voice, which Captain Fleetwood thought he recognised as Bowse’s. The old pirate threw himself back with all his might, in the hopes of overbalancing the man whose arm he held, and dragging him with him. For himself he had no hope, no expectation but instant death, and the gratification of his revenge against one of those who had caused the destruction of himself and many of his comrades. Bowse was a powerful man; but he had been weakened by long confinement, and the pirate was large and heavy. Once he drew himself back, lifting the old man with him; but again Vlacco forced him forward, pressed as he was by others behind, who did not see their nearness to the dreadful precipice, and he felt that the despairing pirate was dragging him, with himself, to instant destruction; his feet lost their hold of the ground, and he was falling forward, when he, at length, sung out for help—though scarcely expecting it; but at that instant he felt himself dragged back by a powerful hand, and a sword descending, severed, with a blow, the arm of the old pirate, who, with a cry of rage, disappeared into the dark obscurity of the abyss below; and Bowse, turning round to thank his preserver, found that he was his old shipmate, Tommy Small.

This was the last resistance the British had to encounter; and, unfortunately, it had cost them very dear. The second lieutenant of the Vesta, a mate of the Venus, and six seamen and marines, had been killed, and ten men wounded, as well as four officers. About fifteen pirates only were found dead, but a larger number had been seen to throw themselves over the cliffs; and the wounded had probably destroyed themselves in the same manner, for five only, who were unable to move, were discovered alive. About twenty, who had either wanted resolution to destroy themselves, or thought they were less guilty, and, therefore, likely to escape punishment, were dragged out from the holes among the ruins, where they had concealed themselves—these were the only remnant of the force who had made so stout a resistance; the rest had either escaped in the vessels, or their mangled corpses were to be found at the bottom of the cliffs. Although Captain Fleetwood was most anxious to be off, he considered that it would not do to evacuate the place till it had undergone a strict examination, he determined, therefore, to leave the Vesta’s lieutenant of marines, with thirty marines and twenty seamen, in charge, while he led the rest back to embark on board their ships, where he knew, should the gale increase, their services would be required.

Among the wounded was Colonel Gauntlett. His grief on hearing that his niece had been carried off by the pirate was very great.

“It is a sad thing for that poor child; and though I have had much sorrow in my time, never has anything pained me more,” he said, as the captain told him what had occurred. “And for you, Fleetwood, I feel most deeply. You loved the girl, and you deserve her for the exertions you have made to recover her. In Heaven’s name, get back to your ship and pursue the scoundrel round the world, if he goes so far. For myself, I will remain here, and have my old carcass doctored; and if, as you think there is a possibility of her being concealed somewhere in the island, I will discover her, and shall be here to take charge of her, while you, at all events, will have the satisfaction of punishing the pirate.”

Thus it was arranged; indeed, the colonel was unfit to be moved, and was likely to fare much better in the tower, under the care of Mitchell, and a surgeon, who was left to look after the wounded, than on board the brig in a gale of wind.

Marianna, however, entreated that she might not be left behind on the island. She urged that her mistress must have been carried away in the Sea Hawk, and that as the Ione was going in search of that vessel, her services would certainly be required when she was recovered, which she felt positive she would be, as she would serve as a chaperone to Ada, should he be blessed by finding her. Fleetwood was glad to take her with him. The first person he inquired for, after the pirates had been overcome, was his friend Captain Vassilato.

Bowse said that he had been released with him and the Maltese, Pietro, from the dungeon under the tower, by Colonel Gauntlett’s party, and that he had seen him charging the last band of pirates who had resisted. It was for some time feared that he was one of those who had gone over the cliffs, either dragged over by the pirates, or in the eagerness of pursuit; but at length he was discovered under a wall, where he had managed to crawl to be out of the way of the scuffle, after receiving a severe wound on the leg from the wind of a round shot.

His delight at seeing Fleetwood, whom he thought had been killed, he declared, restored him to health; and he insisted on being carried on board the Ione, to get sooner on board his own vessel, that he might go in chase of the pirate. Bowse also begged to be allowed to accompany the captain.

All their arrangements being made, Fleetwood set off at the head of his men to return to the little bay, where the boats were left. The march back was less difficult and more rapid than the advance, as they were now able to light their lanterns, which had been brought, and to use some torches which had been discovered in the fort. They reached the boats in safety; but although the bay was to leeward, as the gale was blowing strong, there was a good deal of swell setting into the little cove, and they experienced considerable difficulty in embarking, and no little danger in getting out to sea. The ships, however, showed plenty of lights to guide them on board; but the way the lights moved showed that there was a heavy swell, and the loud roar of the surf warned them that they would have breakers to pass through before they could get on board.

“It must be done, Small,” said the captain, as her crew were getting the cutter afloat. “We have gone through many a worse surf, but never through so narrow a passage in so dark a night.”

“I’ve always managed to see the way out of any place I’ve got into, sir,” replied Small. “Please Heaven, sir, we’ll get out of this too.”

“Very well,” said the captain. “Gentlemen, I will lead, and let the boats follow at a sufficient distance from each other not to run the risk of fouling.”

Captain Vassilato was lifted into the cutter, she was shoved off through the surf, and the impetus almost sent her up to the entrance. A high black mound appeared to rise before her, obscuring the view even of the lights on board the ships, and seeming to block up all exit. Small’s eyes were keen, he exactly hit the passage, and the boat, rising on the surge, her oars almost touching the rocks on either side, darted out into the open sea. For an instant only, Fleetwood went alongside the Ione to put his Greek friend on board, and to order Saltwell to get everything ready for weighing the instant he returned, and he then pulled off to the frigate to make a report of what had occurred, and to advise the instant pursuit of the pirate.

Captain Grantham was very much grieved to hear of the loss of so many men, and that the young lady had been again spirited away, and promised, as soon as it was daylight, to go in chase of her; but in the dark, he considered it worse than useless to move from his comparatively snug berth. He was glad a nest of such determined pirates had been routed out; but, independent of more humane motives, he regretted to have to send up to the Admiralty so long a list of casualties. It showed, however, that it was no trifling affair, and he might truly state, that it was impossible to count the number of the enemy killed.

“You, Fleetwood, do as you think best,” said Captain Grantham. “If you wish to get under weigh, do so; but, tell me, what plan do you propose to pursue?”

“I think, while the present gale lasts, of standing across to examine the island to the westward of this; and when it moderates, or if the wind shifts, I shall stand to the northward, towards the Gulf of Salonica, where there are numerous hordes of pirates, with whom Zappa is certain to find friends.”

“I am not quite so sure of that—remember, two of a trade can never agree. However, it is as well to try in that direction. I will stand to the southward and westward, and will send Rawson to the eastward, and we will then rendezvous off this island, unless we happen to catch sight of our friend in the meantime, in a week or ten days—Heaven grant that we may have success!”

Chapter Thirty Seven.

When Zappa saw, by the overwhelming number of his enemies who poured into the fort, that he must perish or make good his retreat from the island, he ordered those of the Sea Hawk’s crew who were on shore to accompany him; and retreating from the fight, he left them below while he rushed up into Ada’s tower, and gained the chamber where the terrified females were assembled.

“Fond girl, I will not leave you to perish or to be branded as the pirate’s mistress,” he exclaimed, clasping Nina in his arms. “I will not quit you till I can place you in safety—come with me.”

“We will live or die together,” murmured Nina, forgetting, in that moment of defeat and disaster, all the cruelty of which he had been guilty towards her.

“Lady, your friends have gained the day,” he continued, turning to Ada. “You have brought rain on my head, and you have your revenge—farewell.”

Miss Garden’s heart beat quick with hope. The moment of her emancipation had at last arrived, and he whom she loved had come to her rescue. At the instant the pirate disappeared, a person rushed forward, and seizing her in his arms, exclaimed,—“Haste, signora, from hence, or destruction awaits us.”

She knew Paolo Montifalcone’s voice; and believing that the pirate had intended to blow up the tower, she fancied that he had come to save her, nor attempted to struggle in his grasp. She shrieked out to Marianna to follow her, but the poor girl was so petrified with horror at the death of little Mila, which had just taken place, that she could not move, and in vain Ada implored the Italian to stop for her attendant. His only reply was—“It will be too late, and we shall be destroyed—on, on.”

He seemed to be endowed with strength almost superhuman; he gained the bottom of the steps, and rushing on, was soon among the body of the retreating crew of the Sea Hawk, who were following their captain. They all recognised Paolo, who was a favourite among them, and aided him in supporting his burden.

“Oh where are you taking me to?” exclaimed Ada, when, too late, she heard the sounds of the strange voices round her, and found that she was descending the ravine.

“To happiness and freedom,” he answered passionately, and pressed her closer in his arms.

Ada, with horror, saw that she was cruelly betrayed. She shrieked aloud, and struggled to get free; but he who bore her had pictured the only joy he could hope for in possessing her, and intense misery without her, and he could not bring himself to relinquish what he valued more than life itself.

“Hear me, sweet Ada,” he exclaimed, as he still bore her on. “He whom you loved is dead, and a heart devoted as mine, is alone worthy to occupy the place he held.”

Still Ada entreated him to have mercy on her, to take her back to her friends, who must even now be in the tower she had just quitted; but he was deaf to all her prayers.

The gentle, timid Paolo had been sadly changed by the scenes he had witnessed, and the burning love to which, he had madly resigned his soul. She saw at length that all appeals to his generosity or better feelings were vain, and overcome with horror, she fainted.

When they reached the beach, Zappa and Nina had already embarked; he placed Ada in another boat, with the rear-guard of the pirates. They were quickly alongside, and she was lifted on deck, still insensible, and, without the chief seeing her, Paolo carried her in his arms below. Instantly the brig was under weigh, and darting out of the harbour, was hotly engaged with the Ypsilante.

Once on the open sea, the pirates breathed more freely, and sail after sail, notwithstanding the strength of the breeze, was let fall from the yards. The shot of the fort had already damaged their enemy, and now bringing their broadside to bear on her just before she kept away in chase, they raked her fore-and-aft, killing many of the people, and cutting away much of her rigging.

The Sea Hawk was celebrated for her speed, and the rigging of the Ypsilante was much cut up, but her commanding officer was a gallant fellow, and crippled as he was, determined, if he could, not to lose sight of the enemy; and was soon after her, firing his bow-chasers with little or no effect, as the Sea Hawk was rapidly running from them, firing her stern guns in return.

Meantime the Sea Hawk winged her rapid flight over the foaming waters. She had received but slight damage from the cannonade, opened on her by the Ypsilante, during the storming of the fort, and none after she got outside the harbour, so that the pirates were able to laugh at the efforts of her pursuer.

Zappa having run the Ypsilante out of sight, shaped as northerly a course as the wind would allow him, towards that part of the Archipelago where the islands cluster the thickest, that, among their many intricate and dangerous channels, well known to him and his crew, he might have a greater chance of avoiding his enemies; and would be certain to find friends ready to assist him. The two misticos, not being able to look up so well to the gale, had to run before it till it moderated, and they then hauled up in the same direction. From their rig and appearance being that of the ordinary craft of the Mediterranean, they ran less risk of recognition than the brig, or of detection, from being able to conceal themselves in any nook or bay, or behind any reef which might offer itself, so that an enemy might pass close to them, without their being seen.

The gale continued blowing with undiminished fury till daylight, when it gave signs of abating. It had been the means of saving Zappa and his comrades, and he wished it to continue rather longer to carry him entirely clear of his pursuers. Men with sharp eyes were sent aloft to look out on every side, to discover if any vessels were in sight. They reported one hull down in the northern board, the heads of her topsails only seen, which was, doubtless, the Ypsilante, and two on the larboard quarter, which seemed like the two misticos. As the sun rose, his beams seemed to calm the rage of the tempest, the wind fell, the clouds dispersed, and the sea went down, and Zappa no longer felt the anxiety he had at first experienced for the fate of his vessel. He now mustered his crew, and found that some of his bravest and best men had fallen when attempting to defend the fort against the first attack of the English; the remainder promised to stand by him as long as the Sea Hawk floated on the waves. Every arrangement which circumstances would admit of being made for the future, he dismissed all but the necessary watch on deck, to take the rest they so much needed.

Among those who appeared was Paolo. He hitherto had had no time to speak to him—he now summoned him to his side.

“What,” he exclaimed, “are you not yet weary of a rover’s life, that you return again to the Sea Hawk—or did you fear a pirate’s fate, if you had remained on shore?”

The Italian looked conscience-stricken and miserable. He could not meet the glance of the pirate’s eye; he dared not confess what he had done; and yet he knew it must be instantly discovered.

“Could I leave my sister?” he asked. “Could I leave one whom I love dearer than life itself to perish amid the raging fight, when my arm might save her? Do you suppose that my eye is so dull, my heart so callous, that I could behold the rare beauty which almost won your affections from her who had sacrificed all to you, and yet feel no impression? Know, that he whom you have treated as a tyrant does his slave, whom you have scorned and deceived, has a heart capable of burning with a passion far more intense, far brighter, far purer, and more enduring than the flickering flame which yours can alone nourish.”

“What is this rhapsody about?” exclaimed Zappa, thinking that Paolo had gone mad.

“When you go below, you will discover,” answered the Italian, and walked to the other side of the deck.

When Ada Garden came to her senses, she found herself in the cabin of the Sea Hawk, and Nina bending over her, and applying such restoratives as she had at command. She was soon sufficiently recovered to explain to her astonished friend the means by which she had come there.

“And Paolo could have done this. He who professed to be ready to die for you, to tear you from the very arms of your friends, when they were on the point of recovering you. Alas! my unhappy brother—his mind must have forsaken him.”

“Whatever the cause, I have sorely suffered, and I have no one to trust to now but you, Nina. Through you alone can I now hope to be restored to my friends.”

As Ada was speaking, the pirate chief entered the cabin. He started back, on seeing her, and an angry frown came over his brow. “What! and my suspicions are true,” he exclaimed, in a voice of passion. “And that mad youth has ventured to bring you on board. You, lady, who have been the cause of the disaster we have suffered, who have already so nearly proved my destruction.”

He ground his teeth as he spoke, and the two defenceless girls saw that he was working himself up to the same awful pitch of fury to which he had given way when he so barbarously wounded Nina.

“But where is this wretched youth?” he continued. “Here, Momolo—Balbo,” calling to some of his officers, “seize Signor Paolo, and drag him here. Take care that he does not leap overboard to avoid you. He has performed an act, by which he has well merited death, and he knows his guilt is discovered.”

While those he spoke to were absent obeying his orders, he stood at the door of the cabin, grasping his sword, as if he meditated a dire and speedy vengeance. Nina sprung towards him and clasped his arm.

“Oh! you will not injure him—you will not—you cannot kill my brother! He has committed a great fault—but his death will not remedy it. Say, for my sake—say, for her sake—for she wishes not his destruction—you will forgive him?”

While Nina was thus pleading for her brother, he was brought in by four of the crew, who, supposing that he had been found guilty of treachery—the only crime in a pirate’s eye—stood over him with their drawn daggers in their hands, to execute, at the moment, the chief’s commands. Zappa shook her off without answering her.

“So, signor, you have dared to drag hither the glittering bait which has already allured a host of enemies to attack us; and while I would have left her as their prize, and escaped in safety from what you have done, they will still continue their pursuit, nor desist till they have destroyed us all. From the number of men engaged in the attack, there must, doubtless, be many ships in chase of us, whereas, had you not committed this mad act, we might have gone our way unmolested. Such is your crime and its consequences; and if I deliver you up to the crew, and explain what you have done, they will save me the trouble of being your executioner. Take him on deck,” he said, in Romaic, to the men who held Paolo. “I will follow shortly; and you may, meantime, make preparations to deal with a traitor.”

The pirates were dragging the miserable man away, when Ada, who though she knew not the words which were used, comprehended their meaning, sprang from her seat and grasped Paolo’s arm, to prevent his being carried off.

“Stay,” she cried, appealing to Zappa. “Do not condemn this unhappy man to death. Towards me he has acted the most cruel part—but I forgive him. For your own sake, I implore you to do so likewise, for the sake of that sweet girl. Oh! do not commit so black a crime. It will be a murder, for he had no intention of injuring you or your followers. Blinded by an unhappy passion for me, he has done this, fancying that the man to whom I was to be united is no more; and has been led on in the vain hope of one day possessing me, and winning the worthless love I should have to give. Let me now swear that nothing shall ever induce me to become his—and let it be part of his punishment that he knows what he has done is in vain; and if, by any means, I can remedy the evil he has committed, I will do so, if you will allow him to live.”

“A lady who pleads so energetically should have her prayers granted,” said the pirate, with a tone of irony. “But let him beware how he behaves—unhand him,” he said to the men, in their own tongue. “These ladies have pleaded for the prisoner, and are answerable for his conduct. And tow, signora,” he said, in a blander tone, addressing himself to Ada, “by what means do you propose to remedy the fault of that madman?”

Ada was silent for some minutes, during which the pirate stood regarding her attentively.

“It is fitter for you to point out the means by which I can serve you, than for me to propose them,” she at length replied. “Indeed, I can do nothing till I am restored to my friends; I am sure that any ransom you may propose, which they have the power to pay, they will gladly give for my liberty.”

“It is a pity that was not thought of before; but, are you aware, lady, that it is usual to secure the ransom before the prisoner is restored?” observed Zappa.

“Touch then at one of the Ionian Islands, where there are English authorities, and let me write letters in different directions, and before long, I doubt not, the money will be raised, and will be deposited wherever you desire. If you will allow me to go on shore, I will promise to do my very utmost to place the money in your hands, and will send word to the British cruiser, now in search of this ship, that I am in safety; and will at the same time exert all the influence I may possess with my friends to obtain your pardon, should you be captured. This I promise to do most faithfully.”

“Oh, listen to her!” exclaimed Nina, springing towards the pirate, and seizing his hands. “Land her in safety and honour among her own people, and she will pay you the money if you demand it, and I—I will be responsible that she does so with my life—but why demand it? you have already more wealth than you require on board this vessel, and no rest nor safety can you expect, or hope to find, while you follow your present pursuits; your hand against every man, and the hand of every man against you,”—(Nina knew not that she was quoting the words of the sacred book to describe her husband)—“but oh, my husband, remember that there is a land across the narrow Adriatic, where your deeds are unknown, and where we may henceforth live unsuspected in tranquillity, and with such happiness as we can enjoy—that land, the land of my birth—there, in the home which I deserted for your sake, you will be secure; there I will watch over you, will tend you, will strive to make you forget the past in the contentment of the present; and should you be discovered, should any one attempt to tear you from me, I will give my life with joy for yours. Oh say that you will do this—say you will abandon the evil course you are leading, and you will make my heart beat lighter than it has done for many a day, and bless the words you utter.”

The pirate was somewhat softened.

“Nina,” he said, looking at her with a glance of more affection than she had for a long time seen, “you know not what you ask me to do. You know not the difficulty, the almost impossibility of accomplishing what you wish. Even were I seized with the humour to turn virtuous, I cannot abandon my vessel and my crew; they are bound to me and I to them; and were I to quit them, they would be captured, to a certainty, and in just revenge for my desertion, they would inform all they met of my retreat. If I proposed to leave them they would not let me, and from that instant I should lose all my authority. And then think, should I even succeed in commencing the existence you propose, how is it likely to suit one, accustomed from his earliest days to the dissipation of cities, or the wild excitement of a rover’s life—how should I, who have so long commanded a band of men, regardless of all laws but those I have framed, and yet obedient to me as children, submit to the dull, plodding business of a country farmer engaged in superintending bumpkins in their daily toil? No, Nina, you must not expect it; I feel it cannot be.”

He was silent, and seemed lost in thought. His lips moved, but his words were almost inaudible.

“The vision was too bright and beautiful ever to be realised,” he murmured. “Alas, alas, I have for ever cut myself off from such happiness—and that fond girl too—oh, it is a cruel fate for her to be linked for ever to one so lost. Yet it might be done. I might again seek out the speronara of the Sicilian Alessandro, and he should land us on some part of the coast I would select, nor should he know whither we went. Ah—but is he to be trusted? Would he not, if he saw our wealth, be tempted to destroy us for the sake of possessing himself of it?—would he not, even if we concealed it ever so carefully, or even had it not, suspect that we had it, and equally attempt our destruction? Who is to be trusted? In whom can I, especially, of all men, dare to confide? Alas! on no one. Every one of my fellow men, except the ruffians who surround me, and a few like them, would glory in betraying me. I might, it is true, find some stranger bound for the Italian coast, and with a well-invented tale about the vessel I had quitted, persuade them to carry me whither I may determine to go.”

“Nina, I will think about it,” he said, aloud. “I would please you if I could; but though my power to do evil has been great, alas! the means I possess of doing good are small indeed.”

“Oh, do more than think of it,” exclaimed Nina, looking up imploringly in his face. “Resolve with your determined will to execute what you think of—resolve to overcome all difficulties—to be daunted by no dangers, and she and I will bless you to our dying day, and our prayers will ascend to heaven to implore forgiveness for the crimes which now weigh down your soul and prevent you from perceiving clearly where true peace and happiness can alone be found.”

“Enough, Nina, enough, or you will make me act the woman,” exclaimed Zappa, releasing his hands from her grasp, and rushing on deck, where his voice was heard, immediately after, issuing some orders in his usual firm and loud tones.

“You will conquer, my sweet Nina; you will persuade him to abandon a pirate’s life, and happiness may yet be in store for you,” said Ada, kissing the cheek of her friend, who sat pale and trembling on the couch by her side.

Nina shook her head sorrowfully.

“Alas!” she replied, “you know not the wayward spirit which possesses him, or you would not speak to me of hope.”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Several days had passed, and the Sea Hawk was still among the clustering islands of the Archipelago. Twice she had attempted to escape from them on her voyage to Cephalonia; but each time she had been driven back by the appearance of suspicious sails to the westward, which her captain believed to be British men-of-war, cruising in search of him.

Men were stationed all day and night on the yard-arms, and topmast-heads to look out for the first faint outline of a ship; yet, not as before, in the hopes of falling in with a richly-laden merchantman, but for the purpose of avoiding her, lest she should prove to be one of the many enemies on the watch to destroy them. The wind also no longer favoured them, but shifting to the westward, had aided to baffle them in their efforts to escape. Zappa prayed again for the gale, which had so opportunely arisen to enable him to force his way out of the harbour of Lissa; but now when he equally needed it, and had no evil purpose in view, when better intentions had been formed and better feelings had arisen, it refused to blow. Either contrary winds or calms had always been met with, and till he had a prospect of a quick run, it would be folly to venture out from amid the islets, which now sheltered him. He was afraid of anchoring, or of remaining off any place for an hour together, lest an enemy should suddenly appear and give him no time to make sail to escape. He seldom went below, but wrapped in his cloak he threw himself on the deck, when weary nature required rest, to be ready at a moment’s call. His days and nights were full of toil, care, and watchfulness, and thus the time wore on. It was a lovely day; the sky was of the most intense blue, without a cloud or speck to dim its brilliancy; the sea calm as a mirror, and reflecting the hue of the bright canopy above, was of so crystal a clearness that the eye seemed capable of piercing to its very lowest depths; the sun shone forth with glowing splendour, and the wind of the gentle zephyr, which came from the west, blew with a balmy softness, incapable of ruffling the water, or of forcing through it the pirate brig. Her sails, spread to catch the first breath of a stronger breeze, now hung almost idle from the yards, or ever and anon gave a loud flap of impatience against the masts.

Blue islands rose out of the water on every side of the ship; some extending a considerable distance along the horizon, others, mere hillocks, appearing above it; and besides the more distant islands, several islets were seen, mostly barren rocks, some of a mile in length, and others of a few hundred yards; the largest only being of a height sufficient to conceal a vessel behind them. Some were broken into picturesque forms, and their sides sprinkled with moss and lichens, or coarse grass, and a few low shrubs looked green and inviting at a little distance—a deception which a nearer approach quickly dissipated. Here and there also black lines and spots might be seen on the surface, being the summit of coral reefs, which, with any sea, were entirely concealed by the wild foaming surf breaking over them; and though the greater number of these were almost flush with the water, or below it, a few rose as much as five or ten feet above it. As may be supposed, no vessel would venture into this locality, unless those on board were well acquainted with its numerous hidden dangers.

To increase them still further, strong currents set among the islands, running towards various quarters, accordingly as they encountered the opposition of the rocks, either above or below the surface, so that it was impossible, from the appearance of the land, to say in which direction the vessel, exposed to their influence, would next be carried. Into one of these currents, the Sea Hawk had now got, and though she appeared to be stationary in the water, she was being driven on at a rapid rate past the land to the westward. Her captain, however, apprehended no danger—he had every rock and shoal mapped out in his mind far more correctly than on any chart in existence, and he felt confident of being able to avoid them; and thus, though the airs came from the westward, the brig was carried bodily to windward, and steerage way was just kept on her.

The heat of the cabin was so great, that Ada and Nina had been forced on deck, over the after part of which an awning had been spread to shelter them from the sun—and there they sat, silent and sad, for the long delay which had occurred had depressed their spirits, and filled their imaginations with forebodings of coming evil.

Paolo stood by himself, leaning over the quarter-rail, and gazing, with a vacant listlessness, at the sea; no one speaking to him, and he noticing no one.

Zappa slowly paced the deck, every now and then stopping to watch the progress of the vessel, and to issue his orders to the helmsman or sail trimmers, who were at their stations ready for any emergency; but though every sail, to her royals, were set, with that light wind, a few hands only were required to box about the yards, as it became necessary to keep the vessel away, or haul her more up, to avoid the rocks and shoals as they presented themselves.

Looking at that beautiful fabric, as she floated proudly on the waters, and observing the skill with which she was handled, it was difficult to suppose that danger of any kind, beyond what I have mentioned, could menace her.

Zappa himself felt secure, for he knew that none of his enemies could here approach him unawares; or, if they daringly ventured into that labyrinth of dangers, he could easily elude them, or entice them to their destruction. However, a strict look out for the appearance of any sail was, as usual, kept; but all his attention was occupied in conning the vessel through the intricate passage he had selected, in order thus to make some progress on his voyage.

“If this dreadful state of uncertainty endure much longer, I feel that it will kill me,” said Nina, taking Ada’s hand, and looking into her face, as if to read the effect her words produced. Her dim, sunken eye, and the hectic spot on her faded cheek, gave sad token that her words were too likely to be fulfilled. “For your sake, dear friend, I will try to live, and for his sake also. I would not quit him, even for another and a better world, till I was assured that he had forsaken the sinful and dangerous path he has, alas, so long followed. It is an awful thing to think that he whom one loves, better far than one’s-self, may be speedily hurried to his eternal doom, without a prayer for forgiveness—a hope in the future. I would not be separated from him, and yet I dare not wish to bear him company; though I feel that, black as are his crimes, my guilt is even greater. I deserted a fond father—I broke his heart, Ada, and can such a one as I hope for Heaven? Will the suffering, the agony of heart, I have endured, be any atonement in the sight of God? Oh, promise me, Ada, that should death claim me as his own, you will strive, by every means in your power, to lead him back to virtue—to preserve him from the ignominy, the punishment which, even I acknowledge, he has deserved at the hands of his fellow-men.”

Ada Garden roused herself from her own despondency, to soothe the feelings of her friend. She endeavoured to persuade her that her prognostications regarding her own death were probably groundless; and though she did not seek to lessen her horror of the crime she had committed, she pointed out to her the merciful promises held forth in the sacred writings, that her repentance was of more value than her sufferings; that the latter was sent by a kind Heaven to produce the former feeling, and that, trusting in Him who died for all, she might hope confidently for pardon, and remission of her sins. She assured her of her own belief, that Heaven is not deaf to those who pray that those they love may be made to repent; and she entreated her, if on that account alone, to live for her husband’s sake.

“And, Nina,” she continued, “what a weak girl—what one situated as I am can do, I will do for your husband; and more, I will entreat Captain Fleetwood, not only to save him from punishment, but to use every means in order to persuade him to repent of the past, and to follow a noble and virtuous course of life.”

In this manner the two lovely girls had conversed for some time in tones not above a whisper, lest it should be heard by him whom it most concerned, when an exclamation of terror escaped the lips of Nina, and, seizing Ada’s arm with a convulsive grasp, she pointed over the larboard side of the vessel, where a sight met their view, which was, indeed, sufficient to make the stoutest heart quail.

Meantime the captain stood near the weather gangway, directing, as I said, the course of the vessel, with his first mate by his side, whom he had called to him to point out the danger yet to be passed; while, as a precautionary, and, indeed, usual measure on such occasions, hands were stationed at the jib-boom end, and at the weather foreyard-arm, to give timely notice of any rocks which might lie in their course beneath the water, from the beautiful clearness of which they were discernable, even though many feet from the surface, at a considerable distance. The brig’s head was to the southward, and all eyes were thus turned to windward, or in the direction towards which she was drifting with the current, and no one thought of looking on the lee side, from which no possible danger was apprehended.

“We have done well to come here, Baldo,” observed Zappa to his mate. “We are here far more secure than in any harbour in the world; for no one but a mariner of our own islands would venture his ship among these reefs. See yonder black ledge, which shows its threatening summit a few feet only above the water—there is a passage between it and another reef further to the southward, through which we shall easily pass, provided the wind does not fail us altogether; and if so, we must rouse the hands up and take to our sweeps.”

“It is a dangerous place, though, captain, and one I would rather not venture into, unless I was very sure of my weather,” replied the mate. “Even now, if it was to come on to blow, it would be no easy matter to get clear.”

“No fear of that, my friend; I who brought the craft into this place will take her safely out again, let the wind blow with its greatest fury. A gale is what we have day and night been praying for; and let one come, the gallant Sea Hawk will brave it, and laugh at her enemies. But tell me, Baldo, how do the people like this hide-and-seek life? It is not what they have been accustomed to under my command.”

“They wonder what your intentions are,” answered the mate. “They say that, by sailing westward, as you propose, we are more likely to meet with our enemies, than if we kept among the islands to the northward, where we have friends.”

“The very reason I would avoid the locality,” said Zappa. “We shall certainly be sought for there; whereas, no one will expect to find us in the broad seas to the west; and remind them besides, that where we are going, we shall, without doubt, fall in with some richly-laden merchantmen, which will amply repay all hands for their losses.”

“There is reason in that, captain; I dare say it will content the men,” said the mate. “But while I am on the subject, there is another complaint which they have to make.”

“What is it?” asked the pirate, angrily, for he did not like his mate’s tone. “I love not to hear complaints.”

“The stranger lady,” replied the mate.

“Well, what of her?” inquired the captain.

“She has brought us all into this scrape,” continued Baldo.

“So it is said, is it?” remarked the captain, with a dark frown.

“No one knows why she was brought on board,” continued the mate, speaking fast, to say what he wished, before any further interruption occurred. “Some say that Signor Paolo brought her here; but it is supposed that he did so according to your orders.”

“They do, do they?” said Zappa, compressing his lips. “And now, tell we what would they have done?”

“They would have you get rid of her,” answered the mate, boldly.

“It is what I am about to do,” returned the captain. “I purpose landing her at Cephalonia.”

“What, without a ransom!” exclaimed Baldo.

“With or without a ransom, as the case may be,” said Zappa, coldly.

“If without a ransom, there would be a more speedy way of getting rid of her, and would better satisfy them,” observed the mate, with a dogged look, in which a certain amount of fear was mingled, with audacity. “We want no women on board—all has gone ill when we have had them,” he muttered, in a lower tone, which the captain, however, did not fail to hear.

“Speak out—what mean you?” he asked fiercely.

“That the deep sea will be the safest place for her, where she will not trouble us more,” exclaimed the mate, half trembling as he uttered the words, for there was something in Zappa’s look which warned him he had better not say them.

Somewhat to his surprise, however, his captain suppressed whatever feelings inspired him.

“And such is the wish of the crew, that I should destroy an innocent girl, who has trusted to me, and, perhaps, they would desire me to cast my wife also into the sea, to gratify their anger, because we have met with a reverse to which all are subject. Well, tell them I will think about the matter.”

“They insist on having your instant decision, captain. Some of them have friends in an island not far off, and they declare that they will land, and leave you and the craft to take care of each other, if you refuse to grant their request. Some even venture to whisper words about deposing you, and sending you to look after your mistresses.”

“And you, the loudest whisperer of them all,” exclaimed the pirate, in a fierce tone, so loud, that, had not those to whom it related been absorbed in their own conversations, they must have been startled by it. “That I slay you not this instant, you have to thank the critical position in which the ship is placed. Go, tell them that I, Zappa, their chief, intend to remain their captain as long as the Sea Hawk floats proudly on the ocean, or till I absolve them from their allegiance. Go, tell them this, and think well before you again venture to be the bearer of such a message from the crew. First, get a pull on the braces; we must luff all we can, to get through yonder passage.”

Baldo, without venturing to answer, hurried to execute the order; and, as soon as the yards were braced sharp up, after giving a glance at his chief, who he had so lately been accustomed, to fear, that he felt surprised at his own audacity, he went below to consult with his coadjutors what was to be done. He cunningly had taken advantage of his chief’s late want of success, to ingratiate himself with the people, and had employed all the ordinary arts of a demagogue to weaken the authority of the man he wished to supplant; and he now gave the answer to their message, with such exaggerations and alterations as he judged would best suit his purpose, and inflame the minds of his hearers to the proper pitch for executing his mutinous designs. He had, somewhat to the surprise of Zappa, who, however, soon fathomed his reasons, pretended to be ignorant of the navigation of the passage, through which they were winding their way, that he might thus throw him more completely off his guard. The largest portion of the crew had been won over, and they were now summoned below to hear the decision of the rest, and to put their plan into immediate execution. This may be guessed at; it involved the instant destruction of their chief, as well as of the unprotected girl, whom he refused to sacrifice to their fears.

Baldo had marked the ill-starred Nina as his own; and Paolo, who had always been a favourite, and had never made an enemy, they intended to preserve as useful to them in his former capacity of surgeon. Thus it is, that the lawless can never depend for an instant on each other.

Zappa still stood at his post, issuing the necessary orders; and, although gloomy forebodings were on his mind, he resolutely determined to dare the worst, rather than yield. He marked the mutineers gradually gliding off below, each man eyeing him as he went, still fearful of being perceived, till, at last, the stations of many of them were deserted; and he saw that, should any duty suddenly be required of them, there were not hands to perform it.

“This must not be,” he muttered. “They have already carried things too far. I must recover my authority now, or I lose it, and am destroyed.”

He gave a look to windward to see that the vessel was in no danger for some minutes to come, and was advancing to the main hatchway, with his sword in his hand, intending to spring down boldly among the mutineers, and bring the matter to a crisis, by daring them to attack him, when his eye glanced, for an instant, to leeward. That instant was sufficient to create far greater alarm in his mind than had his mutinous crew.

“All hands on deck. Up men, for your lives, up! Clew up, haul down! Brace round the after-yards! Up with the helm!”

To the eastward, hitherto unobserved, a small, white cloud had appeared, no bigger than a man’s hand. With almost the velocity of a thunderbolt it darted across the sky, expanding as rapidly, till, as it approached, it seemed like a vast bank of white mist, to which the rays of the sun, now past the meridian, gave a bright and shining appearance, the sea below, as if swept up by its base, curling in huge, foaming waves, and overtopping, with an angry roar, the reefs it encountered, as it bubbled and hissed in its onward course, while it sent before it, flying high into the air, a sheet of spray, which, almost as soon as seen, enveloped the doomed vessel. It was the Sea Hawk’s pall. The intending mutineers, startled by the fierce ringing tones of their commander’s voice, attempted, in a mass, to rush up the main hatchway; at first, with the purpose of executing their foul project; but, in an instant, as the roar of the tempest struck their ears, and they felt the motion of the vessel, with wild energy, in the hopes of preserving their worthless lives, one man impeded the other; the bond of union was no longer thought of—the fear of their own death, not the wish to destroy another, now urged them on. Those who had first seized the coaming strove to spring on deck, while those below grasped them fast; and few only succeeded in freeing themselves in the struggle, which seemed for existence.

The moment that their services might have availed was lost, if any power could have saved the vessel; those more faithful to their trust, who had remained on deck, flew to the halyards and braces; but, before they could let go the first, or haul away on the others, the white squall was upon them. The sails were taken flat aback, and the yards pressed against the mast would not start. Down, down she went over on her starboard side, like a tall reed bent by the wind. Her bowsprit and the canvas stretched on it flew to leeward. Her head turned a few points to the eastward—she made a stern-board—the water rushed in torrents up her decks and into her hold—the foam flew wildly over her side, and shrieks, and cries, and oaths, extorted by the agony of despair, escaped from her maddened crew, as they beheld their inevitable doom.

As Zappa saw the fury of the squall, he felt that all his skill and all his courage would avail him as nought to save the Sea Hawk. In this, his last dire extremity, no craven fear filled his heart, and though for his own life he cared not, he remembered that there were others whose lives depended on him. To fly towards the stern before the vessel’s deck had become completely perpendicular, was the work of one moment, while in the next he dragged Ada and Nina, who, almost unconsciously, were holding on, by what were now the weather bulwarks, to the outside of the vessel. In this task he was aided by Paolo, when the loud cries of “The ship is sinking, the ship is sinking,” uttered by the seamen, and the roar of the tempest had aroused from his apathy, and who had sprung to the side of the two beings most dear to him on earth, with the thought rather of dying with them than of having even the power of being of any assistance to them. The dreadful position in which they were placed was sufficient to paralyse the heart of the bravest, and the terror of the two girls was further increased by the shrieks of the drowning wretches which reached their ears. They now clung with convulsive energy to the quarter-rail, their feet partly supported by the sill of the after-port, and though expecting instant death, they still, with the impulse which the weakest as well as the strongest feel, endeavoured to preserve their lives. Nina was almost unconscious, but Ada Garden still retained her faculties unimpaired, and though she thus more acutely perceived the dangers which surrounded her, she was better able to exert herself for her preservation; yet, in that wild vortex of water, and with a sinking ship alone to rest on, what hope was there? Poor girl—in that moment how many thoughts passed rapidly through her mind. Death to her could have few terrors, but life had many joys, pure and bright, and even these, presented to her mind in all their glowing colours, yet she tried to banish earthly things, to contemplate the life eternal, towards which she was hastening, to offer up a prayer to Heaven for herself, and for those who were being hurried to their doom with her—she prayed as earnestly for herself as for them, for it did not occur to her that she had less need of prayer than they, and who will venture to pronounce that she had?—her advantages had been many, theirs few. Yet, do all she could, that image of one so truly loved would present itself to her eyes, and it added many an additional pang to her heart, to feel the bitter grief her loss would inflict on him. Months, years would pass away, her fate unknown, he still would be vainly searching for her throughout those seas, till, perchance, some spars, or part of the hull, might be washed on some distant shore, and recognised, and a rumour might reach his ears of the destruction of the pirate’s bark, and the suspicions of her doom might at length be confirmed. This thought was, perhaps, the most cruel she had to bear. These and many more passed through her mind more rapidly than I have taken to write them.

“She sinks, she sinks!” was the only intelligible cry which reached her ears.

“She does not sink,” was heard in answer, in Zappa’s deep-toned voice. “She floats still—come aft here, and aid me in lowering this quarter-boat into the water.”

The men he spoke to who were in the fore-rigging, could scarcely hear his words, but they comprehended his signs and intentions. Eight of them came aft to assist him in lowering the boat, a light gig lashed to the main rigging. Paolo remained with his sister and her friend, to aid them in holding on in their perilous position, in which they were further assisted by some ropes which Zappa had fastened to the rail, and placed in their hands. The operation required great caution, as the only chance of her swimming was to launch her on the lee-side, or, as it were, in board. The attempt was made. All looked on with anxiety, for they saw that on its success their lives depended—the boat gone, they had no other hope of being preserved. The lashings were cut adrift, the boat was lifted up to stand on her keel, on the rigging, and her stern was slewed round for launching, when a wave, larger than any which had yet struck the vessel, came roaring towards them.

“Hold on for your lives, hold on,” cried Zappa.

Some heard him, others, paralysed with fear, let go their hold of the rigging, and the boat, torn from their grasp, was carried over the side, and being stove to pieces, was washed far away from them, while several unfortunate wretches found at the same time a watery grave.

“Lost—all lost!” was the general cry, and this time the captain did not contradict them. The coolest and the bravest abandoned all hope. The foaming waves dashed wildly over the vessel, the wind roared, the thick mist enveloped them with its funereal pall; down, down she went, when a loud crash was heard, the stout timbers and planks were rent and torn asunder; he lifted on the summit of a wave, the bow was seen to twist and writhe, and separating from the after part, to sink in the foaming whirlpool, while the stern was cast with terrific violence on the rocks—another wave lifted it yet higher, and there it remained securely and immovably fixed, though with difficulty the few survivors could maintain their hold. Still their prospect of salvation was small indeed. Another wave might come and wash them off, or dash their last place of refuge into a thousand fragments.

Every instant they expected the coming of the fatal wave; but sea after sea whirled foaming by them, making their eyes giddy, and sickening their hearts with apprehension; yet instead of increasing, each seemed diminished in size.

The last effort of the white squall had been made—its fury was appeased with the sacrifice offered to it. Onward it passed, clothed in its mantle of glittering mist, to other realms: the blue sky appeared, the troubled sea subsided into calmness; and the trembling beings who clung to the shattered wreck beheld, close to them, a reef of black rocks rising some four or five feet above the surface of the water.

“Courage, my Nina—courage, lady!” exclaimed Zappa. They were the first words he had uttered for some time. “A seaman, with abundance of planks and a few feet of firm rock on which to plant his foot, should never despair. Stay where you are for a few minutes, while I try to find a more secure resting-place for you.”

As he said this, he stood up on the side of the vessel, to examine their position. They had struck on the very centre of the reef, forming one side of the channel, through which the Sea Hawk had been endeavouring to pass, and at the only part which was any height above the water; perhaps, indeed, not another spot could have been found which could have so securely wedged in the stern, as to have prevented its following the rest of the vessel to the bottom.

The nearest land where assistance might be obtained was some ten miles off to the southward and westward, and in that direction the current I have spoken of was setting. To the north were interminable reefs and shoals, from which direction no vessel could approach them; nor was it probable, indeed, that a craft of any description would pass near them, as few even of the Greek vessels ever came that way, and the utmost they could hope for was to be seen by some fishing-boat belonging to the neighbouring island.

This occurred to the pirate as he stood up to look around him. Steadying himself, he walked to the end of the taffrail, which he found hung directly over a lodge of rock communicating with the main reef. Securing the end of a rope to the quarter-rail, he lowered himself down to the rock, and found that there was tolerably firm footing on it, and that it would be easy to carry to it a rope-ladder, from where Ada and Nina were clinging, by which they might descend with tolerable security, and from thence gain the main rock, which embraced an area of some hundred square yards or so. Having made this discovery, he again climbed up to the wreck—of the whole crew of the Sea Hawk, but six, besides himself and Paolo, now remained alive. The others had either been drowned in the hold of the vessel as she first capsized, or had subsequently been washed off, or carried away with the bow when it parted.

The corpses of some of the latter were still seen floating about in the eddy round the rocks, and a few more wretched survivors were perceived clinging to portions of the wreck, and carried by the current far away from their companions, who had no power of rendering them any assistance. Ada Garden shuddered as she witnessed their dreadful fate; and yet she felt that her own and that of those with her might not be preferable, but at the same time she and they had been as yet almost miraculously preserved, contrary to all expectation; and she could not help still indulging in the belief that, by some means or other, their deliverance might be achieved.

On Zappa’s return to the wreck, he roused up his men, who still clung to it, stupified with terror, and ordered them to exert themselves for their own preservation, as well as for the rest of the survivors.

They had been so long accustomed to obey his voice, that they quickly returned to their senses. The mainmast had gone, as had the main chains, but part of the main rigging, the backstays and shrouds still hung on to the wreck, and these he ordered them to haul up, and by securing the shrouds to the stern, and carrying the other end to the rocks, he formed an easy means of communication, by which Ada and Nina could gain the main rock. They accomplished the passage without fear; and as they found their feet resting once more on firm ground, although it was a barren rock, they followed the natural impulse of their hearts, and bent down on their knees to return thanks to the Great Being who had preserved them.

The hardened pirates, unused as they were to prayer, felt the genial influence, and at the spot where each happened at the moment to be, they stopped in the work in which they were engaged, and knelt likewise in an endeavour to imitate them in act, if not in feeling.

“To work, my friends,” exclaimed Zappa. “We have no prospect of release from hence, unless we can construct a raft by which we may escape, while the calm which has now returned continues. I tell you, one hour’s moderate gale would render the spot on which we stand untenable, and we must all perish; but do not despair, we may, if we employ our time to advantage, form out of the wreck a raft, which will, with perfect security, convey us to yonder island, where we may find shelter and protection among friends who will gladly receive us.”

The men, on hearing their chief’s address, expressed their willingness to obey him. His first care was to collect such articles as were floating about in the water near them, and others which had been thrown on different parts of the rock. Among them were chests, and casks, and spars, some of the running rigging, and two or three of the lighter sails, which had floated attached to the spars. The most welcome and the most important prize was a cask of water—the second was a cask of biscuit which had been taken out of an English vessel, and there were two or three of olives; some boxes of figs, rather the worse for their immersion in salt water, but still very acceptable, and two trunks of wearing apparel, which had come on board with the biscuits—altogether, on surveying the provisions, there appeared sufficient to last them with care for several days. Tools, with which to cut up the wreck to form the raft, were the next great desideratum, and the carpenter’s chest could not be found. They hunted in all directions without success, till at last, in despair, they began to tear up the bulwarks with their hands, as making a commencement of collecting materials. On doing so, great was their satisfaction on finding three boarding axes secured with beckets to the side. They had now tools to enable them to progress faster with the work. They ripped off all the planking from the bulwarks, and cut up as much of the deck as was above water, and by this means got into one of the larboard cabins just before the bulkhead of the state cabin. It had been occupied by the chief mate, and in it were found another axe, some nails, and several carpenters’ tools, as well as a coil of small line, which was very useful for lashing the various parts of the raft together. As the materials were collected they were carried to the rock, and in a short time the captain considered that they had sufficient to commence operations, as with the few people it would have to carry, a small raft only was necessary. They first lashed some of the spars they had saved, together, forming an oblong square, while others where placed diagonally to strengthen the framework, and the stoutest was secured beneath to form a keel. As their strength would afterwards have been unequal to the task, they were obliged to launch it before they commenced planking it over, and they then secured it on the west side of the reef, as it was in that direction they proposed going, and the water was there much smoother than on the other, where it was still agitated by the effects of the squall.

The spar used for the keel was the upper part of the mainmast, or rather the topmast—for, it must be remembered, she was a polacca-rigged craft—and which had been broken completely off when the lower shrouds went over it; and as this was considerably longer than the raft, planks were fastened to each corner of the square to both the ends, so as to form a pointed bow and stern.

Several casks were picked up which had lost their contents, and these were now bunged up afresh, and secured on either side of the framework, and this being done, the business of planking over the whole now commenced. Nails were little used or required, and it was found more secure and expeditious to lash the ends of each plank down to the framework, securing it also in the middle; and on the top of these, others were placed at right angles, and either lashed or nailed down to them, till the whole was exhausted, thus forming a solid and somewhat strong mass of planking, sufficient, it was to be hoped, to bear them to the island they wished to reach.

On the top of this the chests were placed on either side to serve as bulwarks, one being secured in the centre on a platform of planks, for Ada and Nina to sit on, and round it were arranged the casks of water and provisions which had been hauled out of the water. Some of the smaller spars had been reserved for other purposes. Out of one was formed a mast, out of another a yard, on which the main top-gallant-sail, somewhat reduced, was spread to form a sail. From three oars, a rudder and two oars were manufactured, and a fourth was kept to pole off from any rocks towards which they might be driven. Altogether, a very complete raft was constructed, much superior to many which have borne wave-tossed mariners for days or weeks together on the broad waters of the Atlantic. Not till every arrangement was made did Zappa and his followers desist from their labour.

Meantime Ada and Nina had not been neglected, and the pirate seemed to be endeavouring to make such amends as were in his power for his past conduct. On the further end of the rock a tent was erected with some of the sails, which had been saved, and a case of female wearing apparel was placed within it to enable them to clothe themselves, while their own dresses were drying in the sun, which, when spread out on the hot rock, a very few minutes sufficed to do. Paolo had also collected small pieces of wood, which dried quickly, and he then piled them together to be in readiness to light a fire should it be required.

The formation of the raft afforded them ample matter of interest, and as they sat there, secure and without discomfort, on that solitary rock, with the ocean smiling calmly around them, the awful event, which so short a time before had cast them there, seemed almost like a dream, which is, with difficulty, recalled to the recollection.

Such food as could be prepared, they were supplied with; but, as may be supposed, they were little inclined to partake of it, nor would they, perhaps, have done so, had they not felt the importance of sustaining their strength to enable them to undergo the dangers and exposure to which they saw they would most probably be subjected.

Thus the day passed rapidly away, and the sun was already verging towards the horizon, by the time the raft was completed. It was now too late, Zappa asserted, to embark, and by waiting for the early dawn, they might have the whole of a day to perform the voyage without the risk of being exposed at night on the raft, and might hope, with certainty, to reach the island before sunset.

The men willingly agreed to their chief’s proposal, while the remainder of the party had no choice, but to submit had they objected to it; but it seemed so reasonable, that, anxious as they were to reach a more secure position, they uttered no complaint at his decision.

The tent was, therefore, secured and strengthened, and a flooring formed inside it, on which were placed the portions of sail which had been collected and dried, and the clothing from the chests, so as to make a couch, which, although very rude, afforded a resting-place, for which the two poor girls were most grateful.

Paolo stationed himself outside the tent, at a short distance only from them, and Zappa arranged a resting-place among the casks of water, and the provisions, and chests, which he had taken care should not be embarked. The men, after a supply of food had been served out to them, huddled together, wrapped up in their capotes, on the bare rock, near where they had been working, and held a whispered conversation together, which lasted for some time after darkness covered the face of the deep. Paolo’s mind, troubled and unhinged with the thoughts of the past, and the darkening prospect of the future, for long refused to allow sleep to visit his eyelids. He listened to ascertain whether his sister and Miss Garden were still awake; but from the perfect silence in their tent, he trusted that they had been more blessed. He then stood up to look round the rock. The irate chief was sitting on a chest, with his arms folded across is breast, and apparently, from his upright position, still full of care, and on the watch on all around. The people had thrown themselves down where they had been sitting, and seemed to be fast asleep. The sea was calm, as it had been in the morning before the squall; and, though no moon was up, the myriads of stars, which glittered in the sky, threw a light over it even to a far distance, and enabled him to discern many of the reefs and rocky islets which surrounded them, while close at hand was seen, like a skeleton of some huge monster of the deep, the last remnant of the once gallant Sea Hawk.

Wearied with standing, Paolo again sunk down on the rock. He was awoke by a voice which he knew to be that of Zappa.

“Rouse up, Paolo!” he said. “You have taken your share of sleep, and I would fain snatch some moments of rest to prepare me for the toils of to-morrow; and yet I dare not sleep without leaving some one in whom I can confide on the watch.”

“Why, what mean you?” asked Paolo, starting up. “I will gladly watch—but what have you to fear? Surely, no enemies are near us.”

“Ah! you know not what was nearly occurring this morning, or you would not ask the question,” said Zappa, in a tone of bitterness. “See you yonder six men. Are they, think you, friends or enemies? I tell you I do not trust them. Not long ago, I would have trusted them, as I would have trusted their comrades who have gone to their account; and yet they were about to destroy those two defenceless girls and you, and me, their chief. Ah! you start! You doubtless think the shipwreck we have suffered is a misfortune; and yet, I tell you, Paolo, that I believe by it our lives have been preserved. I can trust to you, Paolo; and while I sleep you must watch. To add to our security, light a small fire with the wood you collected, and keep yourself awake by feeding it. Should any of them move, they will clearly be seen; and perceiving that you are awake, it will make them hesitate what to do. They know also that I have arms—and that my pistols are never unloaded—and that you can call me in a moment, to use them. Two hours’ sleep will be sufficient for me—you can, I hope, watch for that time.”

Paolo assured Zappa that he would keep a faithful watch, for all their sakes; and then, aided by him, he lighted a fire between themselves and the men, while he kept a store of wood on their side to feed it as it began to decay. The pirate, wrapping himself in a cloak, immediately threw himself down among the stores, and was instantly fast asleep. As Paolo stood by the fire he thought that he beheld the tall masts and white sails of a ship gliding by, but she took no notice of the fire and disappeared in the darkness. Thus the night passed on. He no longer felt any sleepiness; and, as the pirate chief slept soundly, he could not bring himself to awaken him. The first faint streaks of dawn had just appeared in the sky when Zappa started up.

“What has occurred? Why did not you summon me. Paolo?” he exclaimed. “Ah! you were unwilling to awaken the angry lion. I thank you, though, for your consideration. You have kept our watch-fire in well, I perceive. Throw more wood on it, and we will presently kindle such a blaze as will light us on our way before the sun arises. Go, call your sister and the English girl, your voice will alarm them less than mine. I will rouse up my traitorous followers—for we must be away from hence without delay. We know not what weather the morning’s sun may bring.”

It was still almost as dark as at midnight, when Paolo summoned the two ladies. They soon made their appearance, prepared for their perilous voyage, and refreshed by their night’s slumber, notwithstanding their extraordinary position and the rudeness of their couch.

Zappa’s first care was to arrange the provisions in the centre of the raft; over them he erected the tent, which, though much reduced in size, afforded sufficient shelter for the ladies. He then summoned them to take the seats he had arranged; but it was not without some fear and hesitation that they left the firm rock for so frail an ark, and it was not till Ada recollected the danger of remaining, that she could persuade herself to go on board, followed by Nina.

Leaving them under charge of Paolo, Zappa summoned his men, and each of them was seen to take a bundle of the burning embers in their hands, and to proceed with them to the ship. Once again they came back for more embers, and the remainder of the wood, and almost before they could return to the ship, a bright volume of flame was seen to burst forth from every part of the wreck. The pirate hurried on board, followed by his men. Two went on either side to work the oars; the others tended the halyards and sheet, while he stood at the helm. The ropes which secured the raft to the rock were cast off, the crew gave way with the oars, the sail was hoisted to catch a light northerly air, and a strong shove sent it gliding through the water at a rapid rate.

“Farewell, farewell,” exclaimed Zappa, turning round to gaze at the burning wreck. “No enemy can now boast that they have made a prize of the bark which has for so long been the terror of the seas, nor even of her shattered timbers. Long, long will it be before your like is met with again.”

The raft glided onward, guided by the flames. The light was seen far off by many eyes; but little wist they at the time that there was consuming the last remnant of the long much dreaded Sea Hawk.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

The bright sun at length arose, and as his warming rays fell on the raft, they served to cheer the hearts of the adventurers. The raft had made but little way, for the wind had failed them completely, and the sail had been lowered as totally useless, so that they had to depend entirely on their oars, to make progress towards the south, while the current still carried them along at a faster rate to the westward. The pirates were, as may be supposed, excessively anxious to get on shore as soon as possible, it mattered little to them where, because, while they remained afloat, they might, at any moment, be fallen in with by one of the vessels in pursuit of them; and even should they be met by any merchantman, they were perfectly unable to defend themselves, and should they be recognised, they would equally be delivered up to justice. So fast, however, did the current run, that it appeared very probable, not only that they would be carried far to the westward, but that they might pass the island altogether, and be obliged to attempt to gain another. Zappa spoke but little; his mind was troubled with many thoughts, though the present earnestly claimed his attention; he saw that if they could not fetch the island, their voyage would be much prolonged, and they would be exposed to many additional risks; and pointing this out to his men, he entreated them to exert themselves to the utmost. From the muttered words and growls he heard, he perceived that he must still be on his guard against them, for they had conceived the idea, he had no doubt, that if they could once free themselves of the ladies, whom they believed to be the origin of their disasters, they should no longer be pursued; but it did not occur to them, that unless the English lady was restored, in safety, to her friends, their case would in no way be bettered. Luckily, their intended victims did not understand them, and Zappa would not alarm them by warning them of what he had heard. He told Paolo to be on his guard, and kept his own weapons ready to be used at a moment’s notice. On went the raft, a thin pillar of smoke marking the spot whence it had been launched.

Zappa had been silent for some time.

“Nina,” he said at last, “you have endeavoured lately to induce me to quit the life I have hitherto led. Your persuasions have influenced me greatly, and I would now gladly follow your wishes; but, alas! all the wealth I possess in the world went down in the hold of the Sea Hawk, and I am now again a penniless adventurer. I could never consent to depend on you, even had you wealth to support me, and I shall therefore once more be driven to follow my old calling on the ocean. Not my own will, but fate, drives me to it.”

“Oh, no, no; neither fate nor necessity drives you to it!” exclaimed Nina. “Had the wealth, for which you mourn, not been lost, I would not have consented to use it. My brother and I have sufficient in our own country for all our wants; what is mine, surely is yours also.”

“And I have in my own power a sum which some would consider an ample fortune,” said Ada; “it is more, probably, than would have been demanded as my ransom, and yet I will gladly make it over to you, provided you quit for ever your lawless calling, and place your wife in safety in her native country.”

“Refuse the generous offer,” said Nina, rising from her seat, and placing her hand on his arm. “Do not be tempted to rob the fatherless orphan. We shall have enough, without depriving her of her property.”

“Peace, girl,” said the pirate. “I will not now further speak on the subject. It is folly to speak of the future when the present demands all our care.”

He spoke truly. His attention, while the conversation I have described was going forward, had been less occupied than was requisite during the last few minutes, in guiding the raft, and observing the direction in which she was drifting; when, looking up, he saw on the starboard side, at no great distance from them, a ledge of black rocks, whose heads were just flush with the water, which broke over them in a line of hissing foam, threatening to wreck the raft should it once be driven against them. The pirate urged his men to exertion, for every instant the raft drifted nearer and nearer the danger. All hands went to the oars, for they saw that by their own exertions alone could they hope to escape.

The end of the reef, which it was necessary to clear before they could be again in comparative safety, was still a considerable way off; and yet it seemed scarcely possible, at the rate at which the raft could be urged on, to avoid striking it. Never did Zappa more anxiously wish for a breeze to carry them clear; for though, to the inexperienced eye, the danger appeared but slight, he knew that, if the raft, for an instant, struck the ledge, it would be forced on to it by the current, then the slightest increase of wind would form waves which would quickly sweep them all off to destruction. So slight, however, was the surf, that, at a little distance, it had not been perceived; and even now, as Ada and Nina watched it, the expression of the countenances and the eager gestures of the men alone assured them of the risk to which they were exposed.

Several times Zappa had looked astern, in the hopes of seeing the signs of a breeze coming up in that direction.

“Ah, our good genius has not deserted us,” he exclaimed, at last. “Row on, my men—row on. The wind will come in time; but we must not slacken in our exertions till it reaches us.”

These encouraging words had their due effect; the crew, already beginning to weary, aroused themselves afresh, the raft glided on, her head turned off from the rocks; yet still she neared them, and the side almost touched the outer ones, when the voice of the chief was again heard.

“Hoist the sail, my men,” he exclaimed. “Be quick about it, and we are safe.”

The sail was hoisted, and bulging out with the first breath of the wind aided to keep the raft from the threatened danger. Again the wind fell, and they once more glided towards the rock; but a stronger puff came, and they rapidly increased their distance, till Zappa was able to steer on a parallel line with the reef, and they shortly had the satisfaction of seeing the dangerous point far astern. In this manner the greater part of the voyage was accomplished, and the day drew on; but still they were at some distance from the land.

The breeze, however, continued, and there was now little or no prospect of their passing the island, and drifting out to sea. They were about four miles off the nearest island, and were going at the rate of perhaps two knots an hour through the water, when, as Nina was watching the ever-changing countenance of the pirate, as troubled thoughts passed through his mind, she saw him start, and shading his eyes with his hand, cast an anxious glance towards the west. Long he looked, and as he, at length, turned his face once more towards her, she observed a fierceness in his eye and a stern frown on his brow, which at once aroused all her fears.

“I see that something is again amiss,” she said, looking timidly up at him. “Oh, tell me what it is has agitated you?”

“Look there,” he said. “A cause sufficient to make many a bold man, circumstanced as I am, tremble,” he replied, in a slow, determined tone, pointing, as he spoke, towards the north-west. “Do you see yonder stranger, which has just hove in sight?”

“I see the sails of a ship above the horizon. But what harm can she do to us?” said Nina. “If she sees us, and takes us on board, she will carry us to some land, whence we may proceed to Italy.”

“You forget that, to the hunted pirate, all men are enemies,” answered Zappa, bitterly. “I could not venture on board a merchant-vessel, without the risk of being recognised, and, if my eyes deceive me not, yonder craft is no peaceful trader, but rather a British ship of war.”

“Heaven forbid it,” exclaimed Nina. “But should she be, still the raft is so low in the water, that, at the distance we are off from her, we surely shall scarcely be recognised.”

“I wish that I could think so,” said Zappa; “but on board that craft there are numerous sharp eyes on the look out, and our sail may long since have been seen from her mast-heads. She is also, I well know, one of the very ships sent in chase of the Sea Hawk, and will not allow us to pass unquestioned.”

“Even should she be an enemy, are we not so near the shore that you may easily escape thither?” asked Nina, who was unwilling to acknowledge, even to herself, the danger to which Zappa was exposed.

“She is standing this way, and, by the manner in which her sails rise from the water, she is making rapid progress towards us,” murmured the pirate, speaking to himself rather than answering Nina’s question. “Ah! I know her now; and long ere we can reach the shore she will be upon us. Well, we will strive to the last. Fate may, for this once, favour us. The wind may fail, or, by chance, we may not be seen; and if, when I have done all that I can to escape, rather than be captured, to hang alongside those wretches I saw not long ago on the fortifications of Malta, I have but the brave man’s last resource to fly to, and the wave on which I have so long loved to float shall be my grave.”

Ada Garden had heard the previous part of the conversation with feelings between hope and fear. She trusted that the ship in sight was a friend; and yet she could not tell what effect it might have on the pirates when they discovered that such was the case. She deeply regretted, also, the fate which she feared might await Zappa, were he captured, notwithstanding the efforts she purposed to make to preserve his life, more certainly for Nina’s sake than for his own; yet she was grateful to him for the forbearance he had shown towards her.

It was an anxious time for her—indeed, the joy and satisfaction she would otherwise have felt at the thoughts of her own deliverance was much alloyed by grief for poor Nina, who, at the moment of realising her fondest hopes of reclaiming her husband, found them rudely torn from her.

The crew had not yet observed the stranger, as they were occupied at the oars, or tending the sail, and Zappa was unwilling to alarm them before it was necessary; for he knew their caitiff nature, and though ferocious enough when they were sure of victory, he could not now depend on their courage, and he thought that they were very likely, when they saw that all chance of escape was gone, to quit their oars, and refuse to exert themselves further.

On came the stranger till her hull rose out of the water, and the report of one of her guns was the first intimation the crew had of her vicinity. They all looked round with astonishment, not unmixed with terror; but the calm bearing of their chief reassured them.

“Bow on, my comrades,” he said. “That ship will not fire at us, and in another short hour we may be among our friends on shore.”

The stranger was, as she drew near, seen to be a brig of war, and the ensign which blew out from her peak showed her to be British.

“I know her,” he muttered in Romaic. “She is no other than the accursed Ione, which has already wrought me so much injury. To escape from her is hopeless, and naught remains for me but to execute my last resolve. Paolo, come here.” He now spoke in Italian. “You know well how to steer, so take the helm and keep the raft for yonder headland.”

Paolo came aft and took the pirate’s place at the helm, who, putting his hand on his arm, continued in a whisper, “Now show your manhood, for to you I commit the charge of those men. Save their lives, if you can; and you yourself, with the testimony your sister and yon fair girl can give, will run no hazard. Say that Zappa refused to fall alive into the hands of his enemies, and bravely met the fate he had awarded to so many. Farewell.”

Whether the act of giving up the helm to Paolo, or the expression of the pirate’s countenance, made Nina suspect his intentions, she herself could scarcely tell, but her eye was upon him, while her limbs shook with dread, and, just as he was about to take the fatal leap from the raft, she sprung up, and grasped him convulsively by the arm, while her brother seized him on the other side, so that, without running the risk of upsetting the raft, or dragging them both into the water, he could not execute his dreadful purpose.

“You shall not—you shall not!” exclaimed Nina, trembling in an agony of fear, and scarcely able to utter the words she wished to speak. “Commit not so dire a crime, or fill the cup to the brim, and drag me with you. In destroying yourself, you slay me likewise.”

As the unhappy girl said this she clung to him, endeavouring to draw him to the centre of the raft.

Ada had been afraid of leaving her seat, for she saw the risk to which all were exposed by the struggle, and that the weight of another person thrown on the spot might complete the catastrophe, though her agitation was scarcely inferior to that exhibited by Nina.

“Stay, stay, signor,” she exclaimed—“before you commit the impious deed you threaten, listen to me. You would seek a certain death, and certain punishment in another world, to avoid the risk you run of meeting it at the hands of my countrymen in this—now listen to me. I have already promised Nina to intercede in your behalf, and I now solemnly vow to you to employ every means in my power to preserve your life, and I feel almost certain of success. A petition made by me under the circumstances of the case will, I am confident, be attended to, and you may yet enjoy many years of happiness with one who is so well able to afford it you.”

“Lady,” said Zappa, “again you have conquered me. Unworthy as I am to live, I accept life at your hands, and confide in your promise, though something tells me it will avail me but little. Nina, you need not thus so fearfully clasp my arm. I will not attempt to escape you, girl.”

As he said this, he allowed himself to be led forward by Nina, and sat himself down on a chest, where he remained for some minutes with his face buried in his hands, and bent down on his knees. Paolo steered as he had been directed, and as the raft had for some time passed all the rocks and shoals to be feared, the task was not difficult. Ada, meantime, watched anxiously, the approach of the English brig; but the wind, she thought, was lighter than it had been, for the distance between them did not appear to decrease so rapidly as at first, and as she looked alternately from the brig to the shore, she thought that there was more than a probability of their reaching it before they were overtaken. The pirate seemed indifferent to his fate, but he was once more aroused to exertion by a shout from his men, and guided by what they said, he turned his eyes towards the shore, whence, from behind the headland towards which they were steering, the long low hull of a mistico was seen stealing forth, with her pointed lateen sails hauled close on a wind.

“The Zoe, the Zoe,” shouted the pirates. “Our comrades come to our assistance.”

There could be little doubt that the mistico in sight was the Zoe.

“But is she manned by our friends?” thought Zappa, whose suspicions were keenly alive to treachery. “If she were, would she thus venture out in the very face of an enemy?” The men, however, seemed convinced that she came as a friend, and welcomed her with every extravagant sign of joy. Though so near them, she had to make several tacks before she could reach them, whereas the brig of war, being before the wind, came down steadily towards them, and was rapidly approaching within range of her guns. Zappa watched them both. The mistico was manned by Greeks, for their picturesque costume was easily distinguishable, but he was not certain that they were friends; and far rather would he have fallen into the hands of the English, than into the power of his own countrymen. Should he continue his course, and should they prove enemies, the moment he was recognised would probably be his last, and those with him would be sacrificed; but, on the other hand, if he lowered the sail and attempted to pull up to the brig, he might lose the chance of saving himself and his followers. He saw the risk of having to trust to the clemency of the British authorities, whom he had so often, by his misdeeds, offended. He was decided on continuing his course by seeing the mistico get out her sweeps, and from the point where she then was, she could lay almost up for them. In a short time all doubt was at an end, well-known faces were recognised on board, and greetings, loud and frequent, were exchanged between them. A universal cry of sorrow was uttered as the loss of their favourite Sea Hawk was announced, though their chief was warmly welcomed, as they saw that he was among those saved, and no mutinous feeling was perceptible among them. The sail was lowered, and he raft was soon alongside the mistico. The crew jumped on board, and pointing to the approaching brig, urged their friends to instant flight, but Zappa still remained with the rest.

“Lady,” he said, addressing Ada, “I leave you here, whence you will speedily be rescued by your own countrymen, and to your charge also I leave this poor girl; you will, I feel assured, see her safely restored to her country and her home; and Nina, listen to me; should I succeed in escaping my enemies, I will join you there, and in peace and safety forget the dangers we have passed.”

“Listen, Nina,” said Ada. “You cannot serve him by accompanying him, while with me you will speedily, I trust, be in safety.”

“What, leave him now in danger and in difficulty!” she exclaimed. “No, no, I am not so light of feeling as to do that. Farewell, sweet lady. You have loaded me with a debt of gratitude I cannot hope to repay.”

She stooped as she spoke, and kissed Ada’s brow, then sprang back towards Zappa, who was stepping on board the mistico, for the pirates loudly summoned him, and with good cause, for at that moment another square-rigged vessel was seen coming round the east end of the island. Nina was in time to clasp the pirate’s arm.

“Oh, take me with you!” she cried. “Your lot I will share, your fate shall be mine.”

He clasped her round the waist, and seizing the stay of the mast, leaped with her on board. Paolo stood irresolute a moment. He looked at Ada, she turned her face from him. He saw his sister among the pirates. He recollected his devoted love for her, and the sacrifice she had already made, besides which he felt the hopelessness of his passion, and just as the raft was being cast off, he followed her on board the mistico.

The next moment Ada Garden found herself the only occupant of the raft, drifting on the face of the water.

Chapter Forty.

The Ione had in vain chased the Sea Hawk. She had examined every island in her course, and searched in every bay and nook, and behind every rock and headland, but the pirate still evaded her, till captain, officers, and men were almost worn out with their labours. Fleetwood, it may be supposed, did not save himself, and it could scarcely be expected that he should allow his officers to do so; in truth, however, every man and boy on board was almost as eager in the pursuit as he was, and fatiguing as it was, never was any duty performed more willingly, though, as they could relieve each other, they were not so much exhausted with fatigue. Night and day he was on deck, and it was with difficulty he could be persuaded to take any food or rest, expecting, as he did, that the next few hours would place the Sea Hawk in his power. Thus day after day passed away. Sometimes a sail hove in sight, and they stood after her in chase, but only to come up with her to find that she was some English trader to the Bosphorus, or Greek man-of-war, of perhaps little less doubtful character than the Sea Hawk herself. The inhabitants of the islands either knew nothing about her, or would give no information, nor could any clue be obtained from any craft they fell in with; so at last Captain Fleetwood resolved to return south again, keeping close along by the Greek coast, to examine the dense group of islands and islets of which I have spoken.

The wind had been light all night, and the Ione had made little progress; but as the morning broke a breeze sprang up from the northward, and she hauled in a little to fetch the easternmost of the islands, among which she was about to cruise. A Greek pilot had been taken on board on the Zone’s first entering the Archipelago. He was a clever old fellow, and he undertook to carry the ship in safety through all the dangers with which she would be surrounded. Zappa had once plundered a ship of which he had charge, and he was doubly anxious to get hold of him. All the officers were on deck with telescopes in hand, sweeping the horizon, while the captain, as was his custom every hour, had just gone aloft with his glass to take a wider sweep, and to assure himself, with his own eyes, whether any sail was or was not in sight.

“Poor fellow,” said Linton, “I am afraid the captain will never live through it. He is worn almost to a skeleton, and he looks as if a fever were consuming him. Should anything dreadful have occurred, I am afraid it will kill him when he hears of it.”

“I fear so too, and it would be the last way I should wish to gain my commission,” said Saltwell, with much feeling. “I wish to Heaven we could fall in with this phantom rover.”

“It takes a great deal of worry to kill a man,” observed the doctor, who had no great faith in the effect of any but physical causes on the body, the consequences of a limited medical education, though he was a very fair surgeon. “If he persists in going without food and sleep, of course he will grow thin.”

“That’s very well for you to say, doctor; but when a man’s heart is sick he can’t eat,” answered Linton. “It is the uncertainty of the thing is killing him. Let him once find the young lady, and he will pluck up fast enough; or, let him know the worst, and, as he is a man and a Christian, he will bear his affliction like one, I’ll answer for him.”

“Deck, ahoy!” hailed the captain, from aloft. “Keep her away one point more to the southward.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Saltwell, and every telescope was pointed in the direction the ship was now steering.

Nothing, however, was to be seen from the deck; but the captain still kept at the mast-head with his glass, intently watching some object still below the horizon. At last he descended, and summoned the pilot, with the first lieutenant and master, into his cabin, where a chart was spread out on the table.

“And we may stand safely on towards that island on our present course without fear of rocks or shoals, pilot?” he asked.

The answer was in the affirmative.

“There is a strong current setting from the eastward, you say, and you have known many vessels wrecked attempting the passage? Then, Mr Saltwell, pack all sail on the brig. There is a large boat, or a raft, with a square sail, to the south-east of us, which we will overhaul without delay.”

Royals and studding-sails, alow and aloft, were now set, and away the Ione flew before the breeze. Now the wind fell, and now it freshened; but the brig gained rapidly on the chase, which, by the little way it made, was soon suspected of being a raft. Then came all the horrible doubts and fears, naturally suggested to Fleetwood’s mind—but we will not dwell on them.

“Sail, ho!” sung out the hand at the foremast-head.

“A felucca-looking craft right under the land ahead of us,” was the answer to the usual questions.

Saltwell himself went aloft to ascertain more clearly her character, and soon returned with the report that she was a mistico beating up for the raft.

“She will be up to it, too, sir, I am afraid, long before we can reach it,” he observed. “Shall we get a gun ready to fire, sir?”

“In mercy’s name, no!” exclaimed Fleetwood. “We do not know what innocent people might be injured.”

“I meant to fire at the mistico, sir,” said the lieutenant. “She is, I am certain, a piratical craft, and if those on the raft are of the same kidney, she will assist them to escape; or if not, her people will rob and murder them under our very eyes.”

“You forget, Mr Saltwell, that we cannot be certain of that craft being a pirate, and till we are, we have no right to fire,” said the captain. “Besides, our shot might strike the raft, or the pirates, if such they are, might fire on it in revenge.”

The cry of “a sail on the larboard bow” interrupted the conversation, and, as the glasses were turned in the direction indicated, the sails of a lofty ship were seen appearing above a headland, which ran out from the east end of the small island which lay before them. The mistico could not yet see the stranger, so she stood on fearlessly towards the raft. The people on the raft were then seen to quit it, and to go on board the mistico, which directly kept away, and ran to the westward, evidently to avoid the stranger which she must have just then seen for the first time.

The ship made the number of the Venus, and after standing on some little time, tacked and stood towards the Ione. The mistico, it must be understood, was now about a mile from the shore, and little more than the same distance from the west end of the island, while the Ione was another mile to windward of her, so that if she sailed well, she might easily get round the point, and then by keeping away among the cluster of islands and rocks further to the south, very likely escape altogether.

To avoid this, Fleetwood made the signal to the Venus to bear up and run round to the south end of the island, to intercept the chase, trusting to his senior officer following his wishes. Old Rawson was not a man to stand on etiquette, and if a midshipman had signalised him he would have obeyed the order, and he instantly put up his helm, and ran back again out of sight, though the mistico was already too far to the westward to profit by the change by dodging round in the same direction.

“We must leave the raft to take its chance, sir, while we chase the mistico, I suppose,” asked Saltwell.

“Yes, by all means—haul up a couple of points on the starboard tack.”

“Port the helm. Larboard fore braces. Starboard after braces,” cried Saltwell.

“Avast,” exclaimed Captain Fleetwood, who had been looking at the raft through his glass. “Starboard the helm again. Keep her as she was. The Venus will look after the mistico. There is some one on the raft. It is the figure of a female, and by heavens she is waving to us. It is, it must be—”

His agitation was so great, that he was obliged to support himself on Saltwell’s arm, who sprang to his side to catch him, thinking that he was about to fall to the deck.

The brig ran on till she neared the raft, a boat was lowered—her captain threw himself into it. He was speedily alongside the raft; in another moment Ada Garden lay fainting in his arms, overcome with excess of joy and gratitude to Heaven, and love for him, who had rescued her. Thus he bore her up the side of his ship, and was about to carry her below when the report of a gun was heard booming along the water. It seemed to have the effect of arousing Ada; for at that instant she opened her eyes, and gazing into her lover’s face as she pressed the hand which clasped hers, she whispered—

“Oh, do not let them kill him, Charles. For his sake, for he treated me well; for the sake of that poor girl—spare him—I promised him. Oh, hasten to save him!”

Her earnestness might have made a less sensible man jealous; but Fleetwood knew her too well, and loved her too well, to have any other idea than the true one, that she was anxious to fulfil a promise to the letter, and in the spirit with which it was received.

“I will do my utmost, dearest,” he answered; “I will do all you can wish, but I know not whence that gun can have come; for the Venus has gone round the other side of the island. Keep her after the mistico, Mr Saltwell, and hoist a white flag at the fore, to show her we mean her no harm. Fire a gun also away from her to draw her attention, and she will perhaps stand back towards us.”

These orders were given as he stood at the top of the companion-ladder before he conveyed Ada into his cabin, where little Marianna, almost out of her senses with delight, was arranging a sofa on which to place her. She again went off into a fainting fit, during which, while Marianna was searching for restoratives, and the surgeon was making his appearance, Fleetwood, as he knelt by her side, and called on her name, could not resist the temptation of bestowing many a kiss on her fair brow and lips, while he pressed her cold hands within his. The remedy was efficacious—perhaps Marianna thought it would be so, by the long time she was in procuring any other, as probably did the surgeon; for Ada had opened her eyes, and was able to sit up before he entered the cabin with the implements of his calling under his arm, which he had brought, not that he expected there would be any use for them, but as a plausible excuse for his dilatoriness.

At length, however, Captain Fleetwood tore himself away from Ada’s side, and left her to the exclusive care of the surgeon and her maid, while he hurried on deck to endeavour to overtake the mistico before she got under the guns of his consort, who, of course, was not likely to treat her with the leniency he had undertaken to do. A generous man, when he gets an enemy, especially a personal enemy, possessed of courage or any other noble quality, into his power, has a pride and satisfaction in pardoning him, and shielding him from punishment, and such was very much the feeling which animated Fleetwood, when he endeavoured to induce Zappa to return under the guns of the Ione. The pirate had certainly been, to him, a very great enemy, but he had been an open and bold one; he had caused him much misery and suffering, both bodily and mental, yet he had behaved with forbearance towards those in his power, and now that his beloved Ada was once more in safety, Fleetwood felt not only willing, but anxious, to preserve him. When he reached the deck he soon ascertained from whence the firing had proceeded, for another vessel had appeared on the scene. She was a brig, which had evidently come round the south side of the island, and was now rather more than three miles to leeward, standing up towards the unfortunate mistico, which she had just got under her guns. The mistico was by this time nearly two miles from the Ione, and with her sheets eased off, was standing along close in shore, with the hopes of getting round the west end of the island, and thus again away to the eastward, inside of her new enemy, not knowing that the Venus had already gone round there to intercept her.

“What brig is that, Mr Saltwell?” asked the captain, as he came on deck, his countenance expressing very different emotions from any which had appeared there for many a long day.

“She carries the Greek colours, sir, and we make her out to be our old friend the Ypsilante. I think she can be no other,” was the answer.

“It is her, there can be no doubt,” said Fleetwood; “but I wish my friend Captain Vassilato would understand our signal. I am afraid that he will destroy the mistico and kill those on board before we can get up to her.”

“There can be little to regret in that, sir,” said Saltwell. “It will save the hangman some work, if he sends them all to the bottom together.”

“You would not say so, Mr Saltwell, I am sure, did you know that there is an unfortunate girl on board, the wife of the pirate, who has rendered great service to Miss Garden, as well as her brother, a young Italian, whom I am most anxious to save, as I am also the pirate himself,” answered Fleetwood.

“Then I am sure, sir, every one on board will be most anxious to second your wishes,” said the first lieutenant. “And allow me, in the name of the officers and the ship’s company, to congratulate you, Captain Fleetwood, on the fortunate issue of our adventures in the recovery of Miss Garden. We all feel as we ought to feel—the most sincere joy and satisfaction at your happiness, and, perhaps, you’ll understand what we want to express without my making a longer speech about it, but the fact is, we haven’t had time to cut and dry one, and I didn’t like to put off saying this longer than we could help.”

“And I, on my part, must not lose a moment in thanking you, Mr Saltwell, and the officers and ship’s company, for the zeal and perseverance you have exhibited on this very trying occasion,” returned Captain Fleetwood, putting out his hand and pressing that of his first lieutenant, warmly. “You have all done me the greatest service any men could render another, and I am most sincerely grateful to you all. Pray say this to all hands, for I cannot now more publicly express my feelings. We must settle some way to mark the day as a bright one on board, but we shall have time to think about that by-and-by, and we must now see how the mistico gets on.”

It promised to fare badly enough with the unfortunate mistico. Either Zappa did not see, or did not comprehend, the Ione’s signal, for instead of attending to it, he continued running down the west shore of the island, directly into the jaws of the Greek; but he reckoned probably that he should be able to hug the shore so close that she could not come near him, and he then hoped, it seemed, to get away among the rocks and reefs to the southward, where she could not venture to follow. This the Greek was equally resolved to prevent her doing, and no sooner had she got her within range of the guns, than she opened the fire of her whole broadside on her.

Though she had not seen the people getting on board from the raft, she had no doubt of her character, and seemed determined to award her the pirate’s fate. The Ypsilante, it must be understood, was on the starboard tack, with her head about north-west, while the mistico was running about south, and about to haul up as soon as she could round the island on the larboard tack, so that the attempt to escape was not altogether so hopeless as might at first have appeared, had not the Venus gone round to intercept her. Zappa, of course, recognised the Ypsilante, and, knowing that her gunnery was not first-rate, he probably hoped that, as she could not venture into the shoal water, where the mistico was, she would not knock away any of his spars, and that he might manage to escape clear of her. The wind, however, as the two vessels approached each other, came more from the eastward, and at the same time fell considerably, thus exposing the mistico much longer to the fire of the brig, which now opened upon her at the same time with musketry. Several of the shot had told with dire effect, and those on board the Ione could perceive that many of the pirates had been killed or wounded. At last a round shot struck the mainmast, and down came the mainsail on deck. The pirates, seeing that all hopes of escaping in the vessel were gone, were observed to leap overboard in an endeavour to gain the shore by swimming, in which many of them succeeded, though some in the attempt were swept out by the current, which still set to the westward, and sunk to rise no more.

The mistico, deprived of the guiding power of the helm, and without any after sail, ran off the shore before the wind, in the direction the current was likewise drifting her. She thus passed at no great distance from the Ione, which had reached her too late to prevent the catastrophe. Captain Fleetwood, and all on board, were anxiously watching her as she drew near them. On her deck two forms only were seen. Near the shattered mainmast lay the pirate Zappa; the hue of death was on his countenance, and his side, torn and mangled by a round-shot, told that he was beyond all human help. He was not deserted in his utmost need. The unhappy Nina, faithful even to death, knelt over him. His hand was locked in hers. Her eyes watched the last faint gleam of animation which passed over those much-loved features. She recked not of her own agony, for a purple stream issuing from her neck, told where a bullet had done its fatal work on her.

In vain she tried to conceal it from her husband. It was the last sight he beheld, and it added to his dying pangs to know that she also had suffered for his crimes. Once more he opened his eyes, now growing dim with the shades of death. He beheld the look of unutterable love fixed on him, and in that, his last moment, he understood what he had before so little prized. He attempted to press her hand, but his strength failed him in the effort, his fingers relaxed their hold, and Nina, wildly calling on his name, received no answering look in return. Again and again she called, then with an agonised scream, which was heard even on board the ships of war, and which made the hearts of the rough seamen sink within them, so fearful did it sound, she fell prostrate across the lifeless body of the pirate.

The Ione soon ran close to the mistico, and a boat being lowered, Fleetwood leaped into it, and went on board her, accompanied by the surgeon, who had discovered that Miss Garden had very little occasion for the exercise of his skill. They lifted up poor Nina, but they had come too late to save, for death had kindly released her from the misery which would too probably have been her future lot. Fleetwood, believing that it would gratify Ada, had the bodies carried on board the Ione, to be interred on shore; and as no other had been found on her decks, the pirates had probably thrown their slain comrades overboard. He searched in vain for Paolo Montifalcone; he could scarcely believe that he would have deserted his sister at such a moment, and he was fain to conclude that he had been among those killed by the first broadside of the Greek brig. She had hove too close in shore, and had sent her boats in chase of the fugitive pirates, but none of them were overtaken.

The two brigs then ran round to meet the Venus, when Captain Rawson ordered the Zoe to be burnt in sight of the island, as a warning to its piratical inhabitants.

It was proposed by Captain Vassilato to make an expedition inland, to hunt them up; but Captain Rawson considered that it would not be worth the loss of time, as their chief was killed, observing that, after all, they were, probably, not much worse than a large proportion of their fellow-islanders, and as their vessel was destroyed, they could do no more harm, for the present.

The three vessels then made sail for the island of Lissa, where the Vesta had just before arrived.

The seamen and marines, who had formed the garrison, were then ordered to embark on board their respective ships, first having dismantled the rude fortifications, and tumbled all the guns over the cliffs.

The bodies of Nina and the pirate chief were conveyed on shore, in two coffins, and buried, side by side, in a green spot, under the shade of the only remaining tower, which, to this day stands as a monument to their memory.

The island, where so many of the stirring events I have described took place, is once more silent and deserted, except by a few harmless fishermen, among whom, however, the name and deeds of the famous pirate, Zappa, and his stranger bride, are not forgotten; and, as they point to their graves, they say her spirit may be seen in bodily form, on calm moonlight nights, standing on the summit of the cliff, watching for the bark to convey her to her distant home.

Colonel Gauntlett’s delight on getting on board the Ione, and finding his niece in safety, and with the hue of health once more returning to her cheek, showed the affection he felt for her. He wrung Fleetwood’s hand warmly.

“I have done you and your profession a wrong,” he exclaimed, as he did so; “and I am not ashamed to own it. From what I have seen of you and your brother-officers since this work has been going forward, I am convinced that there are as fine fellows in the British navy as there are in the army; and while both remain firm and loyal to their sovereign and their country, as I am sure they ever will, we may defy the world in arms against us. But to the point—as you, Miss Ada, happen to prefer a blue jacket to a scarlet one, however much I might, when I was a youngster, have pitied your taste, egad, you have chosen so fine a fellow inside it, that I promise, when I slip my cable (as he would say), to leave you and him every rap I possess; for from what I have seen of him, I am very certain that he loves you for yourself (which, by the bye, shows his good taste), and does not care one pinch of snuff for the gold he knows that I am reputed to possess.”

Ada, on this, threw her arms round her uncle’s neck, and thanked him over and over again for his kindness; while Fleetwood assured him, with a frank honesty which could not be mistaken, that he only spoke the truth, and that he intended to have done his best to marry her with or without his consent, though he expected to forfeit every chance of getting a penny with her.

The Ione touched at Cephalonia on her voyage to Malta, where the colonel found that, as he was supposed to be lost, another officer had been appointed to his post. This, however, was much to his satisfaction, as he was anxious to return to England to make arrangements for the marriage of his niece.

On reaching Malta, the Ione was ordered home; and as Ada was not yet his wife, Fleetwood was able to carry her and her uncle to England, where, without the usual vexatious delays, his happiness was soon after completed.

Of our characters, all I can say is, that most of our naval friends got on in their profession, and that the greater number are now post captains.

After the conclusion of the Greek war, in which he greatly distinguished himself, Captain Teodoro Vassilato paid a visit to England to see his old friends, Captain and Mrs Fleetwood, and he is now an influential person in his native country.

Our honest friend, Captain Bowse, must not be forgotten. He returned to England in the Ione, and soon supplied the loss of the Zodiac with an equally fine brig, in which he made numerous voyages to all parts of the world, and was able to lay by, for his old age, a comfortable independence, which, I am happy to say, he still enjoys.

At the end of nearly every voyage, he used to run down to pay a visit to Captain and Mrs Fleetwood, at their place in Hampshire; and, on one occasion, he persuaded the lady to allow him to take her eldest boy, who was a little sickly, a short summer cruise.

Young Charles was so delighted with his trip, that nothing would satisfy him till he was allowed to enter his father’s noble profession, to which he promises to be an ornament, and is now a lieutenant of two years’ standing. Among other accomplishments, he is a first-rate hand at spinning a yarn, and often amuses his shipmates with an account of his father’s adventures in chase of the Sea Hawk.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Prime Minister"

Having resolved to employ myself, during a prolonged residence in Portugal, in writing some work of fiction on that country, it struck me that the Times of the Marquis of Pombal would afford a good subject, untouched, as it is, by any other author. For a considerable time I delayed commencing my undertaking, almost in despair of finding the necessary materials. I wrote frequently to Lisbon to procure information, and mentioned my purpose to several Portuguese friends, who, at length, put at my disposal all the documents they possess relating to the private history of their families. From them I have composed the following work.

I enjoyed, also, free access to the public Library at Oporto, a magnificent establishment, containing many thousand volumes, in all languages. Nor must I omit to mention the courteous attention I received from Senhor Gandra, the chief Librarian, in aiding me in my search for the works I required. Here I found several valuable volumes, in French and Italian, relating to the administration of the Marquis of Pombal, and the intrigues of the Jesuits; and some, in Portuguese, giving an account of the earthquake.

The Library is established in a large building, formerly the Convent of S. Lazaro, the principal room vying in size and elegance with any of which the first cities in Europe can boast. There are, also, numerous other apartments, occupying the entire floor of the edifice, now crowded with books, which it will take many years to arrange.

My history commences in the summer of 1755, the year of the great earthquake of Lisbon, some time before which period, the weak, bigoted, and profligate King John the Fifth of Portugal, after allowing his country to sink into a state bordering on ruin, had finished his pernicious reign, and worthless life, being succeeded by his son, Joseph the First.

Though in the character of Joseph there appears to have been, in some respects, but a slight improvement over that of his father, he was certainly less superstitious; while he possessed the valuable quality of appreciating the talents of others, which caused him to select as his adviser, Sebastiaö Joseph de Carvalho, afterwards created Marquis of Pombal, one of the most energetic men his country has ever produced. Carvalho was now at the head of the administration, and had begun that system of reform, (which ended but with his fall from power,) although he had not then succeeded in gaining that implicit confidence of his sovereign which he afterwards possessed. For the particulars of the history and state of the country antecedent to the time I speak of, I refer my readers to the introduction to the “Memoirs of Pombal,” lately published, written by the Secretary to the Marquis of Saldanha, Mr Smith, though in many points I differ from that gentleman in the view he takes of the great Minister’s character and actions.

The Marquis of Saldanha is a descendant of Pombal; and his Secretary has naturally been biassed in favour of his patron’s ancestor. The only book he appears to have consulted, besides the documents in the State Paper Office, is that above-mentioned, which I have before me, in Portuguese, though written originally in French, by an admirer of the Minister. Mr Smith’s work did not reach me at Oporto, until my own manuscript had been forwarded to England; which circumstance I mention, to exonerate myself from any appearance of ingratitude in speaking thus of a person of whose labours I might be supposed to have taken advantage. When any similarity appears, we have drawn from the same source.

To excuse the barbarous executions of some of the first nobility in Portugal, Mr Smith says, that some of equal cruelty have taken place in France and Germany. To show that the complaints made by the victims of the Minister’s iron policy, who crowded the prisons, were unjust, he cites a memoir, in manuscript, written in prison, by the unfortunate Marquis d’Alorna, who, he says, makes querulous complaints of not having his linen changed sufficiently often, though he had frequent intercourse with his family.

I have perused an exact copy of the MS. Mr Smith has seen, if not the identical one. In it, the unhappy Marquis speaks indignantly of the dark, narrow, and damp cell which was his abode in the Junguiera prison for many years, he being scarcely supplied with the common necessaries of life, while the Marchioness was confined in some other equally wretched place, separated from her children, who were distributed in different convents. The husband states that he received one letter from his wife, written with her left hand, she having lost the use of her right side from a rheumatic complaint, brought on by the dampness of her lodging. A year or so afterwards another reached him, written by holding the pen in her mouth, she having then lost the use of both her hands. This was the sort of free intercourse the Minister allowed, and, it must be remembered, neither were found guilty of any crime. The Marquis mentions the history of many of his fellow-prisoners, several of whom died in prison; and, he states, after some years’ confinement, by means of bribes, they were able to obtain some communication with their friends from without. In the body of the work will be found many details from the MSS. I have spoken of.

Mr Smith does not inform his readers, when mentioning the outbreak at Oporto, in consequence of the formation of the obnoxious Wine Company, that not only the wine-sellers rose up in arms, but that the wine-growers, who, it was pretended, were to be benefited, marched into Oporto, and demanded its abolition; nor that, when the troops arrived from Lisbon to quell the revolt, the city was given up to their unbridled license, the chief magistrate and sixteen principal citizens having been executed, while the prisons were crowded with others.

Once established, with its blood-stained charter, a post in the Company was considered one of the most valuable rewards the Minister could bestow for services performed for him, his own immense fortune having been acquired, indirectly, through that very Company. Mr Smith affirms that the wealth to which the Minister’s eldest son succeeded was left him by various members of his family; but, as his family were universally known to be poor, such it is difficult to believe was the case. Mr Beckford, in his Diary in Portugal, laughs at the young Count, for having endeavoured, during the whole course of a morning visit, to persuade him that his father had never attempted to amass a fortune. Pombal, on retiring from office, left the treasury rich; but that is no proof that he had not taken care to supply his own chests by any means which he considered justifiable. One can scarcely wonder at his acting as was so generally the custom.

The aim of these Memoirs of Pombal is to throw a halo of glory over his life and actions, of which he was undeserving. The Minister is compared in them, as he was fond of comparing himself, to Sully. I do not make these observations unjustly to depreciate this work; but that I may not be accused of unfairly portraying a man whose really great qualities I duly appreciate; nor have I described him as performing one action that is not well authenticated. I am not a greater friend to the system of the Jesuits than is Mr Smith; but do not wish to abuse them for the sake of exhibiting the Minister in brighter colours.

Pombal, like Napoleon, was never prevented from doing what he considered necessary to forward his own views either political or private, by any laws, human or divine. His motto was, Quid volo quid jubeo.

March, 1845.

Volume One—Chapter One.

Joyous and sparkling waves were leaping up from the deep blue expanse of the vast Atlantic, as if to welcome a gallant vessel, which glided rapidly onward in all the pride of beauty. Her broad spread of white canvass, extended alow and aloft, shining brightly in the sunbeams; she looked like a graceful swan, a being of life and instinct, floating on the waste of waters, her head turned towards the coast of fair Lusitania; her bourne, from which she was as yet far distant, being the majestic Tagus. A fresh summer breeze filled her swelling sails, now favouring her like friendship in prosperity, but which would, probably, when the sun sank beneath the ocean, fall away, as friends too often do from those whose sun has set in adversity. A broad white flag emblazoned with the arms of Portugal, floating from her peak, and the long pendants which fluttered from her mastheads, showed that she belonged to the royal navy of that country; and, by the number of guns she carried, she appeared to be a well-armed vessel of her class; but the abundance of gilding and bright paint with which she was in every part decorated, betokened her to be intended more for show or pleasure, than for the rough work of actual service. She was a ship very similar to what we now call a corvette, having a single battery of long heavy guns, and a high-raised deck at the aftermost part, on which was placed an armament of small brass pieces and swivel-guns, with a few pieces of the same calibre on her topgallant-forecastle; so that, although her purposes might in general have been peaceful, she was, if properly manoeuvred, fully able to make a stout resistance against any vessel under the class of a large frigate.

Several persons were walking the deck, one of whom, by the air of undisputed authority which sat well upon him, as he paced the starboard side, was evidently the commander; and near him appeared a young and handsome man in the costume of a civilian; while the rest of the party, who kept respectfully on the opposite side of the ship, were composed of the lieutenants and other officers belonging to her.

The young man had for some time been standing on the break of the poop, leaning over the rail, and eagerly looking out in the direction towards which the ship was bending her course; his thoughts, perhaps, far outstripping his own tardy progress, and rejoicing in the happiness of again meeting parents, kindred, or friends; or it may have been, that some feelings yet more tender occupied his bosom. He was aroused from his reveries, whatever might have been their tenour, by a no very gentle touch on the back; and, turning round, he beheld the captain of the ship. “What, my young friend!” said the latter, in a clear, cheerful tone of voice, “not yet tired of gazing on the dark blue line of the horizon, as if you expected to see the shores of Lusitania leap out of the water by magic, and would fain not miss the first view of our loved home? Well! well! Such is youth, always eager and enthusiastic, fancying itself near its object, though as yet far distant, and, like a young puppy, or a baby, unable to measure distances, till, by constant practice, and by many a fall, it has learned to discover the true situations of objects.”

The speaker was a man who had somewhat passed the meridian of life, his hair already turning grey, and his good-natured, well-formed features considerably furrowed and bronzed by exposure to hot climes and stormy weather.

“What, Senhor Pinto, shall we not see the land to-day?” inquired the youth, in a tone of disappointment. “I thought we were close to it, and have been looking out for it all the morning.”

“So I have observed,” answered the Captain, “but was unwilling to break down unnecessarily all those castles in the air which I saw you so busily occupied in building; however, I must now tell you that, from the thick weather and fogs which have for so many days attended us, we are rather out of our reckoning; and it was early this morning we discovered, by an observation, that we are yet considerably to the northward of our latitude.”

“How tantalising!” returned the youth. “I had hoped that by this hour to-morrow we should have been safely moored in the Tagus.”

“Hope! Ah, ’tis a feeling in which youth may sometimes indulge with advantage, as it oft carries him through difficulties and disappointments, on his first setting out on the voyage of life, which might otherwise have made him turn back into harbour; but it often, too, proves a sad ignis fatuus, and, like a false light to the mariner, leads him on to quicksands and rocks, where it leaves him in the lurch. Now, an old sailor like myself is not to be deceived; and it is long since I gave up hoping; consequently, I am never led astray by such false lights. I find the surest way of being contented is, never to expect anything, and I then can never be disappointed, but receive as a Godsend, and be thankful for, each piece of luck that falls in my way. That is what I call philosophy.”

“But, my dear sir!” returned the other, with animation, “you thus stifle one of the most noble, the most glorious principles of our nature, the very mainspring of our actions, without which we should weakly yield to the first blast of misfortune which assailed us; it supports the lover in his long absence from his mistress, the prisoner in his dungeon, the mother watching o’er her child, the sick man on his bed of suffering: ’twas hope which a kind Heaven bestowed on man when sin and death were introduced into the world, to prevent his sinking into abject dejection. Take all else from me, but teach me not to cease to hope.”

“Nay, nay, my dear Don Luis, you misunderstand me; I would not deprive you of that which you so warmly cherish on any account,” returned Captain Pinto; “I wish merely to warn you that the object of your hopes may be like one of those beautiful islands we used to hear of, covered with glittering temples and palaces of crystal, but with which no cruiser ever came up, though some have sailed half round the globe, thinking each day they must drop an anchor in one of their tempting harbours. I’ve seen such sights in my time, but I never altered my course for them, and never intend to do so.”

“Ah, you can never, then, have experienced the glowing, eager sensation of hope almost accomplished,” exclaimed Don Luis earnestly, “when a few more days or hours will place the longed-for object within your power.”

“Pardon me, but I have though,” interrupted Captain Pinto; “but that was years ago, and I then found that the picture I had conjured up always far surpassed the reality. You forget that I too was once young, and experienced all the sensations in which you now rejoice; but it is age which has taught me how fallacious they are, and I can no more be deceived by them. Now, I dare say you, in your heart, think me a sullen old fellow, who delights in conjuring up in the horizon dark clouds, to overcast the bright blue sky under which you bask; but you must remember I am an old seaman, who have spent the best half of a century on the troubled ocean in all seas and climes, and that, like a good master, I would teach you to be prepared for the tempests and rough seas you must encounter, and to avoid the hidden rocks and sandbanks which lie in your course.”

“Thanks, thanks, my good sir; I understand your motives,” answered Don Luis; “but I confess that I would rather you should not now darken my horizon with either false or real clouds: it is too temptingly bright and beautiful not to wish it so to remain.”

“Well, I will give you no more lessons to-day,” answered Captain Pinto; “you have had as much as you can bear at one time; for I fear that you are no very apt scholar. But to show you the advantage of not hoping and fretting yourself to death for what there is little chance of obtaining, here am I, upwards of fifty, a hale hearty fellow, though I have only just now got the command of this little toy of a nutshell, with which I am as contented as if I was captain of a line-of-battle ship, and think myself very fortunate to have her; for if that great man Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho had not become one of the King’s ministers, I should still have been an humble second lieutenant, and might have continued so to the end of my days. How, indeed, could I expect to rise in times of peace, with no friends at Court, no money to bribe, and though I am noble,” the old man drew himself up proudly as he spoke,—“for otherwise I should not presume to be on such intimate terms with you, Senhor Don Luis,—yet, I am not, I confess, of the Puritano families, who have hitherto monopolised everything, but Carvalho is biassed by no such considerations; he is no friend to the Puritanos; he selects men for their merit alone, and some of that he may, I flatter myself, have discovered in me; at all events, I may boast he knew I would serve my country faithfully.”

“Of that I have no doubt, my friend,” answered Don Luis, who had been listening to the old officer’s long speech with some impatience, which, however, he endeavoured to conceal. “But can you tell me how soon we shall reach the Tagus?”

“Ah, there again, ever anxious for the morrow? Ha, ha! there is some greater magnetic attraction drawing your soul towards Lisbon, beyond the mere natural wish of embracing your parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, a whole host of cousins, and other relations and friends; for people don’t mind deferring that pleasure for a few days. Come, come, there is some fair lady in the case. I know it. Confess, confess I have hit it. Donna Theresa d’Alorna, for instance; the beauty of Portugal; the pride of the province; the toast of Lisbon; at whose feet kneel daily all the gay and gallant youths of the country to do homage to her charms? ’Tis said that even the king himself has become captive to her beauty, though that is only whispered; but the lady is scornful, it seems, and treats all alike with cruelty and disdain. There is no calculating the mischief she has committed: half-a-score of duels have been fought about her; one youth drowned himself in the Tagus, but was fished up before he was quite dead, the water having cooled his love; another was going to hang himself, but prudently informed a venerable aunt of his intention, who prevented him; and a third put a pistol to his head, but the weapon, like his skull, having no contents, he escaped destruction. I do not know what you will do when you have gazed on her charms; but I trust that if she treats you as she has other admirers, you will bring some of your hope into play, and seek a kinder mistress.”

While Captain Pinto was speaking, the countenance of the youth alternately betrayed anxiety, fear, and anger; but as no expression had been uttered at which he could possibly cavil, he was obliged to listen in silence to a discourse, every word of which was, to his sensitive feelings, like vinegar poured on a wound. His torturer kept his eye fixed on him all the time, watching each movement of his features as a skilful surgeon feels the pulse of his patient during a painful operation. “Yes, your unconquerable hope will stand you in good stead,” he proceeded to say. “And yet the love of Donna Theresa were, by all accounts, a proud thing to boast of—more valued from the difficulty of obtaining it.”

“How know you that I love her?” exclaimed Don Luis, suddenly: “I thought that secret hidden within my own bosom.”

“Think you that you could have sailed so many days with me, Jozé Pinto, and I not discover the inmost secrets of your soul? Why, every scrap of paper with which the cabin has been strewed, covered with rhymes, has had her name inscribed on it; in your dreams, as you swung in your cot, even during the fiercest gale, you spoke but of her. I have heard it whispered in the calm night breeze which brought back your sighs, and I’ll wager ’tis graven indelibly on every mast of my ship.”

“You treat me severely, Captain Pinto,” answered Don Luis. “Although I may in my sleep have uttered that name so dear to me, which I have always held sacred, for I will not deny my affection; and though I may have written it on some paper which has escaped from my portfolio, yet I have not converted your masts into shrines sacred to love: they are not honoured by being marked with that name.”

“Well, then, I will confess I was but trying you,” answered Captain Pinto; “I will acquit you of ever allowing even a scrap of paper with Donna Theresa’s name on it to escape from your portfolio, or of ever having uttered it, to my knowledge, in your dreams, for I am not addicted to remaining awake when once I turn into my cot; indeed I knew not the lady of your affections till this minute, when I, by hazard, mentioned her name, and you owned your secret, though I long ago discovered your heart was not as free as I could wish it; but, seriously speaking, my young friend, I would have you think earnestly of what I have said, though my words sounded jokingly, and it may prove a valuable lesson to you. I will not breathe a word against Donna Theresa in particular; but remember numbers surround her, offering up daily incense of sighs and flattery, so that it were madness to confide too much in her constancy, or that of any woman so situated, and two years work great changes in the feelings of all. Come now, try to suppose her heartless and inconstant: ’tis better than being too sanguine; and I should grieve to see your heart breaking through disappointed love.”

“To believe her heartless is impossible,” exclaimed Don Luis. “Though, on my word, you seem anxious to shake my confidence in her sex in general.”

“O, no,” answered the Captain, laughing, or rather, it might be said, chuckling: “some are perfect angels—till you know them.”

Don Luis did not answer, though he could scarce avoid being angry with his friend for his preventive cauterisation, although the wound did not smart the less severely for its being well intended; and at that moment some necessary duty of the ship called Captain Pinto from his side, who, as he left him, muttered, “Poor youth, poor youth, if he persist in trusting to the love of such an one as Donna Theresa, he will be sadly disappointed!” Don Luis was left to pursue undisturbed the no very pleasant meditations to which his late conversation had given rise.

That our readers may no longer be in suspense as to whence the ship we have described came, we may inform them that she was a man-of-war, belonging to the crown of Portugal, though fitted up as a yacht; that she was now returning from the shores of England, whither she had conveyed an ambassador from His Most Faithful Majesty to the Court of London, and that the young Don Luis d’Almeida, who had, for some time past, been travelling in that country, after having made the tour of Europe, had taken advantage of the opportunity of returning in her to his native land.

The father of Don Luis, the Conde d’Almeida, was a noble of the purest blood, and one of the most ancient families of Portugal; but their fortune had been much reduced through the improvidence of some of the latter possessors of the title, their honour preventing them from employing any of those unjust, or at best doubtful means which others of their rank did not scruple to use to increase their wealth, and their pride forbidding them to engage in any mercantile speculations, a prejudice less general in the present day than at that time, and one above which even the Conde d’Almeida could not be expected to rise.

The Count had several brothers, who died childless; the youngest, and by far the most talented, having during the former reign been banished, for some political crime it was said, when the ship which conveyed the young and audacious advocate of civil and religious liberty was, with all her crew, overwhelmed by the waves, “a just punishment, doubtless, for his daring and impiety,” observed the pious King John’s confessor, when the news was brought home: there was also one sister, who had married the Marquis d’Alorna, and, dying young, left her only child without a mother’s fostering care and protection, the lovely Donna Theresa, who had, as we have seen, won the early affections of her cousin, Don Luis.

The Count, a man of an enlightened mind, had devoted himself to the education of his only son, who had imbibed from him all his sentiments of honour and virtue, with the same true pride of ancestry which made him incapable of committing any deed derogatory to the dignity of his lofty birth. Such was the young noble we have introduced to our readers, firm in principle, enthusiastic in temperament, eager in pursuit of his aims, with a candour and want of suspicion in his manner which appeared to arise from ignorance of the world, but was rather the result of the secluded and strict system of education he had undergone, which had kept him unacquainted with the vices of society till his principles had been formed to guard against them, nor had it prevented him from acquiring a clear insight into the characters of men, when once he began his career amongst them. The plan pursued in his education we deem, in most cases, to be a very dangerous one, when a young mind is plunged unprepared to combat with the follies and vices of the world; but he, fortunately, at once became disgusted with them, and learned to dread their glittering temptations, as the mariner does the light sparkling froth which, on the calm blue sea, plays over the hidden sandbank. In person he was of good height, and well-formed; of the most polished and graceful address; his bright dark eye sparkling with animation, or flashing with anger; his voice of rich and clear melody, so that under no disguise could he have appeared otherwise than a gentleman.

Captain Pinto has already, in a few words, given as much of his own history as we are acquainted with, and though his personal appearance had not the stamp of nobility impressed on it, his features betokened a kind disposition, (for we are great physiognomists,) notwithstanding that he had lately given utterance to some observations which sounded rather sour and morose; but he had spoken with the best intentions, thinking that some advice was necessary to check the too ardent hopes of his young friend, and having his reasons perhaps for supposing he might be deceived. But it is high time that we should return to our narrative.

The sails were now trimmed to meet a slight variation in the wind, which blew less steadily than in the morning, and that duty being completed, the captain resumed his walk by the side of Don Luis, whose feelings of annoyance had by this time completely subsided; indeed, to his generous disposition, it was impossible to continue angry any length of time, with one who evidently took a warm interest in his welfare. “Now, my young friend,” observed the worthy commander, after taking several turns in silence, “you will soon be convinced of the advantage of being prepared for disappointment,” at the same time pointing to some small dark clouds rising right ahead from the horizon. “Look at those black heralds of strife and tumult, not of the puny strife of men, but of the majestic rage and fury of the elements. A few minutes ago you were felicitating yourself in the fond anticipations of meeting those dear to you before to-morrow has closed, or at the furthest on the following day, and with the fair fresh breeze and smooth sea we were enjoying, you had every reason for your hopes; and now behold how suddenly they may be blasted; for if an old seaman’s prognostications are not false, we shall have before long a stiff gale directly in our teeth, and then, farewell to our friends in Lisbon for a week at the shortest calculation! That is no gentle summer gale brewing away to the south-east. See how quickly the clouds gather, and what a thick heavy bank they form, resting like a high land on the sea.”

“I should be ungrateful if I were to grumble at the prospect of remaining a week or so longer under your kind care,” returned Don Luis; “but I confess that I did hope to arrive in a much shorter period at Lisbon.”

“I know you did, I know you did,” said the Captain. “Very natural it was for you to do so; and I should think that, long ere this, you must have become heartily tired of the society of an old fellow like myself,—though I have seen something to talk about in my ramblings through the world.”

Don Luis, with sincerity, protested that he had passed the time on board most agreeably.

“Well, I trust you have not found me wanting in hospitality, at all events,” continued the old officer, “though you have full right to complain of our long voyage; but let me tell you, we have had, for this time of the year, most unusual weather; first, the heavy gales we experienced; then the thick heavy fogs, which hung like funereal palls over the face of the deep; next the smooth sea and sudden favourable breeze, which seems, however, inclined to play us a jade’s trick, and leave us in the lurch; and now those threatening clouds away there to the south-east. That is not the quarter from whence gales generally spring up off this coast; but if those clouds don’t hold a very large capful of wind, I am very much mistaken. During the whole course of my life I never met such unnatural weather, and I don’t like the look of it. Depend on it there’s something strange going to happen, though I would not say so to the crew, or to the women, if we had any on board, and thank Heaven we have not.”

The officer who had charge of the navigation of the ship, who in the English service is called the master, more correctly denominated by the Portuguese the pilot, at that moment came up to the captain, taking off his hat respectfully, as he pointed out the dark clouds in the horizon. “We shall have a gale before long, Senhor Captain,” said the veteran, who was a fine specimen of the sailor of times long, alas! passed by in the annals of Portugal, during her palmy days of naval supremacy. “’Twill be a breeze which will make us look sharp after our sticks. Shall we begin to get in some of our light canvass; for I like not the look of the weather. There is a storm out there, muttering ugly threats, from which ’twere wiser to take warning.”

“You are right, Senhor Nunez,” answered the Captain. “Those are signs of a gale, or we have been to sea for a century between us to very little purpose; but there is no immediate necessity to shorten sail, so we may as well not lose the advantage of the breeze, while it lasts, to make as much way good in our voyage as we can; for we shall probably, before long, be blown far enough from our course to weary us with beating up to our port once more.”

“As you think fit, Senhor, but it will be down on us without much further warning,” observed the pilot, as he kept his glance towards the south-east.

The officers continued walking the deck, but their conversation was short and disjointed; their eyes constantly glancing round the horizon in search of further signs of the coming storm; yet, notwithstanding the prognostications of the commander and the pilot, the breeze held tolerably steady, only shifting now and then half a point or so, which required a corresponding attention in trimming sails, so as not to deviate from their course.

“Ah, Captain Pinto,” exclaimed Don Luis, with a smile on his lips, “I trust that this once, at least, my hopes rather than your forebodings may be realised; see, the breeze is still our friend, nor does it seem inclined to desert us, and perhaps, after all our fears, yonder mass may prove but a fog bank, through which we may quickly cleave our way.”

“Still sanguine, and expecting better fortune than will probably fall to our lot? But, although your hopes are bright, I am not to be deceived by any treacherous appearances. Even while you have been speaking the breeze has fallen; look over the side, and observe the ship makes much less way through the water than she did a few minutes ago; and see her wake, for how short a distance does the foamy line extend ere the waves obliterate all signs of it! Mark me, the breeze, like hollow friends, will soon desert us. Ah! said I not true? The words have scarcely passed my lips ere my predictions are fulfilled.”

As he spoke, the sails gave one loud flap against the mast, though they again bulged out as the last effort of the dying breeze once more filled them. In a moment the commander was all life and animation. “In all studding sails, Senhor Alvez,” he shouted to his first lieutenant. “They are like officious friends, and do us more harm than benefit.”

“All hands, shorten sail,” was echoed through the ship, as the sailors sprung with alacrity on deck.

“Be quick, my men, be quick! There’s no time to lose!—Man your downhauls!—Let fly your gear!” shouted the Captain, through his speaking-trumpet; and in a minute the light, airy canvass, before extended like wings on each side of the larger sails, was taken into the tops, or hauled down on deck. “Hand the royals, Senhor Alvez,” cried the commander again. “Furl topgallant-sails, and down with the royal and topgallant-yards!” he quickly added. “We may as well relieve the craft of all top-hamper: she’ll dance all the lighter for it.”

These orders were quickly accomplished by a ready and active crew, who sprung aloft with all the activity, and somewhat of the chattering, of monkeys; for, in those times, the strict discipline and regularity of the present day were not observed in any service, and silence was not considered a necessary part of duty. Scarcely had the men returned on deck, when they were again ordered aloft, although it had now fallen a complete calm, the vessel rolling on the long smooth swell which seemed to rise without any impelling power, like the breathing of some vast giant in his sleep. The sun, now sinking rapidly in the ocean, still shone with dazzling brightness, from a dark blue sky yet unclouded in that part of the heavens in which his course lay. The sails flapped lazily against the masts, with a dull sound like a distant cannonade, the timbers creaked, and the water splashed, as she slowly rolled from side to side, the bubbles of foam sparkling brightly around the black and shining wales.

“Hand the courses—brail up the mizen!” suddenly shouted the Captain; for in those days the last-mentioned sail was carried,—a large unwieldy latteen-sail, with a long heavy yard, requiring a strong force of the crew to hand, instead of that which we now call a spanker. After much hauling and labour, the order was accomplished. “Close reef and furl the topsails!” he added; “we will show naked sticks to yonder blast, and may then laugh at its efforts! There is no use running the chance of having our canvass blown out of the bolt-ropes.”

In a few minutes the towering pillar of canvass had disappeared; and the ship, under bare poles, rocked like a cradle on the ocean, without advancing an inch in her course; the helm, too, having lost all its guiding power, her head moved slowly about, as if uncertain of its way. The atmosphere, which in the morning had been so brisk and light, became loaded and oppressive to the feelings; but as yet no breath even of the adverse blast was felt. A thick haze was collecting round the disk of the sun, which had now assumed an angry, fiery hue,—its size many times increased from its ordinary appearance; and, as it sank into the ocean, the fierce glowing blaze of the western sky, tinged with its light the borders of the approaching mass of clouds.

“Seldom have I seen the sun set in so hot a passion,” observed the Captain to Don Luis. “He does it in kindness, however, to warn us that we shall be wishing for his light again before he can possibly appear to aid us.”

Onward came the frowning mass of clouds, with their light, fiery avant couriers; and, as the shades of night were fast throwing a dark mantle over the ocean, suddenly, without a moment’s warning, a fierce squall struck the ship, turning her head rapidly round, the water hissing and foaming about her bows. For a few moments again all was calm,—the angry breath, which had blown, seeming but some sudden ebullition of the spirit of the tempest, and to have passed in forgetfulness away. Yet treachery lurked beneath that tranquil air. Down came the blast with no second notice—strong and furious—driving onward before it the light and buoyant corvette. Away she flew over the milk-white ocean, like a sea-bird in search of its finny prey, now dipping her head into the trough of the fast-rising sea, then again ascending, and shaking it, to free herself from the sheets of spray which dashed around her.

“You see, my friend,” said Captain Pinto, touching Don Luis on the arm, “that my forebodings, as you called them, have turned out truer than your hopes. A few hours ago you were looking out ahead for land, and now how things have changed! There lies the land right over the taffrail, or a little on the larboard-quarter; for this gale has come from the south east, and here are we doomed to beat about, like the Flying Dutchman, before our port, without a chance of reaching it. But patience! it is a fine wind for outward-bound ships, and we must be content to be the sufferers.” He then beckoned the pilot to his side. “What say you, Senhor Nunez, shall we heave the ship to? There is no use running away from our course.”

“We may heave to the ship, if we like,” replied the old seaman; “but I much doubt if we have any canvass on board to keep her there: she would bear it if we made sail; though I suspect the wind would soon take it in for us. If I might advise, we will run on before it while it lasts; for I do not think, by the way it came on, it will hold long; and then there will be less risk of damaging the ship.”

“Let it be so, Senhor Nunez,” answered the Captain. “Such, also, is my opinion. A gale like this is not to be played with, if one would keep one’s gear in condition.”

The waves were not as yet running very high, but were short and broken, tossing up their thin foam-covered crests with sudden, quick, and angry jerks, seeming to excite each other to fury as they vied in their maddening leaps. The sky had become of one dark hue, the thick mist flying rapidly over it; and the sea, when perceived under the frothy sheet which covered it, had assumed a cold, leaden colour. It would have been a sad and dreary prospect to the seamen, with their long night-watch before them, had not custom reconciled them to their hard lot, and caused them to be insensible to the dangers they encountered. Everything was made snug on board; and, steady men being placed at the wheel, the captain, followed by Don Luis, retired unconcernedly to his cabin, desiring to be called, if any change took place. Such was the state of affairs, as the almost impenetrable shades of night fell over the face of the ocean, while onward dashed the ship into the dark unknown expanse, like a man plunging, by his own intent, into the unexplored future of another world.

Volume One—Chapter Two.

It was yet some hours before dawn. The gale had rather increased than lessened in fury, the corvette, with all her canvass closely furled, was driving impetuously before it, the wind whistled and howled through the rigging; the waves, now rising in mountainous billows, dashed high in wild confusion, and, rolling towards her, seemed, with savage intent, about to overwhelm her; but, proudly holding her course, she rushed through them unharmed. At intervals, too, flashes of lightning darted from the overcharged clouds, lighting up the scene again to leave the mighty void in greater obscurity than before.

At a moment when the heavens had emitted a flash longer continued and brighter than usual, a loud cry from the look-out men ahead was heard. “A sail ahead! Starboard! hard-a-starboard! or we shall be into her!” was passed along the decks with startling rapidity, and there was scarce time for the vessel to answer the helm, before the lofty masts and spars of a ship were seen towering to the sky, so close on board them, that the corvette seemed to graze her yards, as they flew by her like lightning. The stranger seemed, by the glance they had of her, to be a large ship, hove to on the starboard tack, under a close reefed main-topsail.

The old pilot, who had just come on deck to relieve the second lieutenant from his watch, gazed earnestly towards the void in which she had disappeared, as if he would penetrate its thick curtain of darkness, and shook his head as he observed, “I like not thus to meet a bark such as that we have just passed. She is an omen of death and destruction to some who float on these seas; and if she was built in any known port, I am very much mistaken.”

“What, Senhor Nunez! do you not take her for a real ship?” asked the second lieutenant. “For my own part, by her appearance, I had no doubt of it, and I felt my heart beat all the lighter when we were clear of her; now, if she were a phantom, as you seem to say, we should have gone clean through without any damage.”

“That comes of trusting to your new-fangled philosophy, instead of putting faith in the signs Heaven sends us to warn us of danger,” answered the pilot. “Not that I mean to say there was anything holy in yonder bark; but Heaven often permits evil spirits to work out its own purposes, for which she may perhaps be allowed to wander on this stormy ocean. I have not doubled the Cape for the last fifty years without seeing such sights as would make your hair stand on end, and your heart sink within you.”

“Well, well, I will not now dispute the point with you,” responded the young officer, “you are an older man by many years than I am, and of course have seen many more wonderful things; but we will discuss the subject some day when I can manage to keep my eyes open, which I can now scarcely do; however, ought I not, before I turn in, to let the captain know what we have seen?”

“Do as you like; but it will be rousing him up to little purpose,” said the old man. “The chances are, that the next time we see her, she will be right ahead, with all her canvass set, coming down upon us.”

The lieutenant was just descending to the main-deck, when at that instant a cry of surprise from one of the young midshipmen arrested him, and the stranger was perceived dashing after them, as she emerged from the obscurity, her white canvass gleaming brightly, as it reflected the flashes of lightning. He hastened down to call the captain, who, at the first summons, rushed on deck, where he was soon joined by his young passenger.

“I did not expect to see yonder stranger where he now is,” said the pilot, as, the captain joining him on the poop, he pointed out the phantom-looking ship; “and, for the life of me, I cannot make him out; but I think no good of him. He is more likely to be a foe than a friend to any mortal cruisers.”

“Whether he be friend or foe, he seems at all events in a great hurry to speak us,” exclaimed the Captain; “but methinks his speaking-trumpets will not be of much avail in a hurricane like this; why, the spirit of the storm laughs all human efforts to naught; and I should have thought he could scarcely have distinguished our bare poles through this inky darkness.”

“Those on board her don’t require any night glasses to see their prey,” said the old Pilot, gloomily; “they scent it from afar, as the vulture does a carcass.”

“Whether he can see us or not, here he comes,” shouted the Captain. “Beat to quarters—we will be prepared for him. Topmen, ready aloft. We will make sail, if necessary,” he added, turning to Senhor Nunez; “but he is, probably, one of our fire-eating friends, an Englishman, who will never let a ship on the high seas escape their scrutiny, in the hopes of finding an enemy worth engaging.”

“I don’t think he belongs to any nation that carries a flag,” answered Senhor Nunez, piously crossing himself, “and I have been vowing two wax candles to our Lady of Belem, to be bought out of my arrears of pay, if she will shield us from all the powers of darkness.”

“Our blessed Lady protect us from such!” said the Captain; “but I think we shall have none but mortal enemies to contend with in yonder ship.”

The men, in the meantime, went steadily to their quarters; and now that there was considerable danger to be incurred, their tongues were kept in silence, their ears ready to catch any orders that might follow, though they fully shared in the old pilot’s ideas as to the supernatural character of the ship in sight.

“Let every alternate gun be run out on the starboard side, Senhor Alvez,” said the Captain; “we cannot fight our entire battery in a sea like this; and a few well-handled guns will do more work than a whole broadside ill served; but I do not surmise we shall be brought to that pass. She will scarcely wish to fight us, and I have no intention of attacking her till I know what she is.”

This disposition of the crew took some little time to make, as there was danger, as well as difficulty, in putting the guns in fighting order. “Keep her edging away to the south,” he added, to the quarter-master, who was conning the ship; “we will endeavour to keep our friend on the starboard side.”

The order was scarcely given, when the stranger, ranging up on the starboard quarter, a voice from her forecastle hailed them; but the loud roaring of the blast, and dashing of the waves, drowned all distinctions of sounds, and before Captain Pinto, seizing his speaking-trumpet, had time to answer, a shot from her bow gun whistled over their heads, followed by six or eight others, as she ranged alongside; but, flying high, they did little damage.

“Ah! our friend has taken the tone of his temper to-night from the weather, and is rather inclined for strife; but we will show him, whoever he is, that he has caught a Tartar. Fire! my men, fire!” cried the Captain, “and aim low; he deserves some punishment for not making more polite inquiries respecting our health before he began the engagement, as a gentleman should do.” The order was obeyed with alacrity, two or three of the shot seeming to take effect on the hull of their adversary: for, by the bright flashes of the guns, some white spots were perceptible on her bulwarks, which might have convinced others less determinately superstitious, of her substantial nature.

“Topmen aloft, and make sail!” shouted the Captain, through his speaking-trumpet; “we will fight this daring stranger to every advantage; for it will not do to allow him to haul across our bows, as he seems to have some intention of doing, even at great risk to himself. At all events, he is not a person to be trifled with.”

The fore and main-topsails, closely-reefed, were now let fall, and, with great exertion, extended to their yard-arms; the two ships being thus on an equality of sailing, continued to run side by side, exchanging every now and then strong and noisy proofs of their vicinity, by an irregular discharge of their guns, as they could be brought to bear in the heavy sea that was running, and as they gained a momentary glance of each other. It was fearful thus fighting amid darkness on the raging ocean, which, of itself, afforded dangers sufficient to encounter; yet ’twas a scene which made the heart of Don Luis throb with wild excitement, such as he had never before experienced—the howling of the tempest, the muttered growls of the thunder, the roar of the guns, their bright flashes, and the forked lightning, which played around the masts of the ships, as if to remind them that they were liable to destruction from a far greater Power than that of which their own mortal efforts were capable. As yet the guns of the enemy had done no more damage than cutting some of the running rigging; but it was impossible to say what mischief those of the corvette had inflicted in retaliation, though, from the pertinacity of her opponent, it was supposed to have been but slight.

“If yonder ship does not carry the devil and a whole host of his imps on board, she must be an Englishman,” said the old Pilot, coming up to the captain’s side; “for no other mortals would have dreamed of engaging in a night like this, and she must fancy that she has got alongside a Frenchman: there’s no doubt of it.”

“I know not of what nation he is, though I am pretty certain of his mortal qualities,” answered the Captain. “But if he is an Englishman, I wish we could find some way of letting him know we are friends, for he will not leave us till he has either sunk us or blown us out of the water, if we cannot manage to treat him in the same way.”

“Where is the enemy? Where is the skulking foe?” was echoed along the decks by some of the crew; for since the last discharge of her guns their opponent had disappeared in the impenetrable darkness which surrounded them, increased by a thick mist, which came driving past; while others exclaimed, “Holy Virgin, that was no mortal bark! Ah, she has vanished as suddenly as she appeared! May the saints protect us, and gain us forgiveness for our sins; for we have been fighting with the powers of darkness?”

“That fellow is no Englishman, or he would not for a moment have lost sight of us, if he thought us an enemy,” cried the Captain. “No, no, I know those haughty islanders too well. He is some Frenchman, perhaps, who, from the few guns we used, mistakes us for a smaller vessel of the foe, and will be down again upon us directly. We must fight our whole broadside, Senhor Alvez, at every risk, to undeceive him as to our size; and we will take care that he does not run away from us, whoever he may be.”

“If we were to sail on till doomsday we should never come up with him, were he to seek to avoid us,” muttered the old Pilot, as he gazed earnestly towards the spot where the ship was last seen.

The first lieutenant descended to the main-deck, to see the orders executed: the guns were then loaded and run out, a most perilous undertaking; for the sea rushed through the open ports each roll the ship made, flooding the decks, almost filling the guns, wetting the ammunition, and extinguishing the matches. The seamen, frequently up to their knees in water, were exposed to the danger of the guns breaking loose, an accident which did indeed occur more than once; but, encouraged by their officers, they perseveringly retained their stations. Once, indeed, the dangers and horrors of the terrific scene overcame the courage of some, and they showed symptoms of abandoning themselves to despair, calling on the Virgin and all the saints to aid them; but the gallant Captain Pinto, followed by Don Luis and some of the other officers, rushed among them, so earnestly encouraging them to do their duty, both by words and gestures, that they promised to fight to the last gasp, and sink with their colours flying.

Don Luis returned with the captain to the poop, offering to take charge of some of the small brass guns and swivels, should they come to closer quarters.

During this state of doubt and uncertainty, every instant seemed an hour; for no one could tell when they might again be engaged, or what might be the issue of the combat with an adversary which was equal to, if not larger than their own vessel. As the thick mist we have spoken of flew past them, the dim outline of the foe was again distinguished by some of the keenest eyes on board, still in the same relative position in which they had last seen her, and by her movements she evidently had them in sight, but seemed disinclined to renew the engagement.

“Give him a shot for the honour of Portugal,” shouted the Captain. “We will convince him that we, at all events, are perfectly ready to fight.”

The order was immediately obeyed; but the stranger took not the slightest notice of the challenge.

“We will near him, to discover, if possible, who he is. Port your helm a little. That will do, we shall soon edge down to him.”

A few minutes, however, convinced him that the enemy had no intention of meeting at nearer quarters; for, no sooner did she perceive the aim of the Portuguese, than she altered her course in the same degree that they had done; and it may easily be understood that, in so high a sea and strong a wind, it was very difficult, except by the consent of both parties, to approach each other without imminent danger to her who should most deviate from her course.

Hours passed on, the mysterious and phantom-looking bark still hovering in the same direction; and thus, like two wild horses scouring along the plains of Tartary, did the two ships continue, now dashing with fierce impetuosity into the boiling cauldron, then rising again, and springing forward, in their mad career, over the very summits of the froth-crested billows. Had not the crew of the corvette had clear proofs that the stranger was, like their own craft, composed of substantial timber, and her guns served by mortal hands, they would have been more convinced than ever that she was one of those phantom barks which were believed to scour the ocean in heavy gales, as a warning to the mariner of approaching destruction; and even the less superstitious might have fancied her, by some optical delusion, the reflection of their own ship upon the dark mist which surrounded them, so regularly did she imitate all their movements. Thus the night wore on, the men almost sinking with fatigue at their guns; for they were obliged to be every moment on the watch to prevent their being overturned; nor could they venture to secure them, lest the enemy should bear down upon them, and find them unprepared to meet her.

“I see the aim of him who commands yonder ship,” exclaimed Captain Pinto, after examining the stranger attentively through his glass. “He hopes to weary us out, and then to run us on board; but we will be even with him: or perhaps he is wisely waiting to discover whether we are friends or foes before he expends any more powder and shot. Secure the guns and close the ports, Senhor Alvez, and let the men take some rest. He is not likely to wish to attack us again before daylight, and we must take care to be up before him; or, if he tries to near us before then, we must pay him the same compliment that he just now did us, and get out of his way.”

The men were glad enough to secure the guns; but it was a time of too much anxiety and excitement for any to quit the deck, where they remained, filling each other’s ears with marvellous legends of mysterious barks which their friends, in like situations, had beheld, and which had melted away like thin mist when the first grey tints of morn appeared. At length the wished-for dawn began gradually to dissipate the terrific obscurity of the night, and all doubts as to the reality of the stranger bark were removed by perceiving her still broad on their beam under her two closely-reefed topsails. The wild confusion which reigned supreme on the waste of waters was rather magnified by the dim uncertain light of morning: the waves, with foaming crests, leaping madly around, the thick misty clouds flying rapidly along, one lawyer, as it were, above the other, through which not a ray of the sun’s beams could escape to cheer the voyagers—all was cold, dreary, and threatening. The gale, too, which had given promise of falling during the latter hours of the night, now again, as if recovering strength with the returning day, increased with such sudden fury, that, before any warning was given, the main-topsail was blown clear off the bolt-ropes, rent into a thousand shreds, with a loud report like a near clap of thunder, and, flying over the fore-topsail-yard, was carried far out of sight ahead.

“Get a new main-topsail on deck,” shouted the Commander, in momentary expectation of seeing the fore-topsail share the same fate; “we must not be without our wings with yonder stranger in our neighbourhood,” he added, turning to Don Luis. “These are the variations of a sea-life, my young friend,—a day of sunshine and calm, and two of clouds and tempest.”

“Away aloft, and bend the new sail,” cried the Captain, after a minute’s silence. “The enemy keeps steadily on her course, as if there were no such beings as ourselves in existence.”

By the time that the fresh topsail was got aloft, and bent to the yard by the willing seamen, broad daylight was on the world of waters.

“Hoist our colours, and let him know who we are,” exclaimed the Captain; but when the flag of Portugal blew wildly from the peak, no answering signal was made by the stranger, though, being not a mile distant, he must clearly have perceived it.

“He suspects those are not our true colours,” observed the first Lieutenant.

“Whether he does or does not, see he is edging down towards us again, to make us out more clearly,” said Captain Pinto. “Beat to quarters; should he prove no friend, which I much doubt, we will be prepared for him.” As he spoke, a small ball was seen to ascend to the peak of the stranger, and the blue banner of Morocco, with its crescent emblem, flew out in a broad sheet to the blast. “Ah, I know the rascal now,” continued the Captain, “he is a Salee rover, the greatest miscreant that ever sailed the ocean—with a crew that will not fight except they fancy themselves secure of conquering, and then show very little of a victor’s mercy. Slavery or death is the only fate those they capture must expect at their hands.”

While Captain Pinto was speaking, the two ships were drawing near each other. The Salee rovers of those days were strongly armed ships, fitted out by the piratical states of Algiers, Tripoli, Tunis, and the town of Salee, and other places on the north coast of Africa, their crews composed of robbers, murderers, and malefactors of every description, chiefly the refuse of the Levant, and of every nation under the sun, though calling themselves Turks. Their hands were against every man, and every man’s hand was against them; they revelled in blood and slaughter, and mercy or any tender feelings of our nature was a stranger to their hearts. As they seldom fought, except in the hopes of booty, they were feared by all the mercantile navies in the world (for their depredations extended far beyond the straits of Gibraltar); and all the European governments succumbed, in the most extraordinary way, to their tyrannical power, actually paying tribute to be free from their impositions.

All hands on board regarded anxiously the approaching pirate, though with less apprehension now that they knew with whom they had to contend.

“I knew all along that the devil had something to do with that vessel,” cried the old Pilot, in rather an exulting tone. “If ever demons inhabit human forms, they dwell in those wretches who compose her crew; and let us thank the saints that we have a good ship and plenty of guns to defend ourselves, or we should not see another day.”

“He thinks that we are no Portuguese, but one of the cruisers of Naples, or perhaps of his holiness the Pope,” said the first Lieutenant, “or he would not show so daring a front to us.”

“No, no!” answered Captain Pinto, with some bitterness in his tone; “he knows well enough that this is a Portuguese ship; but he does not know that old Jozé Pinto commands her, or perhaps he would moderate that flaunting air. Once on a time no nation dared insult the flag of Portugal on the high seas; but that time has long passed away, and now all think they may venture to do so with impunity: however, my friends, let us show that we still retain the spirit of our fathers. Give them a shot, to convince the picarooning villains that we are awake from our morning nap. Do you, Senhor Albuquerque,” he said, turning to a young officer who was standing near him, “exercise your skill in gunnery on yonder pirate: a young eye and eager hand may throw a shot when a more practised man may miss his aim.” The young officer flew eagerly to obey his chief, and scarcely had the match been applied to the touch-hole before the effect of the shot was seen, as some white splinters were observed to glance from the bulwarks of their adversary.

“Viva!” was shouted by all the crew in chorus.

“A few more shots like that would curb the vile infidel’s pride,” cried the old Pilot; but he had scarce finished his sentence, when a bright flame issued from the side of the stranger, and a crashing shower of shot passed over them, slightly wounding some of the smaller spars; one, however, swept the deck, killing one and severely injuring another of the crew.

“Chance more than skill directed those shots,” cried the Captain, to encourage the crew, whose rage was immediately excited by the death of their comrade. “Ah! see they show their true character, and are sheering off to avoid the punishment they know is their due. Let them feel we are not to be insulted with impunity. Fire!”

At the word, the guns of the corvette were discharged with considerable effect on the very hull of the rover, who was evidently, for the time, satisfied with fighting, as he immediately put his helm to port, and at great risk, the seas breaking over his sides, sheered off from his determined opponent. We have already explained the various dangers incurred while fighting the guns in that heavy sea, it being much to the credit of the crew that they could do so at all; and it was thus some time before they could again discharge them, when the enemy had gained a considerable distance, the shot falling harmlessly into the water. In truth, at such a time, it was the object of neither ship to engage, as victory could have been of no advantage to either; for it was utterly impossible to have boarded the prize by means of boats; and if the two ships had run alongside of each other, it was probable, if not certain, that both would have sunk in the deadly embrace: a prolonged combat would also have proved the destruction of both. They therefore, by mutual consent, again kept on their course, eyeing each other with hatred and suspicion.

The crew of the corvette were again ordered to secure their guns, when they set about performing the ordinary duties of the ship; the look-out men in the tops keeping a watchful eye on every movement of the corsair, whose very disregard of them seemed to betoken treachery; the only signal her crew made that they were conscious of the presence of a hostile bark being that their pirate banner yet blew out to the blast as a defiance. Thus for the whole day did the Portuguese ship and her foe drive before the furious and unrelaxing gale, the officers and crew in watches throwing themselves beneath the shelter of the poop-deck to snatch a few minutes’ repose, no one being willing to go below even for an instant.

The Moor appeared to carry as many guns, if not more than the corvette, being perhaps also of greater tonnage; and the probabilities were, that she had by far the strongest crew, as it was the custom of the Salee rovers to crowd their decks with men, their usual mode of fighting being to run their enemy on board, when, rushing like a host of furies on the devoted ship, their numbers generally carried the day; however, under the present circumstances, that mode could be of no avail, and he therefore very wisely avoided coming to closer quarters.

Sleep visited not the eyes of Don Luis, and scarcely would he allow himself time to snatch a mouthful of food, so excited had he become by the late skirmish, and the wild scene of confusion round him, no one more earnestly eyeing the enemy, as he prayed for the abatement of the gale, to have some chance of punishing the daring pirate for his presumption in thus insulting the flag of his country. “Though the proud days of chivalry have passed away,” he exclaimed to himself, “I will prove that I am no carpet knight, but worthy of the gallant warriors from whom I am descended, whose lances were ever foremost in fight and tourney. Here is an unlooked-for opportunity of distinguishing myself, which will not, I trust, be torn from me; and I will seize some trophy from yonder lawless stranger to lay at the feet of my beloved Theresa, when how proudly will she welcome me, as I return among a band of warriors, after a hard won victory, instead of from a voyage without danger, and from a land of peace and security, as she expects!”

Such thoughts very naturally passed through a young and enthusiastic mind, but which, uttered aloud, would, to the generality of people, have appeared to arise from Quixotic folly; and it must be confessed, that his servant Pedro did not in the least participate in his master’s romantic feelings, though ever ready to share his fortunes. He, all the time, most earnestly prayed that the devil would run away with the stranger, or that he would go to the bottom before he had time to send any more cannon balls on board the corvette. As for bearing a trophy to his lady loves—for Pedro owned to two, one in his native village, and another in Lisbon—it never entered his head; for he well knew they would much prefer a piece of gay coloured calico to a bit of bunting, which they could not convert into a petticoat. Pedro was certainly not a romantic lover. It was curious, yet so it was, that the warnings of his friend, Captain Pinto, never once occurred to Don Luis; nor did the recollection for a moment cross his mind, that, instead of victory and a speedy return to his native land, a long painful slavery, or a sudden death, might be his lot.

Not a gleam of sunshine broke through the thick mass of clouds during the whole course of the day, which passed on without any variation till the fast increasing gloom announced the return of night with all its horrors; for, in the southern latitudes, in which they were, the sun scarcely sinks, before darkness overspreads the world; and thus in a short time they again lost sight of the enemy in a dense curtain of mist, which added to the obscurity. The captain, therefore, called a council of war to consider the best plan to pursue, being unwilling to miss the foe, and anxious at the same time not to run farther out of their course than they could help, should the gale subside, as it had lately given some promise of doing.

The officers were collected round their commander, the old pilot strenuously giving it as his opinion, that, as soon as the gale moderated, they should haul their wind, and leave their phantom opponent to pursue, uninterrupted, her demon-directed course; persisting that she would lead them through stormy seas and tempests half round the world before she disappeared. The greater number, also, were of opinion that they ought to haul their wind, or lay the ship to, when their deliberations on the subject were quickly settled by a warning cry from the men in the tops; and, at the moment when most considered the enemy yet at some distance, he was perceived on their starboard quarter, looming through the obscurity. The crew needed no order to fly to their guns, or the officers to their respective posts; and scarcely had her lofty masts appeared ranging up alongside, before a broad sheet of flame issued from her ports, and a shower of shot passed over them.

“Fire, my men! fire low!” shouted the gallant Commander; and the shot seemed to tell well upon the hull of the stranger. The guns were again hauled in, loaded and fired with great rapidity, before their adversary had time to give them a second broadside; the seeing which much animated the men.

“Well done, my gallant fellows!” cried the Captain; “remember that you are Portuguese and good Catholics, and that yonder ship contains a crew of vile infidels. Our colours are still flying at our peak, and there they shall fly till I am knocked overboard; so all you have to do is to fire away as hard as you can, and by the blessing of the Holy Virgin we shall be the conquerors.” This short, pithy speech much animated the crew; who, putting firm confidence in the courage and sagacity of their leader, renewed their efforts with redoubled vigour. “See, Don Luis,” added the Captain, “the infidel is near enough to feel our swivels and light guns, and if you will undertake to command them, they may do some service.” Don Luis sprang gladly to obey the captain’s order, followed by Pedro; who, now that he could not avoid fighting, exerted himself as well as the bravest, working the guns with considerable effect.

The firing on both sides had now become warm; the enemy being in earnest, and evidently eager, on some account or other, to bring the contest to a speedy close. Their guns were discharged as rapidly as they could be loaded, doing much execution on board the corvette, striking down several men on the main-deck, and one on the poop, close to Don Luis, though each shot was returned with equal vigour. The flashes of the guns clearly showed the enemies to each other, for they were now running along not a quarter of a cable’s length apart; the Portuguese aiming always at the hull of their opponent, with the determination of sinking her, if possible; while she fired in the hopes of cutting away their spars and rigging, and crippling their masts; that, unable to escape, she might be able to take possession of them at leisure: the only objects the rovers sought in victory being booty and prisoners.

A truly awful scene was that night-engagement, as the two small barks, on that vast wild waste, surrounded with all the majestic horrors of ocean strife, filled with human beings regardless of Heaven’s wrath, strove, with all the animosity of demons, to hurl each other to destruction, nor thinking of their own fate.

The infidel had wrongly calculated on an easy victory, when he attacked a ship commanded by so hardy and brave a seaman as Jozé Pinto; for his crew, confiding in his courage and seamanship, fought as well as any seamen in the world—as the Portuguese always will do when well led—and, after an hour’s engagement, the effect of their efforts became perceptible, in the slackened fire of the enemy. Both the wind and sea had now much fallen; and, as the storm broke, flashes of lightning darted from the clouds—for a moment casting a lurid glare on the hostile ships and the foaming cauldron between them—again leaving a more fearful gloom on the scene. “Where is the infidel, where is the infidel?” was again shouted by the crew, after a bright flash had dazzled their eyes, and she had for the last minute ceased firing. “She’s gone, she’s gone!” The officers looked eagerly out—no one could see the pirate ship—but they dreaded some treachery: the guns, therefore, were loaded and run out; the crew waiting in breathless expectation to catch sight of her, when she was again perceived coming up close on their quarter, with the intent, it seemed, to range up alongside; yet nothing but madness or desperation could have instigated them to the act, for certain destruction threatened both, if she should attempt to board; for, once joined, the sea must overwhelm them both.

“Boarders, come aft,” shouted the Captain: “starboard the helm.” The manoeuvre caused the rover to miss his aim, and as he threw his grapnels, they fell into the water. “Steady, again,” the Captain cried; but the rover was not to be deceived a second time; for, with determined daring, putting his helm also to starboard, he ranged alongside, and locked his yard-arms in a deadly embrace with those of the Portuguese. A loud shriek of horror arose from many, even of the brave, on board. “Silence, men, silence!” cried Captain Pinto: “aloft, and cut away: be prepared to repel boarders.” The men sprang to the rigging as ordered: all knew that their lives depended on their activity. A loud crashing noise was heard as the stout spars tore and wrenched each other from the ropes which held them, falling in splinters from aloft; but as yet the hulls of the ships had not touched, the sea in foaming torrents dashing up between them, and inundating the decks of both. What we have been describing took place in a few seconds.

“Fire!” shouted the Captain; and the balls were seen to tear up the sides of the rover, who appeared to be incapable of answering the discharge.

Still onward dashed the ships, their spars and rigging yet locked together, the wild sea threatening each moment to claim them as its prize; when, as for an instant their hulls ground together, a form was seen to spring from the shrouds of the pirate ship on to the deck of the Christian. “Faithless tyrants, I am no longer your slave!” he exclaimed, as he hurled his gleaming sabre among the people he had just quitted: “I may now die among my countrymen.” The words were scarce heard amid the tumult, or the action seen; and, as he fell, the cutlass of a seaman brought him bleeding to the deck, where he lay, trampled on and disregarded, amid some of the Portuguese who had been struck down. At the same moment, the glare of the forked lightning exhibited a hundred swarthy turbaned figures on the nettings and lower rigging of the Rover, and, like a rush of fierce vultures on their prey, with loud yells, the foremost threw themselves on the deck of the corvette, when the upper works of the two ships again separated.

“Onward, my men, onward!” shouted Captain Pinto, rushing forward to repel them at the head of a party of his best seamen, with Don Luis by his side, who, at the first fierce onset, warded off a blow which might have proved fatal to the gallant chief. But the pirates fought with all the ferocity of despair and fanaticism, for they neither expected nor asked for mercy; their only hope was in victory. Yet, notwithstanding the desperate resistance they made, they could not withstand the superior numbers of the Portuguese: loudly rung their fierce war cries; their sharp sabres flashed brightly as they strove for life, every moment expecting to be reinforced by their friends, who waited but the returning roll, when the upper works of the ships should again meet, to rush on board; the flashes from the muskets of the marines, and the pistols of the seamen, between the gleams of lightning, alone exhibiting the combatants to each other, all the lights on board having been extinguished to prevent the enemy from taking aim. Again they rallied, the Portuguese giving way. A gigantic Moor, who had fallen as they first leapt on board, now extricating himself, attacked Don Luis with such desperate fury, that, although he defended himself with courage and coolness, he would have been overthrown, had not Pedro contrived to get a cut at the Moor’s arm, which brought him bleeding to the deck. The brave captain once more calling upon his men, pressed the Moors hard: inch by inch they were cut down, or forced back, till they were driven over the nettings into the dark yawning gulf below, or ground by the sides of the ships. But this short success had cost the Portuguese dear, and even their chief felt that they could with difficulty contend against the swarm of desperate miscreants, who were ready at the moment to throw themselves headlong among them, nor had the people aloft yet succeeded, in spite of all their efforts, in clearing the rigging.

Again the nettings of the two ships touched, and, uttering loud yells, crowds of the foemen hurled themselves from their posts in the rigging with their gleaming sabres in hand; but it was to destruction; for at that instant a tremendous sea rushed up between the two ships, tearing away all the fastenings which held them aloft.

The Rover made one roll to starboard; a vivid flash of lightning threw a momentary lurid glare over her, as her crew were seen to spring the larboard rigging, every lineament of their dark features distorted with the wildest rage and despair: those livid, demoniacal countenances were long fixed in the memory of all who saw them. The wild frothy sea leaped high between the two barks, but the pirate rose not again: a piercing shriek of agony was the last sound heard ascending in the night air, high above the loud roaring of the tempest. For one instant only were the masts and spars of the Salee rover seen ere the dark waves rolled triumphantly over the spot where she had been.

The Portuguese gazed with horror, for from such a fate, too, had they narrowly escaped through Heaven’s mercy. Continuous flashes of lightning darted from the clouds, exhibiting, far astern, the outstretched arms and despairing features of the sinking wretches; but they were pirates, accursed by Heaven and man, and deserved no aid, could any have been afforded them, and the victors bounded on proudly in their course.

Volume One—Chapter Three.

Scarcely had the lawless career of the Salee rover thus awfully terminated, as we have narrated at the end of our last chapter, than the spirit of the storm, as if satisfied with the sacrifice offered to him, began to relax his fury. The heavy clouds cleared gradually away, and the bright stars (those cheering beacons to the mariner) were seen glimmering from the clear dark blue sky: the wind, too, shifted to the southward of east, and the sea fell considerably, so that the repairs of the corvette could be carried on with much less danger and difficulty than at first. The damages she had sustained in her long encounter with the corsair, were of less consequence than might have been expected, considering the size and power of the enemy; and the seamen attributed their victory to their fervent prayers to the Virgin, and all the saints, and to the vows of offerings at their shrines.

This was, however, no time for thought—activity and energy of action were now demanded; every officer and man was employed; the captain urging them to their work; for till the standing rigging could be secured, their masts, which had fortunately escaped injury, might any moment have gone overboard. A few only of the shrouds were found to have been cut away, which being put to rights in the best way they could effect, and a fresh running rigging rove, a reef was shaken out of each of the three topsails, and the ship brought to the wind, with her head towards the shore. Boldly did she buffet the billows, like a gallant hunter straining every nerve to clear the heavy ground of a fresh ploughed field.

During the greater part of the time, Don Luis remained on the poop, giving such assistance as he was able; but, on an occasion like the present, a landsman can be but of little use, and on the first moment of cessation from toil, the Captain joined him, exclaiming, “Ah, my young friend, Heaven be praised that you have escaped uninjured; for, had you suffered in the engagement, I should have blamed myself for treating you with sad want of hospitality on the ocean. But you have now added to the wonders of your travels a sea adventure worth talking about; and do not forget to mention a brave youth who saved his captain’s life; at all events, Jozé Pinto will not be ungrateful, if he ever has the opportunity of showing his gratitude.”

“It is I who have to thank you for preserving my life, and the lives of all on board, by your bravery and conduct, Captain Pinto,” returned Don Luis, “and proud I am to have fought by your side.”

“Talk not of it, my friend; for this is no time to stand bandying compliments,” answered the Captain. “Ah, Senhor Nunez,” he added, turning to the pilot, who was just then passing them. “Were you at last convinced that we had mortal foes to contend with?”

“I know not, senhor,” answered the old man; “they fought like devils, at all events, and till I see some of them make the sign of the cross, I shall still believe them evil spirits.”

“They are all long ere this in the world of spirits,” said Captain Pinto; “for none, I think, can have escaped among all the wild crew.”

While he was speaking, a party of seamen were seen ascending the poop, dragging up between them a man, who by the dim light of a lantern held before him, appeared to be severely wounded in the shoulder. His dress consisted of the Moorish jacket and trousers; his head was bound by a white turban, now torn, disordered, and wet with blood; his features were swarthy and haggard, and his figure tall and well knit. He looked round with a wild confused stare, as if scarce recovered from the effects of some stunning blow, evidently endeavouring to collect his scattered thoughts, in order to speak.

“Whom have you brought hither?” asked the Captain of the seamen; “I thought not a pirate had escaped.”

“This, by the blessing of the Virgin, is the only one on board,” answered one of the men, “and he would not have been here now, had not Senhor Alvez ordered us to bring him to you, instead of throwing him overboard, with the rest of the cursed wretches, as we were about to do. We found him scarcely breathing under two of our slain comrades, and some say he must be the man they saw leap on board the moment the ships ran foul of each other, who they thought had long ago gone with his brother infidels to the bottomless pit.”

The first lieutenant at the same time came up to corroborate the statement, and to give in an account of the loss they had sustained, six men having been killed, and a considerable number wounded by sabre cuts while repelling the boarders.

“Let some one bind the wounds of that man, Senhor Alvez. Carry him below, but secure his feet, that in the frenzy to which these people are liable, he commit no mischief,” said the Captain. “I will examine him to-morrow at leisure, when he is fully certain to prove worthy of hanging;” but, as he was speaking, consciousness returned to the mind of the stranger; for at that moment, uttering a few words, he made a gesture of supplication. The captain looked at him earnestly, as the light of the lantern fell upon his features; again the same gesture was repeated, when he once more sunk into a state of insensibility. Whatever it was, it seemed to have a magic effect on Captain Pinto, as scrutinising him closely, he said, as if to himself, “’Tis strange, and yet it must be so;” then exclaimed aloud, “bear him carefully to my cabin, for, though an infidel, he is a human being like ourselves, and now hapless, and in our power, he is no longer an enemy; let the surgeon attend to him, the moment he has seen to the more serious wounds of our own people. Gentlemen, I take this stranger under my protection; for I have reason to suspect that he is not what he seems. Don Luis, I request your company in my cabin,” saying which, the captain, accompanied by Don Luis, followed the seamen, who, surprised at the change of orders, bore the wounded stranger to the cabin, where he was carefully placed on a couch, and his host, with his own hands, commenced, in the most tender way, to examine his wounds till the surgeon made his appearance, when that officer pronounced them not dangerous, if immediately attended to. Restoratives being applied, he at length gave signs of returning animation, and sitting up, gazed wildly at the people who stood around him; but the captain would allow none to question him till he had been supplied with dry clothes, and every comfort that could be thought of. All were then desired to quit the cabin, the Captain requesting Don Luis to retire to his own berth till he summoned him, then approached the captive, and taking his hand, “My brother,” he said, “can I do ought else to relieve you? Speak, I need but to know your wishes, to follow them to the utmost of my power; I ask not now your name, or whence you come, for speaking will fatigue you.”

“Thanks, my brother, thanks,” returned the stranger, “you follow the greatest of all precepts, charity to the distressed. More I ask not; but I would give you some account of myself, that you may report it to those whose curiosity may be excited. You see before you a Christian gentleman and a Portuguese, though ’tis long, long since I saw my beloved country. Know me by the name of Senhor Mendez, no willing companion, believe me, of the vile pirates you sent to destruction.”

“My suspicions were not wrong then,” said the Captain, drawing still nearer, and gazing earnestly at him; “and, if I mistake not, I have seen those features before, though when or where I cannot recall to mind.”

The wounded man smiled faintly, “You have seen them before, Captain Pinto,” he said; “but years have passed since then, and time, in the thousand changes it has been making, has not spared them, nor do I think that my nearest friends could recognise him who is before you: we have grown from youth to age since we last met.”

“I am at fault then,” answered the Captain; “nor can I guess when I knew you.”

“It is as well that you should remain in ignorance for the present, my friend,” answered the stranger. “I know that I can fully trust you; but remember that there are some secrets which are dangerous to the possessor, and I would not make you incur peril on my account if possible.”

“I will ask no further, my brother,” said the Captain; “rest and sleep are absolutely necessary for you, therefore I must insist on your speaking no more,” saying which he placed his guest back on the couch, and summoned Don Luis to join him in a repast which he ordered to be brought in, the first food they had found time to taste for hours, so that both were ready to do full justice to it.

While they were at table, the light of the lamp falling strongly on the countenance of Don Luis, drew the attention of the stranger towards him. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “whom have you near you, Captain Pinto? If fever does not disturb my brain, I think that he whom I see before me is an Almeida. Speak, youth! Do not you belong to that family?”

Don Luis started on hearing himself addressed. “I am an Almeida,” he answered. “The only son of the Count of Almeida.”

“I knew that I could not be mistaken,” said the prisoner, half to himself. “By what an extraordinary fate do I meet you!—but I am wandering. Stir not from where you are; I would gaze upon those features I once knew so well. Yet no! ’tis a spirit I see before me,—a form long since sunk to the grave! Ah, it stirs not! vain illusion! I see the flag of Portugal, of my own loved country. Never more shall I fight beneath that banner. The ship fills; the raging ocean is around me, and I must die amid these vile pirates. Blood flows fast—red, red blood—’tis that of my country’s foes; Heaven protect me!” For some minutes the stranger was silent, and appeared to have sunk into slumber.

The captain made a sign to Don Luis not to answer, when he perceived that the wounded man was already beginning to ramble in his speech, when the surgeon, having made the rounds of his other patients, returned; and feeling his pulse, advised that he should be left alone and in quiet.

Having finished their repast, the captain beckoned Don Luis to accompany him on deck, where they found that, during the short time they had been absent, a great improvement in the weather had taken place. The clouds had entirely disappeared, leaving the sky pure and deeply blue, sparkling with myriads of stars: the sea, though still running, was regular, shining, as far as the eye could reach, with bright flashes of phosphorescent light, which rose and fell with the yet foaming waves, the ship seeming to float amid hillocks running with molten gold like lava down the sides of a volcano; a steady breeze also was blowing, which enabled them to steer a direct course for Lisbon.

The dead were collected together, and placed beneath the poop-deck, covered by the flag for which they had so bravely fought, there to await till the following morning the last religious duties which could be paid them, ere they were committed to the sailors’ grave—the boundless deep. Several had fallen; some killed by the cannon-shot of the Rover, and others in the desperate struggle when the pirates rushed on board, among whom one officer only was numbered, the brave young Albuquerque, who the surgeon came to announce had just then breathed his last, from several desperate sabre wounds he had received in the conflict. He was the officer who fired the first successful shot at the rover’s ship; and, elated with the praise he received from his commander, he was among the first to oppose the enemies, cutlass in hand, when they boarded. He was now brought on deck, wrapped in his bloodstained sheets, his once bright eye closed for ever; his features, lately playful with animation, now ghastly and fixed, as the pale light of the seamen’s lanterns fell on them. He had always been a favourite with his commander, who bent mournfully over him, as he was placed beside his more humble shipmates. “Alas! poor youth,” said Captain Pinto; “do thus end all thy bright hopes and aspirations? Yet why should I grieve?—Thy days, though few, have been joyous; and thou hast been removed ere sorrows and disappointments had crowded round thee (as too surely they would have done, except thy lot far differed from that of other mortals). Farewell, brave youth! Many a tear will be shed for thy fate in the home of thy fathers; and gladly would I have died instead of thee: for there are few to mourn for old Jozé Pinto.” Having given vent to his feelings, he covered the pallid features of the dead youth with a flag, and joined Don Luis, who stood near, watching this gentle trait in the character of the seemingly rough and hardy seaman.

The most important repairs in the ship had been now accomplished; the decks required no washing, for the heavy seas which had broken over them during the terrific engagement, had performed that office; and the watch being set, she had assumed somewhat of her ordinary appearance. Gladly did every one who could be spared from duty throw themselves into their hammocks to seek repose, Don Luis dreaming that he still beheld the agonised features of the drowning pirates; and Pedro, that he was hewing away at the head of the Moor who had attacked his master, but which, notwithstanding all his efforts, kept grinning at him with horrid grimaces.

The first pale streaks of morn called everybody into activity; for there was still much to be done before the ship could be restored to order.

The melancholy duty of committing the slain to the deep was performed just as the sun rose bright and warm above the waves; and many an honest tear was shed by the comrades of those who were never more to bask beneath his genial rays; while many a vow was made to have masses offered up for the repose of their souls.

The weather, as if to make amends to the voyagers for the ill-treatment they had experienced, continued serene and favourable, and the corvette bounded lightly over the now bright and laughing waters. The horrors and dangers they had undergone fading gradually from their memories, as events scarcely appertaining to themselves; for so are we constituted: the most acute pains, the greatest trials of nerve, which in anticipation we have dreaded, when past, are thought of with indifference; and the recollection of pleasure is, alas! still more evanescent. It is crime alone, a stinging conscience, which is the only lasting torment, and the remembrance of good deeds the only true durable happiness, for of that none can rob us.

For many hours during the day after the engagement with the Salee rover, Senhor Mendez continued in a state of unconsciousness; nor towards the evening, when he appeared to revive, would Captain Pinto, by the surgeon’s advice, allow him to enter into conversation,—the extraordinary manner of his preservation, and the interest the captain took in him, causing many surmises on board. Don Luis was also anxious to learn somewhat of the stranger; but as his friend was not communicative, he did not think right to question him on the subject.

Two days had thus passed by, when, as the captain and his young friend were seated in the cabin, the stranger awoke from a sound slumber, and, raising himself on his couch, looked around. “I have deeply to thank you, Captain Pinto, for your care of a wounded prisoner,” he said, “who has caused you, I fear, much trouble, and who may cause you much more; but perhaps you already know more than I would have revealed; for, tell me, did I not ramble wildly in my speech the other night, when overcome by fever?”

Captain Pinto assured him that he had in no way committed himself by anything he had said.

“I rejoice to hear it, for your sake, and for that of the youth I see by your side; for though I would not deceive you, and feel assured that I might confide in both, I would not willingly entrust you with a secret which might prove dangerous to the possessor.”

“In what you say follow your own counsel,” answered the Captain; “for I would not wish to influence you, though you may put as full confidence in the discretion of Don Luis d’Almeida, as in mine; and be assured that we shall be ever ready to aid you to the utmost of our power.”

“His name is, I trust, a guarantee for his honour,” returned Senhor Mendez; “and though I have weighty reasons for concealing the early part of my history, I will narrate, in as brief a way as possible, some of the latter events of my life, which will account for my being on board the Salee rover which your gallantry sent to destruction; though far rather would I have sunk unknown amid those drowning wretches, whose dying shrieks yet ring in my ear, than risk the safety of one to whom I am so deeply indebted. You see before you a man who has, throughout life, been constantly on the point of attaining, as he supposed, wealth and happiness; when, ere the cup reached his lips, it has been rudely torn from his grasp, and he has been hurled back to poverty and wretchedness; yet ever, when least expected, fortune has again shed her deceitful smile upon him. I was yet young, when, after passing through many vicissitudes of fortune, I arrived, poor and unknown, on the shores of India; but I yet retained more than wealth can purchase, the great ingredient, the first principle of success, an unbroken spirit, full of hope and confidence. I had learned, I thought, that wealth was the only certain road to power, and that with power alone could I attain my ends; for I had deep and bitter wrongs to avenge, and wealth, therefore, I determined to obtain by every means consistent with my honour. Though many of the rank in which I was born, would have looked upon mercantile pursuits as wholly derogatory to their dignity, nameless and unknown, I laughed at such prejudices; and soon finding means to bring my talents into notice, I obtained an employment in which I was eminently successful; when one high in power, who had always borne me a deadly enmity, arrived in Goa, and would, I felt confident, recognise me through all the disguises I might assume. I well knew that, were I discovered, the civil and ecclesiastical power would be brought into play against me, and the Inquisition, with all its diabolical tortures, stared me in the face. I fled to China, from which country I was obliged once more to migrate to the newly-acquired possessions of the British in India, where my intimate knowledge of the customs and language of the natives, aiding my own perseverance, enabled me to acquire, at length, the fortune I sought. I transmitted it by degrees to England, and having wound up my affairs, I set sail for that country, intending from thence to make any further arrangements I might deem advisable; but I was not destined to reach it. The ship which bore me was wrecked on the coast of Africa, and I, with the few who escaped death, was made prisoner by a tribe of savages, who retaliated on us a few of the cruelties their countrymen have experienced from those of our colour. For upwards of a year I remained in captivity, when I contrived to get on board a vessel, trading on the coast for gold-dust and ivory, and bound for Cadiz. We had a prosperous run, and expected in two or three days to have reached our destination, when a large vessel bore down upon us, crowded with men. Resistance was hopeless, and flight impossible; and as she ran alongside, to our horror, we recognised the costume of the implacable enemies of Spain, the Algerines. The cargo being taken out of the vessel, she was sunk, the lives of the crew being spared for the sake of their value as slaves, for which purpose they were carried to Algiers, and there sold. Any fate appearing to me preferable to that which they were doomed to suffer, I embraced the offer the captain of the rover made me of joining his ship, and assuming the turban, in the secret hope of being ultimately able, by these means, to make my escape. Whether he suspected me, I know not; but he was certainly very unwilling to lose the services I was able to afford him through my knowledge of various languages, and a strict watch was kept on my movements, so that upwards of another long year passed away without my being able to effect my purpose. The scenes of horror and outrage I was doomed to witness, seemed to me as a punishment for my sins; but, fortunately, we never fell in with a Portuguese vessel, so that I was guiltless of spilling the blood of any of my countrymen, till the chief of the pirate crew, mistaking your ship, in the night of the gale, for a merchantman, determined to give chase, in hopes of finding you an easy conquest.

“Great, indeed, was my grief, when, on the following morning, we discovered that you were a man-of-war and a Portuguese; for, notwithstanding all my persuasions to the contrary, he insisted on attacking you, declaring, that as you were probably short of hands, you would fall an easy prey, and that he required a new ship as a consort to his own. Having once made up his mind, nothing would deter him from his purpose; and my expostulations causing my faith to be suspected, the other officers insisted that I should be placed in the most exposed situation when we boarded, which proved, however, the salvation of my life. Once or twice my spirits were revived by the hope that we had missed you; but at length the rovers resolved to cripple you, if possible, to prevent your escaping, though they found that they had encountered a far more determined antagonist than they expected. When, however, some proposed drawing off, or waiting till the sea went down, to run you on board, it was discovered that two shots had entered between wind and water, and that the ship was filling fast. Their only hope of preservation was now to run you on board, although at imminent risk of destruction to both; but as there was no other alternative, the purpose was immediately put into execution, and had not the ships separated so providentially for you at the moment they did, it is probable either the pirates would have become the masters, or both would have sunk together.”

“No, no, Senhor Mendez, the vile infidels should never have become masters of this ship while I lived,” suddenly exclaimed Captain Pinto: “say, rather, we should all have been food for fish, had not the rover, by the favour of the saints, sunk when she did: but I beg your pardon for interrupting you.”

“I have little more to add,” returned Senhor Mendez, “except to express my joy at finding, on my recovery, that you were the victors. I must beg, too, that even what I have now mentioned regarding myself may not pass your lips; for surmises, with the slightest clue, may lead to inquiries, and my secret be discovered.”

Both his auditors assured him that what he had said should be inviolable. “Thanks, sirs, thanks,” he answered. “I have exerted myself to give this sketch of my adventures, to remove any suspicions you might have entertained regarding me, the thought of which I could not endure, and now weariness overpowers me;” saying which, he sunk back, and appeared to slumber.

It was not until the sixth day after the engagement, that the lofty ridges of the rock of Lisbon, tinged with the ruddy beams of the rising sun, greeted the anxious eyes of the voyagers, rising like a welcome beacon out of the blue and shining ocean. The morning was pure and lovely, such as the fair clime of Portugal can often boast; the very air sparkling with animation. The gentle breeze came in irregular breaths off the land, laden with the odour of aromatic herbs and flowers, so grateful to the senses of those who have inhaled nought but saline particles during a protracted voyage. They had made the land rather to the north of the rock, which was looked upon as a very good land-fall by the old pilot; for it must be recollected that we are writing of nearly a hundred years ago, since which time navigation has made great strides in improvement; and, as they coasted along, Don Luis eagerly watched each village and point they passed, while Pedro greeted, no less delighted, and with much more violent gesticulation, each spot of his beloved Portugal, as the seamen pointed it out to him.

“Ah! at length your hopes may, perhaps, be realised,” said the Captain, as he came on deck, smilingly addressing Don Luis; “but you see how fallacious they before proved, and while you expected to have landed a week ago, we have only just passed the spot where we then were; and, in the meantime, have narrowly escaped destruction by the two great dangers of the sea—the tempest and the fight. Thus you will find it through life, and remember the history of Senhor Mendez: he seemed to have given it to strengthen my advice; but observe, I do not thus bid you despair: on the contrary, I wish to prevent your falling into despondency, by teaching you to be prepared for the difficulties I know you must encounter, and by showing you that you may surmount them. Here were we hurried away from our haven as rapidly as a man may be from the high path of rectitude into the dark gulf of crime, and it has cost us almost as much exertion to return; but yet, at length, our haven is nigh, and we have every prospect of attaining it.”

“Believe me, captain, I am grateful for the interest you take in my welfare,” answered Don Luis, “and will endeavour to profit by your warning and counsels, which are of double value, as I feel that I required them.”

“Be assured that I am not fond of giving advice to those who I know will disregard it,” answered the Captain; and, seeing that his friend was about to speak, he added, “remember, I will not exchange with you the current coin given for advice, when both are empty and valueless; so we will say no more on the subject.”

“As you wish, my friend,” answered Don Luis. “Then what think you of your prisoner, or rather guest, Senhor Mendez?”

“That he is rapidly recovering from his wounds,” said the Captain.

“Yes, he daily gains strength,” said Don Luis: “but I mean as to who he is.”

“That he is one who seeks to remain unknown,” responded Captain Pinto. “Do not ask me further respecting him; for I cannot satisfy you, though he has made me acquainted with his history. He will pass for a Portuguese born in the colonies, and I shall thus be able to afford him assistance while he remains in Lisbon; and as few even on board have seen his countenance, and as I shall land him as a wounded man, there is no danger of his being recognised.”

While this conversation was going forward, the ship was slowly running down the coast; and as we have ourselves sailed over the same ground, we are able accurately to describe it. On the low flat ground which stretches away to the north of the rock of Lisbon, they could clearly perceive with their glasses the domes and towers of the Escurial of Portugal, the immense palace and convent of Mafra, built by that pious debauchee, John the Fifth. This vast edifice is of a quadrangular form, showing a front towards the sea some seven hundred feet in length, with a lofty portico in the centre, which leads to the church. It seems, by its extent, rather calculated for a fortress, in which to quarter all the troops in the kingdom, than a refuge for humble monks, or a calm retirement for royalty. A suburb, as it were, of houses and cottages has sprung up around it.

They next passed under the serrated ridges of the rock of Lisbon towering towards the heavens, embosomed among which lies the beautiful and romantic vale of Cintra, rising, like an oasis in the wilderness, from the arid and scorched plains surrounding Lisbon. From the sea few of its beauties can be perceived, the only conspicuous object being the cork convent of Nossa Senhora da Penha, perched like an eyrie amid the most lofty cliffs, the first name being given to it from its being lined with cork to shield the monks from damp, as great part of it is hewn out of the solid rock. One small gap in the mountain alone allows the voyager a glimpse of the paradise within, filled with cork, orange, citron, olive, and numerous other trees and sweet-scented shrubs. Having doubled the cape, from beneath whose caverned rock the deep murmur of the sea was heard, they passed across the bay of Cascaes, with its low sterile cliffs, and a fresh sea breeze setting in, they entered the majestic Tagus by the northern passage, with a small island to the right entirely covered by a circular castle of white stone, built to protect the mouth of the river, called the Bugio fort. The scene was highly animating to those who had spent day after day without meeting, on the dreary expanse of waters, a friendly bark to cheer their sight, as they beheld numberless vessels, of all classes, sailing up the river with the fresh sea breeze, and boats of every description darting here and there over the sparkling waves. There was the lofty Indiaman, or richly-laden Brazilian ship, (for at that time Portugal monopolised the entire carrying trade to her colonies,) surrounded by a hundred boats which had come out to welcome relations and friends from their long voyage, or to inquire for those who remained behind, or might perhaps never return. Then there was the heavy-sailing English merchant brig, characteristic of her nation, possessing more bottom than speed, and proving to the world that the first maritime people could build the ugliest vessels, not surpassed in that respect by the tub-like, yellow-sided Dutchman, laden with cheeses in the shape of cannon balls. Among them were seen, in strong contrast, the graceful, high-pointed lateen sails of the Portuguese Rasca, used chiefly in the coasting trade; and the native schooner, or Hiate, with hulls not destitute of beauty, but rigged with masts raking at different angles, and their gaffs peaked at unequal heights; and also the curious Lisbon fishing-boat, shaped like a bean-pod, curving up at stem and stern, with a short rounded deck at each end, and a single high lateen sail. Then there were sloops, schooners, etc, etc, but all made way for the royal cruiser, as she proudly sailed up the stream, lowering their flags as she passed them in mark of respect. Passing close to the white tower of Belem and its gothic church at the westernmost part of Lisbon, they at length dropped their anchor opposite to that picturesquely-beautiful city, which rises on many hills from the shores of the wide-flowing Tagus, the white buildings glittering in the sun, crowned by the dark frowning castle, surrounded by suburbs intermixed with gardens filled with the richly-tinted orange-trees; but it was in those days very inferior in point of size and beauty to what it is now, and, alas! on entering it, its outward promise was found to be sadly deceptive; the streets were narrow, ill ventilated, and badly constructed, with a degree of dirt far surpassing that of any other European city; the extraordinary healthiness of the climate, and the heavy rains, aided by the canine scavengers which swarmed in it, and contributed to carry off the impurities, alone preventing it from being yearly visited by the plague, which the inhabitants took no other means to avoid. Amid this collection of dirt were, however, to be found numerous fine palaces, rich convents for both sexes, highly adorned churches of elegant architecture, and various other public buildings surpassed by few cities of the time. The river is here several miles in breadth; and on the opposite shore, which is composed of rugged cliffs, once stood old Lisbon, (Note), the ancient capital of Lusitania; while, looking up the stream, it has, from its wide extent, the appearance of a magnificent lake, which diminishes considerably the apparent height of its banks.

As it is not our intention to give a topographical description of Lisbon, we will return to the more interesting subject, we doubt not, of our narrative. No sooner were the sails furled, and the anchor had touched the ground, than, as the gallant bark rode securely on the smooth surface of the Tagus, she was surrounded by hundreds of boats, filled with eager and questioning passengers, and such shouts, cries, and vociferations, filled the air, that it was difficult to hear an order given or a reply made.

While Don Luis was waiting till the captain was prepared to accompany him on shore, and gazed admiringly on the beautiful panorama around him, his heart beat quick with the joyful anticipation of at length meeting her on whom, during his absence, all his thoughts had centred. He pictured to himself her delighted surprise at his unexpected return, and the rich blush which would suffuse her lovely cheeks, as, overcoming the natural bashfulness of love, forgetful of the formal etiquette of society, of everything, in her joy of seeing him, she would throw herself into his arms. Then he thought of the thousand questions she would ask of his adventures, and the answers he should make; of the animated glances of her bright eyes, as he described the storm and night-engagement with the rover, with the share he had taken in the strife; how she would tremble with agitation, as he recounted the dangers he had undergone, and how doubly dear he should be to her heart after all his escapes. Not once did his good friend Pinto’s warnings and forebodings occur to him; not once did he think of the history of Senhor Mendez. How, indeed, could any dark or dismal thoughts intrude, surrounded by a scene of such loveliness, with that pure blue sky, and that clear sparkling atmosphere! All appeared to him of rosy hue, nor did he remember how false and treacherous was the outward appearance of the very city at which he gazed—a fit emblem of the fair promises of the world, full of foulness and deceit.

His thoughts were quickly broken in upon by the captain summoning him to the boat, which conveyed them on shore; and once more with joy did he press his native soil, as, attended by Pedro, he hastened to his father’s house, while Captain Pinto repaired to the Admiralty, to report the arrival of his ship.

Note. Ourique, opposite Lisbon, the birth-place of Portuguese monarchy.

Volume One—Chapter Four.

We must now quit the free, boundless, ever-varying ocean, on which we delight to dwell, with its exciting incidents of the chase, the tempest, and the fight, for the confined space of a crowded city.

The palace of the Marquis d’Alorna was situated near the centre of Lisbon, on the rise of a hill, at a short distance from the river; and although the approach to it was through what we should now consider narrow, dirty streets, it was an edifice of some consideration, constructed of fine hewn stone, with a handsome entrance, through which a carriage might drive to the foot of a broad flight of steps, leading to that part of the mansion inhabited by the family, the lower part being appropriated for stables, and for the use of the inferior order of domestics, and where also the family coaches stood in conspicuous array. But it is to the upper story of the building, where, in Portugal, are frequently situated the most agreeable rooms of the house, that we would introduce our readers. It was a large apartment, a broad balcony in front, with a heavy, highly-carved balustrade of stone-work, from which was seen a fine view of the Tagus, blue and sparkling in the bright sunshine, and covered with white dancing sails, wending their course in every direction. The interior decorations of the room were rich, but not according to the most approved taste of the present day. Over the windows hung curtains of yellow damask, which cast a glare anything but becoming to the complexions of the inmates, and the ceiling was decorated with a fresco painting of some allegorical subject, most difficult to determine. The walls were covered with tapestry, representing a scene in Arcadia, it might be presumed, from a number of fair ladies figuring in the landscape in the fanciful costume of shepherdesses, with crooks in their hands adorned with flowers and ribbons, who ought to have been tending several flocks of sheep scattered far and wide; but their attention was diverted from these pastoral duties by listening to the passionate addresses of sundry youths, in bag wigs and swords, who were kneeling at their feet in all the most approved attitudes of devotion. A surprising number of waterfalls, temples, bridges, and romantic cottages, fit abodes for love, peace, contentment, and little children, filled up the interesting picture. In a small alcove on one side was an altar, on which stood an image of the Virgin and Child; the mother dressed in robes of blue and gold stripes, trimmed with pink, and a crown of silver and precious stones on her head, the whole figure surrounded by bright wreaths of artificial flowers; but it appeared a pity, since so much expense had been lavished on her decoration, that the same pious hand had not afforded even the slightest garment to shelter from the inclemency of the weather the little smiling cherub in her arms. The floor was of highly polished chestnut, not covered by any carpet, except a narrow strip below a row of high-backed chairs, of dark carved mahogany, placed against the walls. Several doors opened from the room, affording a long vista beyond, of other apartments, to the opposite windows of the palace, through which might pass the refreshing breeze from the river.

But it is time that we should describe the occupants of the chamber; for there were several of the gentler sex seated in a circle near the open window, some on low chairs or stools, the others having placed themselves on the ground in the eastern fashion, with their work before them.

The lady who seemed of most consequence in the party was reclining with her back to the side of the window, so as to command a view of the world without, and, at the same time, to see and hear what was going forward in the room. She was young—very young; by her appearance scarcely counting eighteen summers of life, and beautiful as the pure sky of her native clime; but already on that high and pure brow had thought, care, or passion, cast a faint, scarce perceptible sign, which came and passed away like a thin fleeting cloud. The bright hue of health and spirits was on her oval cheeks, and there was a sparkling lustre in her full dark eye, which, at times, however, wanted, alas! that soft gentle expression so much more requisite to the eye of ebon hue than to any other: but who could quarrel with the faultless features of her exquisitely chiselled countenance? Her figure was scarcely of the average middle height, but it was beautifully formed, every limb rounded to perfection; indeed it was rather full than otherwise, relieved by her swan-like throat, and the fine fall of her shoulders.

She was sumptuously dressed in richly flowered silks; her hair, of raven hue, drawn from off her forehead, and slightly powdered, was arranged in many curls, and fastened at the summit with pins of gold. She had been occupied, or rather pretended to be occupied, in working with silk on canvass, the fashionable employment of ladies in those days; but the work appeared to be proceeding but slowly, as the small part only of a design was seen, and it was now thrown, with various bright coloured balls, at her feet. The rest of the party were rather more industriously employed in the like sort of occupation, though the gay peals of light laughter which rose from the circle, showed that they were not very earnest about it; their incentive to merriment appearing to proceed from a personage not the least remarkable of the group, seated opposite to the lovely being we have described. Her features were of jetty black, of that intense ugliness rarely seen in youth, at all events but in the negro race; and although she was scarcely more than three feet high, her head was as large as that of a full-grown person, with round shining eyes, a good-natured, contented smile ever playing round her full ruddy lips, which disclosed a full proportion of immense pearly teeth, the grotesqueness of her features increased, evidently by design, by a costly costume of every hue: her hair, too, according to the fashion, being dressed in a high peak, was decorated also with ribbons of the most glaring colours. The little lady did not, however, appear at all conscious of the absurdity of her appearance; but, on the contrary, seemed to consider herself habited in a most becoming costume, receiving all the compliments which were jokingly paid her, as her due. When she spoke, the tones of her voice were as deep as those of a full-grown person, and when she became excited in conversation, there was a degree of harshness about them far from agreeable.

“Well, my sweet mistress,” said this curious-looking being, rising as if about to take her leave, “I must tear myself away from your enchanting presence, to return to the high personages who sent me, with the joyful news of the prospect of your quick return to health; but, ere I go, I must acquit me of my mission, and deliver this holy relic, with which I was charged, as a sovereign remedy against all human ills.” Saying which, she produced a small silver casket, from a large bag which she carried in the shape of a reticule, adding, “Know that it contains part of the precious remains of the most holy Saint Anthony, being his true and veritable little finger, presented to her majesty by the pious father Malagrida, who certified the many miracles it had worked in the various parts of the world to which he had borne it. You will find therein that which will cure you of your malady in the space of a few hours, if you keep it in your own possession,” she whispered, with a significant expression, as she delivered the case into the hands of the young beauty.

“Express my gratitude to her majesty for her bounteous kindness in remembering me,” answered the young lady, “and say I have a firm and pious trust in the efficacy of her holy remedy. In truth, it is well able to cure me of all the malady with which I am afflicted,” she added, laughing. “But, remember, Donna Florinda, that is not to be a part of the message you are to deliver.”

“Oh no,” answered the jet-coloured little lady; “trust to my discretion—I thought as much when I brought the casket, which, however, I will leave, as you may require it; though those sparkling eyes, and the rich colour on those lovely cheeks, betoken little sign of disease.”

“My illness was one imposed on me by my honoured father, at the instigation of his lady wife, to prevent my attendance at Court,” answered the young lady; her eye flashing angrily as she spoke. “Thank Heaven! I shall soon be my own mistress, nor will I yield again to their unjust commands.”

“Spoken like a girl of spirit,” said the Dwarf. “I like those who will never submit to tyranny; and be assured that his majesty will much applaud your determination, for all the Court mourn the absence of its brightest ornament. But I must not stay chattering here, or it will be supposed I am lost, and then there will be a hue and cry all over Lisbon in search of me; for I am much too valuable a person not to be a prize to any who could carry me off.”

“You would indeed be a treasure, Donna Florinda, to the happy person who possessed you, but their majesties esteem you far too much to part with you willingly,” returned the lovely girl, laughing.

“Methinks they do, and I have no intention of quitting them. I know when I am well off.—Now, again, my sweetest friend, adieu.” Saying which, Donna Florinda sprang up, imprinting a kiss on each cheek of the beautiful girl, who received the salute, as a thing of course, and then curtseying with an air intended to be very dignified, she turned to quit the apartment.

“Run, maidens, run,” exclaimed the young lady. “Run and attend Donna Florinda to her chair. Haste all of you, and pay her proper respect.” The maids, accustomed to the imperious orders of their young mistress, threw down their work, and followed Donna Florinda, for so their majesties of Portugal had been pleased to call their black favourite; and no sooner was the room cleared, than with eager hands the young lady opened the casket which had been sent her. It contained, doubtless, the little finger of Saint Anthony, but it contained also a small fold of paper, which she hurriedly abstracted, placing the casket aside, as a thing she valued not.

Agitation was visible on her countenance, as with trembling fingers she tore open the note. “Enchanting, beautiful girl,” it ran, “too often have I gazed enraptured on those matchless charms to resist longer their enslaving power. Though the barriers of custom and bigotry intervene to keep us asunder, yet would I break through all obstacles to win one smile of acquiescence to my ardent wishes from those bright eyes! and ah! believe that this heart, which has never felt till now one pang of love, though surrounded by the fairest, the most lovely in the land, has at length been punished for its obduracy; nor can I experience one moment of peace till I know that this has been accepted by her for whom it is intended, and that she will deign to send some answer favourable to my hopes. From one who would, were it possible, lay a crown at the feet of the most captivating of her sex.” No signature was attached to the epistle; but, as the lady’s eyes glanced hurriedly over it, her breathing grew quick, a blush mantled on her neck and cheek, though remaining but a moment ere a pallor succeeded, as she placed it in her bosom, on hearing the return of her attendants along the corridor leading to her apartment. Her principal attendant gazed at her earnestly, with an expression of concern.

“Surely, Senhora, you are now really ill indeed; and I fear St. Anthony’s finger has been of slight benefit. Let me run and procure you some of the restorative medicine I am ordered to take.”

“No, no, there is no necessity for it,” answered the young lady; “I merely slightly pricked my finger as Donna Florinda left the room, and the pain was acute, and made me feel faint; but it has passed away and left no mark. I shall be well again directly.”

As she spoke her former colour returned to her cheeks, but the smile which had sat on her lips was not so easily recovered; and though she attempted to talk with animation, her gaiety was forced and unnatural. Before many minutes had passed, another visitor was announced as the Marchioness of Tavora, at which name the attendants stood up respectfully, the young lady advancing herself to the door of the apartment to receive her guest. The lady who now entered was of majestic deportment, with firmness and dignity in every movement, at the same time that there was much feminine beauty in her features; for, although they had much passed their prime, they yet retained a large portion of those charms for which she had once been celebrated, without any of the disfiguring marks of old age. She gazed with a look of affection, as she addressed the young lady, who conducted her respectfully to a chair, and placed herself on a lower seat at her feet.

“I have come, my sweet daughter, as an ambassadress from my son, the heir of his father’s wealth and titles, earnestly to press his suit,” began the Marchioness; “you know how fondly he loves you, and all the necessary preliminaries having been arranged between the Marquis of Tavora and your father, your consent is alone wanting to fix the day on which he may be made happy. Say, then, that you will not defer the day, and let me be the bearer of the joyful tidings to my boy.”

“I am highly flattered by the honour you do me, Senhora Marqueza,” answered the young lady, “and by the preference your son shows me; but I do not feel myself worthy of his love without giving mine in return, and I would rather not wed yet.”

“Do I hear aright?” exclaimed the Marqueza, with surprise, and a degree of anger in her tone. “Can you, whom I already look upon in the light of a daughter, dream of disobedience to your father’s commands, and refuse my son’s proffered alliance? Such a thing is impossible. Have you not constantly given me reason to suppose that you would throw no difficulty in the way,—then why this sudden and unaccountable change of opinion? But I know that these words do not express your feelings: they were uttered more from a freak of maiden bashfulness, than from any confirmed determination. To such folly, however, you must not yield. Think well again before you give your final answer; for of such as that you before uttered I cannot be the bearer.”

The young lady remained silent for some minutes; a pallid hue again overspread her features, and she gasped for breath, as if some intense feelings were passing through her bosom; but the Marchioness, occupied with her own thoughts, did not, apparently, observe her. At length, by a strenuous effort recovering her composure, she looked up. “If such is the will of my father, that I should wed, I will follow it,” she said; “my hand, when he shall claim it, is at your son’s command; and I must crave your pardon that I at first refused the proffered honour.”

“My sweet daughter, you have made me most happy,” exclaimed the Marchioness, folding her in an affectionate embrace. “My beloved son, on whom you know every sentiment of my heart is placed, will hasten to throw himself at your feet; but say, my fair child, when you will crown his joy, by bestowing that hand he prizes so much?”

“I would petition for a short delay,” returned the lovely girl; “let the day be in November next: he will not have long to wait; and it is but short time to prepare to quit a home where I have spent the few happy days of my life, and for the future, alas! oh, may Heaven protect me!” The last part of the sentence was uttered rather to herself than aloud, nor did the Marchioness attend to the words.

“I will not, at present, urge you to fix an earlier time, though I would have wished it sooner; but perhaps my son may have more influence,” said the Marqueza, smiling. “I must now go to relieve his mind of the anxiety which oppresses it, and before long, expect your loving bridegroom here.” Saying which, the Marchioness of Tavora arose, and, embracing the young lady, she quitted the apartment with the same stately dignity with which she had entered, attended, with the utmost respect, by the retinue of maidens who waited on their young mistress.

We scarce dare describe the thoughts of the bride elect, of that young and lovely creature who seemed formed for virtue and happiness alone. She hastened to the open window to seek fresher air, for that in the room oppressed her, she thought, and stood gazing, with dilated eye, on the pure blue, calm sky, so contrasted with the agitation of her bosom. “Alas! for what am I prepared?” she exclaimed; “what a dark gulf do I see yawning beneath my feet, which no human power can aid me to overleap. Could I summon courage, I might yet escape; but then how blank and desolate would my heart become! No! I could part with happiness, rank, wealth, all the world esteems; but I cannot yield up love. Ah, why should I tremble or hesitate? Have not others done the same? and without risk, how can power and greatness be obtained? And yet, oh, heavens! I wish it had been otherwise.”

Thus giving utterance to broken and disjointed sentences, in a tone often of despair and grief, her small delicate hands clasped together, she continued at the window for some minutes. Again she was silent, when what sounded more like an hysterical laugh than one of joy broke from her lips. “It were destruction to turn back now,” she cried; “and, my young lord marquis, I am your most humble bride. Begone, from henceforth, all vain foolish fears and regrets, which gaiety will easily dissipate.” She turned quickly round with a smiling countenance, for she heard a footstep approaching, thinking it was one of her female attendants; but she started suddenly at seeing, instead, the tall figure of a young and handsome cavalier, advancing rapidly towards her with the intention, it appeared by his gestures, of saluting her on the cheek without waiting for permission, had she not drawn back with an expression of anger in her countenance, and, throwing herself into a chair, coldly held out her hand. The movement had the effect, as by magic, of arresting the young man in his headlong career. He gazed at her for some time, without uttering a syllable, with a steady, mournful, and surprised look. “Can it be possible that I am so changed, during an absence but of two years, that you know me not?” he at length exclaimed. “I cannot, dare not, believe that Donna Theresa would thus cruelly have behaved, had she known me.”

“Oh, I know you perfectly, my good cousin,” answered the young lady; “nor do I perceive that you are in the slightest degree changed from the boisterous, forward youth you were when you set out on your travels, if I may judge by the unceremonious way in which you forced yourself into my private apartments.”

The young cavalier gazed at her with amazement, while a look of pain, or we may say rather of agony, crossed his handsome features. “Do I hear aright,” he exclaimed passionately, “or am I in some horrid dream? Yet methought all was reality till I entered here; but now I cannot, dare not believe my senses.”

“You appear to me to be perfectly awake, Don Luis; nor do I wish you on any account to believe otherwise. Look round this room; the tapestry, the hangings, the furniture are the same; nor am I very much altered in appearance since the time you quitted Portugal. Your own extravagant expectations are alone not realised.” She spoke in a tone half of banter and half serious,—“Come, come, my good cousin, lay aside, for Heaven’s sake, that tragic air, more suited to the stage than to private society, and tell me to what cause I am indebted for this sudden visit from one I thought was basking in the sunny smiles of the fair beauties of England.”

“Can you, Theresa, can you ask such a question?” exclaimed the young Cavalier, (in whom our readers may recognise Don Luis d’Almeida,) with grief and tenderness in his tone. “Does not your heart tell you that you were the first person I should fly to see on my return to my native land—that you were the magnet which has drawn me hither?”

“You do me too much honour,” answered Donna Theresa, coldly; “but I should have supposed your filial affections would have prompted you first to throw yourself at your father’s feet before you took the trouble of paying your respects to your numerous cousins, however intimate you may have been with them in your boyish days.”

“Your words are but cold, heartless mockery to my feelings,” answered Don Luis, vehemently. “Have you so soon forgotten our mutual vows of love and constancy, which Heaven recorded to stand as indelible witnesses against either who should be guilty of perfidy? Have you forgotten our troth, plighted in the sight of God, which none but ourselves can annul, with his just curse on the one who causes it to be broken? Were all my vows and protestations of love and attachment looked upon as mere empty words, which the passing breath of summer might blow away? Have a few months of absence served to wither what was once so fair and lovely? No, no, it is impossible! Say, did you never love me? Was I deceived from the first? Was my love considered but as a plaything to amuse, till some more glittering toy presented itself to attract your attention?”

“You overwhelm me with the rapidity and multiplicity of your questions, Senhor,” answered Donna Theresa; “I can scarcely comprehend your long speech about love and constancy, and your violence frightens me. However, I will make due allowance for the uncouth manners you have acquired among the islanders, in whose territories you have been travelling, and will try to answer you to the best of my abilities. I certainly do recollect that, in our childish days, we were foolish enough to make some absurd promise to each other, which I no more hold as binding than any other act made by infants; besides, I have received absolution for any such deeds on my part, though I do remember you made a great many strange oaths and protestations, which I now consider highly improper; therefore, pray let me ask you, Senhor, by what authority you put these questions, not very complimentary, in truth, to me?”

“Great Heavens! can you expect me to remain calmly before you, while I listen to such words? You ask me by what authority I thus speak. By your own expressions when we parted; by your last fond embrace; by my own ardent, devoted love, which has not for one moment, by thought or deed, proved disloyal; your vows, protestations, tears, and sighs,—they, they give me authority to speak.”

“Holy Mary, you frighten me with your vehemence!” exclaimed the young lady, raising her hands to hide her countenance; “I thought you had more wisdom than thus to make yourself appear ridiculous. Have I not before said, that people, when they grow up, are not to be answerable for all the folly and nonsense they may have committed in their childish days; then why insist on what no girl of sense can allow?”

“Say no more, Donna Theresa, say no more,” cried Don Luis; “I were dull indeed not to comprehend your meaning. You have drawn aside the veil which shrouded my eyes; for I had thought that an inconstant and treacherous heart could not dwell within a form so lovely, so graceful as yours; but now, alas! what a hideous spectacle is laid bare to my sight! Donna Theresa, you have much to answer for to your sex. You have been the first to shake my faith in the innate purity and virtue of woman; for I supposed all who were so beauteous in form, must possess natures equally fair and adorable; but from henceforth, for your sake, can I place confidence in no one.”

“Senhor, you are growing insolent,” exclaimed the lady, rising from her seat, with an angry spot on her lovely brow; “you presume too much on our relationship and childish friendship, when you dare utter expressions like these, which no cavalier should venture to make use of before a lady.”

Don Luis drew a step nearer, as if not understanding her last observation. “It is impossible that I am really awake!” he exclaimed, with deep passion. “A few fleeting months could not so alter Donna Theresa’s tender, loving nature, as to make her, with cold, callous indifference, inflict so cruel, so bitter a wound on a heart which has thus faithfully adored her. No no, I wrong her, I foully wrong her! I wrong her gentle sex itself to suppose it possible. I see how it has been—I have, during my absence, been maligned; my character has been traduced, she has been taught to consider me false and faithless; a wretch unworthy of a thought; but I will discover the slanderer, and though I follow him through the world, I will punish him for his baseness. Speak, Theresa, speak! say it is so, and relieve my heart from the overpowering weight which is sinking it to despair; for then may I quickly clear my fame, and regain the priceless jewel I have lost!”

What woman’s heart could withstand such an appeal? not Donna Theresa’s, surely. Indeed, it would have been more fortunate for herself and her family had it been of a less tender nature. She appeared moved, as, with a slight falter in her voice, scarcely perceptible to any but a lover’s ears, she exclaimed, “On no one, but on my own head, rests the blame; and on me let your anger fall. I have wronged you, Luis; I would have spared you this, but the time is passed for reparation, and my actions are not in my own power; yet we are no longer children, that I should mourn for the past, or that you should do aught unbecoming a man. Pardon me, Luis, for my heartless treatment; but I will no longer tamper with your generous feelings: my hand is pledged to another!”

Don Luis started as if an electric shock had struck him. “All is finished, then,” he exclaimed, “and my fondly-cherished hopes are blasted! I will not reproach you, lady—I will not question you further. May he who has gained your hand not find that he also is betrayed.” He stopped, and gazed a moment at her countenance. “Oh! pardon, pardon me for such words,” he cried: “no, I will not, even in my thoughts, condemn you. For your sake I would have died; and, with my life, I will still protect you against all who may wrong you. Theresa, you know not what agony you have caused.”

“Spare me, Luis, spare me,” exclaimed his cousin. “I have told you that I have no longer power over my own destinies, and therefore words are thrown away. It were better for both that this interview should end; and, when we next meet, let us forget the past. Farewell.”

Don Luis started at that word, casting one long earnest gaze at her, full of reproach and grief, which he could not repress. “Farewell, Theresa; may the happiness I do not expect to find be your lot!” he cried, in a voice broken with agitation, and rushed from the apartment.

Donna Theresa stood for a minute motionless, gazing in the direction her young cousin had gone, while bitterly did her conscience condemn her; but she was too proud, too firm in her resolve, to allow it to conquer. For good or for evil her course was taken, and she had determined nought should deter her from following it; yet the intensity of her feelings almost overcame her, and it was some time before she could recover herself, as she stood at the open window eagerly inhaling the fresh air, till the return of her attendants. They had judiciously kept away; for, it must be known, that in no part of the civilised world are Abigails more discreet than in Portugal; and, when they saw a handsome young cavalier rushing up stairs, whom most of them remembered as the playmate, and latterly the ardent admirer of their mistress, judging from their own feelings on such an occasion, they naturally concluded the cousins would wish for a short time, to enjoy, uninterrupted, each other’s society. With most commendable consideration, therefore, they lingered on their return; or, at all events, did not approach nearer than the keyhole of some of the doors leading into the apartment, where they became highly-interested spectators of the drama enacting within; so that Don Luis gained, unawares, several warm advocates in his cause; for all joined in deprecating their mistress’s cruel treatment of so handsome a cavalier, each one feeling that she could not have found it in her heart to be so obdurate.

Volume One—Chapter Five.

It has just occurred to us, that our readers will begin to suppose we design to make Don Luis d’Almeida our hero; but we must disclaim intending to introduce any such character; though, were we writing a romance, instead of compiling a history of the times of the great Marquis, he might, very properly, be considered in that light; indeed, we take great interest in his fate, for we cannot help sympathising with the sorrows of one, whom the blind archer has treated so cruelly; and we therefore omit many incidents mentioned in the voluminous manuscripts before us, in order to describe his proceedings, which, retrograding a little, we will now relate, from the time he landed with Captain Pinto from the corvette. His first impulse was to hasten to the palace of his father, the Conde d’Almeida; both longing to throw himself at the feet of a parent he revered, and knowing that he should there learn where Donna Theresa was residing. In his first hope he was disappointed; for, on entering his father’s hall, a solemn silence reigned around, and everything wore a deserted and melancholy air. Instead of the grey-headed porter, and the group of liveried menials, water-carriers, idlers, and beggars, the maimed, and the blind, who usually throng the entrance of every noble’s house in Lisbon, his feet aroused three or four hideous specimens of the canine race, who had thought fit to make it their abode during the heat of the day, till they should sally forth at night to join their brethren, and enact the part of scavengers to the city.

Pedro’s loud vociferations, after sundry interrogations from some one above to inquire their business at the palace, at length brought down an old domestic, who no sooner caught sight of the person he thought was a stranger, than, in his agitation, letting his keys drop on the stone pavement, he rushed forward, with outstretched arms, to fold his young master in an embrace which lasted some minutes, now tapping him on one side, now on the other; but Don Luis took it as a matter of course, returning it with equal cordiality, till Pedro came in for a slighter share of the old man’s welcomes. He was next obliged to go through the same ceremony with an old lady, whom the chirrupping voice of the old major domo called down. Her grey locks were partly concealed by a neat white handkerchief, fastened over her head, while another covered her shoulders, below which appeared a gown of a staid, sombre colour, a large black rosary and crucifix hanging down to her waist. To his eager inquiries for the Count, his father, he could for some time elicit no other answer than various broken exclamations.

“Oh, holy Virgin! oh, Jesu Maria! these are bad times, dangerous times,” and they looked round cautiously to see that no one was within hearing. “There is now one in Portugal who is each day becoming a greater favourite of our lord the king, and who can do anything in the country, who rules the holy Church, who rules the people, and who seeks to rule the fidalgos also. Oh, he’s a great man, doubtless, but he’s much to be feared. Well, senhor, it was only the other day that your father’s friend, Senhor Alfonzo Botelho, was arrested, we know not on what account, and thrown into prison, and when the Senhor Conde, your father, was exerting himself to the utmost for his liberation, and applied to Senhor Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho, the privy counsellor to the king, it was hinted to him that he might share the same fate if he interfered.”

“What say you?” exclaimed Don Luis. “Have any dared to throw my honoured father into prison?”

“Heaven deliver us from a like calamity,” answered the old couple. “Oh no, senhor, it is not so bad as that; but when the Senhor Conde came home, he ordered his carriage and his horses, and the escudeiro, and the other servants to be prepared, and set off the next day for the Quinta.”

“This is indeed bad news you give me,” answered Don Luis. “And I must hasten away to-morrow to join my father: I have therefore no time to lose in Lisbon. First, can you tell me if my fair cousin, Donna Theresa d’Alorna, is residing in the city, or is she in the country?”

“Oh, senhor, the Senhora Donna Theresa is at present at the house of the marquis, her father; but, alas! she is much changed from what she was; for she never comes here now to spend the day; though, to be sure, she has more to occupy her than formerly, for it is said she has become a great favourite of the queen, and is constantly at Court; and that is not a good place for young ladies, who are much better-employed staying at home, and learning to work and to embroider.”

“The dissipations of a Court will have no power to alter Donna Theresa’s heart,” exclaimed the lover. “But now, my good Lucas and Senhora Anna, I must hasten away, though I will soon return; for I have much to learn and much to tell you.”

“But you cannot think, senhor, of leaving the house without taking something to eat,” exclaimed the old lady: “you would die of hunger, and you always used to have a very good appetite.”

“All, senhor, do stay,” added old Lucas, “and we will soon cook you up something to please you.”

“I am not hungry, I assure you, my good friends,” answered Don Luis; “and I cannot remain, but I will leave Pedro to recount all the wonders he has seen, and the dangers he has escaped;” saying which, he hurried off in the fond hope of finding his mistress fair and loving as ever. How grievously he was disappointed we have seen; and he then remembered Captain Pinto’s warning and advice.

On rushing from the apartment of his false and fickle mistress, Don Luis scarcely knew whither he was wandering. All his bright hopes and aspirations were crushed and blighted at the moment he expected to find them realised. A weight was on his heart, from which he felt none could relieve him, and he believed that from henceforth the world for him could have no happiness in store; but yet he recollected that he was a man, and he resolved not to sink tamely under his cruel fate.

Now we opine that romance writers would have made their heroes act very differently; they would either have thrown themselves, in despair, into the Tagus, or flown to weary the live-long hours in deploring their hapless lot, with groans and sighs, beneath the mournful shade of some solitary grove; but Don Luis was of a very different character. In the first place, he was too brave, and too much in his senses, to quit the world; and he had been taught, and believed, that he had no right to give up existence till summoned by a higher Power than his own will. Nor is suicide a crime at all common with his countrymen: they live under too bright a sky, and breathe too pure and elastic an atmosphere, to wish to change them for the gloomy, narrow tomb. Had he been of that disposition which delights to brood over grief in solitude, there were no shady groves in the neighbourhood of Lisbon whither he could repair to indulge his propensity, if we except a few orange and olive plantations, where he would most certainly have been accompanied by a rabble of little boys, to wonder what he could be about, probably mistaking him for some actor rehearsing his part in a tragedy. To return home was almost as bad; for he knew that he should be assailed by the importunate, though kind, questions of his old domestics; and though he had many relations and friends in the city who would be glad to see him, he could not bring himself to call upon them.

Inaction, in the present state of his feelings, was dreadful to him, yet, as he mechanically bent his steps towards his home, he found himself there before he had made up his mind what course to pursue. He was encountered on the steps by Lucas, who observing his young master’s agitated countenance, comprehended at once that all was not as he wished. “These are sad times, senhor, sad times,” said the old man, “and I fear you found Donna Theresa changed with them; but don’t fret, senhor; come up stairs, and tell Anna all about it, and she will be able to give you the best comfort; for she nursed you when you were a little baby, and knows how to treat you.”

The major domo’s garrulous tongue reminded Don Luis that such was the very thing he wished to avoid, and he was about to rush out of the house, when another sentence of the old man’s made him remain, “Oh! senhor, I forgot to tell you, that Ignacio d’Ozorio is here; he came with a message from your most reverend cousin, the holy Father Jacinto da Costa, to the Senhor Conde, to say that he wished to see him on urgent business, not being aware that he had quitted Lisbon; and when he heard that you had arrived, he said he would remain to see you, and that, perhaps, you would visit Father Jacinto instead of the Count.”

“I will speak to Father Ignacio,” said Don Luis; “where is he?”

“He awaits you in the drawing-room, senhor.”

“Welcome back to Portugal, my son,” said the Jesuit, in that calm, bland voice, so universal among the members of his order. “I came here, expecting to find your respected parent, but, as he is absent, I feel confident my superior will be glad to see you.”

“I trust that my reverend cousin, Father Jacinto, is not unwell?” said Don Luis.

“His health does not fail him, nor his mind, though the latter is sorely vexed by the attacks which are daily made against our order, and which require all his energy and talents to combat; but on that subject he will speak to you.”

“I will gladly accompany you, and am ready this instant to set out,” returned Don Luis.

“You know not, my son, the changes which have taken place during your absence; for it is now dangerous to be seen holding conversation with one of our order, so hated are we by the secretary of state, Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho. I will precede you, and announce your coming.”

After the Jesuit had departed, Anna and Lucas did their utmost to detain Don Luis till he had eaten of the repast they had prepared; but declaring that he had no appetite, to pacify them, he begged them to reserve it till his return, and with hurried steps set out towards the convent of which his cousin was the principal.

He had a considerable distance to traverse, through many narrow dirty streets, up and down hill, till he reached the convent, situated in the upper part of the city. It was a plain and solid building of stone, suited to the unostentatious tastes and habits of its founders, whose great care is, to avoid show or pretensions of any sort. He was received at the entrance by one of the lay members of the order, who informed him that the principal was at that moment engaged with a stranger, and requesting him to wait for a short time, till he should be at liberty to receive him, and conducting him, through several passages and corridors, to a small apartment appropriated to the guest who might visit any of the fathers, he there left him. If primitive simplicity, and want of all outward decoration, were marks of peculiar sanctity, this room might vie with any in holiness; for, except a few high-backed chairs, of some dark wood, and a table of the same colour, with writing materials, furniture there was none, the walls being simply whitewashed, and the ceiling of chestnut, a wood much used in Portugal, particularly in monastic buildings.

Don Luis, being left alone, paced the room with hurried steps, half repenting that he had thus exposed himself—he knew not for how long a time—to the company of his own bitter and agitated thoughts. There was not an object within to draw off his attention; neither, at that moment, would a picture of Titian’s, nor a statue from the hands of Praxiteles, have had sufficient charms to attract his observation. But at length he reached an open window, which looked into a garden filled with orange-trees loaded with their delicate-tinted flowers and rich fruit, round the roots of which the gardener had just allowed to flow a rill of water; and the grateful trees were exhaling their delicious odours, in return, as it were, for the benefit bestowed, scenting the air far and wide. So balmy was the air, so soothing the scent, that even his sad thoughts yielded to the soft influence of kind Nature’s gifts,—a calmness stealing imperceptibly over his soul, and changing the whole current of his thoughts. “How delightful would it be,” he fancied, “to rest, in a quiet seclusion like this, from all the cares and troubles of the world, free from the anxieties and disappointments of love, the fever of ambition, the intrigues of the Court, the scenes of strife which rage beyond its walls! Yet!—No, no,” he exclaimed, after his thoughts had been quiescent for some time, “man was not formed for such a life. How could I endure the seclusion and monotony of the cloister, the fasts and penances, the routine of worship, the separation from the gentler part of creation, false and fickle though they be?” he added bitterly. “No, I am not formed for a life of seclusion and indolence.”

How often he might have changed his opinion during the course of the ensuing minutes, it is impossible to say, when the brother who conducted him into the apartment again appeared, to inform him that the principal was waiting to receive him. As he was passing through a long corridor, a person hastened by him, whose features a gleam of the evening sun lighted strongly up; but his conductor, taking no notice of the stranger, hurried him on till they reached the door of a chamber at the further end of the passage, knocking at which, a voice desired them to enter; and the brother, making a low reverence, retired. No sooner did the occupant of the room, in which the young noble found himself, perceive him, than, with a bland and cordial manner, he rose from his seat, and advanced to welcome him.

He was a man every way worthy of observation: his figure was tall and erect, the height of his appearance increased by the close-fitting, dark robes of his order, although he had already passed the meridian of life, and age had sprinkled a few grey streaks amid his dark hair. His forehead was clear, pale, and lofty, his cheeks were sallow and sunk in, with scarcely any colour on his thin lips, which, when not speaking, he kept firmly closed. His nose was aquiline, delicate, and transparent; but his eyes were the most remarkable features of his countenance, though they were sunk far in his head, of a grey tint, and of no considerable size; but it was their expression, and the bright searching glances they threw around, full of intelligence, which made persons addressing him feel that he could read every thought passing in their minds; and few but acknowledged to themselves that they stood in the presence of a superior being. His voice, too, was melodious, though powerful and manly; his enunciation rapid and clear, with a perfect command of language. Such was the man whose unseen subtle influence was felt by all ranks and conditions of people. But there was another greater than he, though scarce his superior in mind or ambition, but with greater boldness of execution, to whom, for a time, the force of circumstances gave the predominance,—an opportunity which he failed not to use to hurl his antagonist to destruction.

“Welcome, my son,” he said, in a low, clear voice, as he led Don Luis to a chair opposite his own. “Welcome, my young relation, to the land of your nativity, though you come at a time of much anxiety and trouble. I had sent to your father to advise him of certain circumstances which have come to my knowledge, against which it is both his interest and mine to guard in our respective estates. When shall you see your father?”

“I propose to set out for the Quinta to-morrow,” answered Don Luis.

“What! before you have seen your fair cousin, Donna Theresa d’Alorna?” returned the Jesuit. “But why do I ask?—you have seen her already, and the blow has fallen which I feared awaited you. I was aware of your love for Donna Theresa, and that she at one time returned it, for your interests have ever been dear to me, Luis; but I have since discovered that she no longer regards you with affection; and I now know that her hand is irrevocably engaged to another. Had I known of your arrival, I would have saved you the bitter feelings of learning the truth from her own lips; for well do I know how ill in youth we can bear disappointment, which, in our more advanced age, when our passions are cooled and our judgment is matured, we consider but of little moment.”

“Nor age, nor philosophy could blunt the feelings of one who has loved as I have done,” answered Don Luis, vehemently. “I dreamed not that you divined my love for my cousin Theresa; but since you know it, (for otherwise I should not venture to speak to you on such a subject,) tell me, Father, have I no hopes? Has she not been forced to accept the hand of another? If so, at all hazards, I will rescue her from destruction. None shall dare to tear her unwillingly from me.”

“I can give you no hopes,” answered the Priest, gravely. “She is engaged of her own freewill: nor can she ever be yours; but I speak, I know, to one of too superior an understanding to mourn for what he will soon learn to consider at its true value, a glittering, a tempting, but an empty bauble. What matters the loss of the love of a sex ever false and uncertain?”

“Say not so!” exclaimed Don Luis, interrupting him; “say not she is false—say not her sex is false! I alone am to blame for my own wretchedness. I set my hopes of happiness on a cast, and have miserably failed; and now what more have I to expect or wish for, than a speedy end to my woes on the field of battle, or amid the ocean tempest?”

The Priest smiled, as he answered calmly, “Is love, then, the only object of man’s life? Are there not a hundred other occupations for the mind? Is not ambition alone sufficient to employ his thoughts? Will not power satisfy him? Does fame bring no satisfaction? Has wealth, and all that wealth can give, no allurements? Say not, then, because you have suffered this first check in the prosperous current of your existence, that life has nought else in store for you. The antidotes which I propose are sufficient to make you soon smile at your present feelings as the effect of a youthful folly.”

“You cannot convince my heart,” answered the young man. “But should I seek for consolation by the remedies you advise, at what can ambition in this country aim? How can power be obtained? or how can I, with honour, seek for wealth?”

The Priest, smiling, again said, “You speak as one who knows not the world. I mean not the outward, material world, the common machinery which moves the every-day actions of men: any coarse, ordinary being, with a little cunning and observation, may gain sufficient knowledge of that to accumulate wealth, and to guide his way free from danger amid the throngs of his fellows. But I speak of the minds and passions, the inward and intricate workings of the souls of men; of that accurate knowledge of the past, and keen observation of the present, by which we can foresee the future, thus to be able to determine exactly how mankind will act in masses or as individuals, and stoically to look upon the world as a vast chess-board, and its inhabitants as the chess-men, whom we move without any volition of their own, as a player free from any part or feeling with the senseless blocks; as well as to learn how to gain a command over ourselves, and thus to soar above the passions, the frailties, the vanities, and the folly of the common herd. Such is the true knowledge of the world to which a philosophical mind and dauntless soul may attain; and in such, my young friend, would I instruct you.”

Don Luis remained silent with astonishment, while the priest keenly marked the effect of his words. “Is this the man,” he thought, “whom I have regarded as the humble priest and confessor—the meekly-pious minister of our holy faith? But how and where can this knowledge be attained?” he said, looking up; “what means have I of learning the lore you speak of?”

“Have I not said that I would instruct you?” said the Priest. “Within the quiet precincts of these walls you may learn the first rudiments, and within the pale of our order you may become a master in the science.”

“What! can you advise me to give up my title, my name, and fortune, and to assume the gown of a priest?” exclaimed Don Luis, hurriedly. “I expected not such advice from you.”

“I advise you to do nothing rashly,” returned the Jesuit, calmly. “But yet, let me ask you, what are rank and name but empty sounds, though often encumbrances to their possessors? And for your fortune, I grieve to say, for your father’s sake, that has greatly diminished of late, so that, in truth, I ask you to give up but little, and offer you in return power and knowledge—the true science of the knowledge of mankind, for with us alone does it exist. Do I say exists? Alas! I ought rather to say existed; for, with some rare exceptions, how few are initiated into its mysteries! Their dull, sensual minds are incapable of comprehending them; and they have thus failed, miserably failed, in all the ends for which our order was instituted, by men as superior to those of the present day as light to darkness. What a comprehensive, what a noble and glorious conception was that of our great founder, and his immediate successors, who even jet more improved and systematised his plans;—but of that I will speak anon. I now speak openly to you, my young cousin, more so than I would to any other not in our order; but I know that I may trust to your honour not to divulge what I may say. I have liked you from your earliest youth. I have watched anxiously over you, and I have seen in you qualities which I would wish to cultivate, to conduct you to high destinies; and I frankly confess that I seek to join you to our company, as one fully able to elevate it again to its former standard of power.”

Few men can entirely withstand the influence of compliments addressed to their mental superiority, and Don Luis was thus insensibly attracted to listen to the conversation of the Father. “I fear that you would find I did not answer your expectations,” he at length said; “for I feel that I am but dull of comprehension, nor can I even understand to what the knowledge you speak of could lead.”

“Is not knowledge confessed by all philosophers to be power? and for what are all men striving through life but for power?” responded the Jesuit. “For what purpose do kings make war but to increase their power? and yet their utmost aim is to rule over the sinews, the bones, the bodies of men, to extend their sway over the senseless earth which they call their own. But how far, how immeasurably superior is the power at which we aim!—we would rule over the minds of men—we would bend their insane passions to our own will, and would make them, by those means, the tools to work out our glorious projects. Hear me, then, and learn the sublime idea of our founder, which, had he and his immediate followers been succeeded by men equal to themselves, would long ere this have been realised. His aim—how superior to the ambition and vaunted glory of any conqueror who has spread desolation over the fair face of the globe!—was to join all the kingdoms of the earth under one sceptre, and that sceptre swayed by our hands; ay, by the humble friars of the order of the mystical Jesus; and yet, far different would it be from the power to which the Pontiff of Rome can ever hope to attain. Ah! you think such aims cannot be accomplished; yet, look around at every Court in Europe, and see how nearly we had once succeeded. Scarce a sovereign whose mind was not under our direction; and were it not for the dull, stultish understandings of those who have been admitted into our order, our success might have been complete. But they, alas! are beings so completely overwhelmed with the gross, sensual passions of our nature, as to be utterly unable to comprehend the pure, esoterical principles of our faith; and ignorantly interpreting, without a key to the mysteries, the words they find in that volume, never written to meet the eye of the vulgar, they fail in all the great aims of our existence as an order. In this country they have still more greatly erred, and, instead of securing friends, they have raised up enemies. The whole body of the priesthood is against us; but their united efforts we might despise, had we not a deadly foe in the person of Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho, the minister of the king, whose dauntless courage, boundless ambition, and the unscrupulous means he employs, make him more to be feared than any who have ever yet appeared in arms against us. So dull are those who are sent to work with me, that I cannot make them comprehend the means by which alone they can stem the torrent, or rather, turn it aside; nor is it in the power of one man to do so; yet have I done much, and even alone, will I boldly strive for the glorious principle of our constitution.”—His eye dilated, and he unconsciously rose from his chair, as with increased energy, he continued—“and if I fail, and am hurled, as I most assuredly shall be, to destruction, I shall have the consolation of knowing that I have played for a glorious stake.”

“Your words overpower me with astonishment,” exclaimed Don Luis. “I did not suppose such ideas could have been conceived by the heart of man, much less by the members of an order whose quiet and unobtrusive manners are their marked distinction.”

“Trust not ever to such deceitful appearances as the outward manners of a man,” answered the Father; “a general, who would succeed against the foe, must not show his position and strength. Luis, I have thus spoken openly to you, far more so than to any who have not passed the threshold of our order; for I would win you to enter; and I know that I may trust to your judgment and honour; and were it not strictly forbidden, I should not fear to confide to you all the mysteries of our admirable institution. Ah!” he exclaimed, as his eye brightened, and a proud smile lighted up his majestic features, “an institution based on such firm, such true principles of philosophy, must live, though, for a time, it may sink beneath persecution—though, for a time, through the ignorance and obtuseness of members incapable of comprehending its tenets alone, its aims may be perverted, and its power diminished, yet the true word, the principle of its existence, will never be lost; and when the world least expects it, when people are unprepared to oppose it, will it spring up with power and lustre far surpassing what it ever before attained. In countries the most liberal and enlightened will it possess the greatest influence, by means of that very education of which they boast—ay, even in that country from which you have just returned, whose Church, through the absurd folly and neglect of its own ministers, has become a mere cipher in the state, without a shadow of authority over the people; yet does the true principle exist among a few sagacious men, who will cherish it as the lapidary does a precious jewel, whose value, when yet uncut, is unestimated by the common eye. The day will arrive when all those who acknowledge the symbol of the cross will again be joined under one ruling power,—the glorious aim of our order. You deem me enthusiastic and visionary in my hopes, because you know not the secret means by which we work. You know not how we become acquainted with the intricate operations of the minds of all with whom we come in contact, of all classes and religions. We learn the passions, the frailties, the foibles of every one; and thus many, unknown even to themselves, are our tools, and while they fancy that they are obeying the rules of their own sect, are but working out our ends. The end with us sanctities the means, and thus, to attain our objects, we consider every disguise, every fraud, allowable. Know, also, that though our open and avowed members are numerous, yet they fall far short of the real strength of our body; for we have among the priests of each of the various sects of the religion of the cross our secret brethren, who are strenuously working for the great cause. Ah, you start! but the idea is not new; and such was practised before that religion became known to the world; and in that very country which boasts of possessing what is called the blessing of religious liberty do we most strenuously work the whole force of that intricate machinery, which was for years forming, before it was brought to perfection; and thus shall we be able to laugh to scorn the puny efforts of those who dare to oppose us; for even now, in the seats of learning, in every university of the kingdom I speak of, are the seeds sown which will, sooner or later, bring their fruit to perfection. And it is among the young and pliant minds, while they fancy themselves most secure, that we most easily work our way. But the great assistants to our cause are the softer sex; for, by their gentle influence are others won over to aid us, and we therefore spare no means to gain them. We work upon their vanity; the tendency of their natures to adoration; the feeling that they must lean for support on others, to make them place their trust in us; and when such means fail, we win their love: their passions make them subservient to us, and they become our slaves for ever. But such license has been much abused by the baser members of our order, who cannot comprehend that it is over the minds alone of their flock that authority is given them, to gain which any means may be pardoned.”

There is no bait which has more alluring attractions than the idea of possessing illimitable power over the minds of our fellow men; yet Don Luis was not caught by it. And, although the Father was enthusiastic in his hopes, he did not exaggerate the influence which his sect possessed throughout the world; as for his predictions with respect to Britain, at this day their great stronghold, we must examine well the principles professed openly by a large body of the members of the Established Church, encouraged by many of the highest rank in it, and admired by the greater number of the young aspirants for the clerical profession, and then let us judge whether they were well founded or not. But we wish not here to discuss the subject, and have given merely the opinion of one high in his order, as we have found it written, whose mind was raised far above the vulgar aims of his associates.

Don Luis heard with unmitigated astonishment the doctrines which the Father so boldly advanced; although, from the various societies in which he mixed during his travels, particularly in Paris, where those principles of false philosophy were generally discussed, which led to the atrocities of the revolution, he was not quite so much startled as most men of his rank in Portugal would have been; yet he was of too generous, too unambitious a disposition to be thus tempted to grasp the mysterious and potent sceptre presented to him.

“Father,” he answered, gravely, after some minutes’ silence, “my ambition aims not at such power as you describe; and, methinks, few but those who have from their youth been educated in your order, could be brought to train their minds to forward a system which has, to the uninitiated, too much the appearance of treachery towards their fellow men; for as such I feel it, though, to you I speak with no disrespect, and am grateful for the confidence you repose in me, which, be assured, I will not betray; but I must endeavour to seek some other field for my exertions than the one you offer.”

The Jesuit looked at him sternly; it seemed, that an almost imperceptible smile—it might have been a sneer—played round his mouth. “I did not anticipate such an answer from you, Luis,” he said, “but thought you would take a more comprehensive and philosophical view of the principles I have explained to you; yet, my wish being alone to convince your understanding, I will not further press the subject, though I feel assured you will, before long, learn to change your opinion. However, for the present, my good cousin, I trust your mind will be sufficiently employed on the reflections to which our conversation has given rise, to make you forget the treachery and deceit of Donna Theresa—qualities which, you seem to insinuate, belong exclusively to our order. Now, let me tell you, that, in communication with the world, all men use deceit; that it is impossible to succeed without it; and that truth, as society is constituted, is utterly incompatible with its customs. Indeed, the latter quality exists but in one science, and that is in geometry: all else is false or unsatisfactory. Talk, therefore, no more of deceit and treachery, for the world, our very existence, is full of it, and you cannot avoid the common lot.” The Priest smiled, perhaps at his own reasoning, and continued—“Now, my dear cousin, think of what I have said, and when you return to Lisbon, we will speak further on these matters. In the meantime, you must be the bearer of important information to your father, which I have gained from an indubitable source. Learn, then, that Carvalho is using every effort to crush our order,—so strong a barrier to his ambition,—and, knowing that the nobles are our firm upholders, he intends to weaken their influence in the state, by bringing accusations of all sorts against them; when he will imprison, banish, or execute all whom he fears. I have reason to think that he, at present, suspects there is a plot hatching against him; but he allows it to proceed, anxious to get as many as possible drawn into it, and, amongst them, your father. Advise him, therefore, to remain quietly at his Quinta; neither answering, nor, if possible, receiving, any communications made to him, till he hears further from me; and when you return to Lisbon, avoid intimacy with any one, for you cannot discern friends from foes in these times. And now, my son, farewell: I expect another visitor, and must not detain you.”

“Farewell, most reverend Father,” answered Don Luis, rising at the hint, and respectfully kissing the hand held out to him. “I shall not easily forget your conversation; and your advice I will bear to my father.”

The tinkle of a bell summoned a lay brother, who escorted Don Luis from the apartment, the Superior following the young man’s retiring form with his piercing glance. “He will yet be mine,” he uttered, half aloud. “He is wary and timid, and will not take the bait at the first sight; but it is too bright and dazzling not to attract him at last, and he will play round it till he is caught.”

The door again opened, and another visitor entered, the Superior rising and embracing him with every mark of respect; and, having led him to the seat he had himself occupied, took one of humbler dimensions, while he seemed prepared to listen attentively to the words which might fall from the lips of his friend. He was a man far advanced in life, of a tall and gaunt figure; his gown, of the fashion of the Jesuits, fitting ill around him. His hair, only partially grizzled, though shorn at the top, he wore (unusually for a priest) in long straggling locks, probably in affectation, to increase the wildness of his extraordinary countenance, which was furrowed and bronzed by exposure to the weather and burning climes. His features were coarse, and thoroughly unintellectual; but his eyes gave expression to the whole physiognomy: they were large, round, dark, and lustrous, with a certain turn in them which caused those who beheld him to suppose that they were glancing in different directions. Every lineament proclaimed the fanatical enthusiast, which the style and substance of his oratory fully confirmed.

Such was the appearance of the holy Father Malagrida, for he whom we have described was that celebrated personage. “Pax vobiscum, holy Father,” he began, in a low, deep voice, though with rather a nasal sound. “The spirit of the Blessed Virgin ordered me, in a dream, to come to you, to consult you regarding the best means of preserving the honour and glory of our order inviolate at this critical juncture; yet think not that it was a common dream which prompted me, but a beatific vision of the fair daughter of Saint Anne, in the form she wore before she knew that she was to be the joyful mother of the King of men.”

“You are favoured with partiality by Heaven, Father Malagrida,” answered the Superior; “and happy are you to rejoice in so great a blessing, while I am left to grope my way in darkness, without any such signs of Heaven’s approbation.”

“My prayers to Heaven, my fastings and castigations, my long and arduous voyages, with all the perils of the sea and land, have not been thrown away; and as a reward for my pious exertions, it has been given me to see visions, and to prophesy events, even before the saints above know them; ay, to speak in strange tongues the words of truth, even in such strange tongues that none can understand them.”

“You are doubtlessly highly favoured,” answered his wary companion; “but methinks a little less outward demonstration of zeal, at the present moment, would have been more advisable, and you would yet have retained your post as confessor to the queen, and enjoyed the lofty satisfaction of leading her gentle soul to eternal salvation.”

“Ah! that is the subject about which I would speak,” answered Malagrida: “most foully have I been thrust out of my office, and I would revenge myself, or I would say it is the duty of our order to punish that heretical, iron-hearted man, Sebastiaö Carvalho, who has been the cause of all the injuries inflicted on us.”

“You speak words of wisdom, my brother,” returned the crafty Jesuit; “but how would you accomplish the noble end you have in view, so greatly to the advantage of our holy religion, and the safety of our order?”

“I would stir up the people against him, as one hateful in the sight of Heaven; I would call down the thunder of Rome upon his head; and I would work upon the fears and piety of the king to recall those who have for so long possessed the precious care of his soul, ere he delivers it into the power of the prince of darkness in the person of his minister.”

“But should the king refuse to hear you, and still follow the evil suggestions of Carvalho?” asked the other.

“Then will I make him tremble on his throne!” exclaimed Malagrida. “The nobles and the people shall rise against his unholy power, and his death shall teach monarchs that our order is not to be trampled on with impunity.”

“Truly, my brother, the spirit of inspiration is on you,” said the Superior, casting a keen glance towards him. “And nowhere can our order find a more zealous advocate.”

“For that was I born; for that have I fought; and for that will I die!” exclaimed Malagrida with enthusiasm. “Such is the spirit which should animate all our order, and we should triumph, in the name of our Lord, against all opposition which frail man can offer.”

We need not detail the whole of the conversation, which proceeded for a considerable time in the above style: the cool, calculating policy of Father da Costa strongly contrasted with the wild enthusiasm of Malagrida, upon which he worked, while the latter, at the same time, through the ravings of madness, showed a shrewdness and sagacity in worldly matters, where the interests of his order were concerned, which did credit to the school in which he had been educated. When Malagrida had retired—“Stubborn madman that you are,” muttered the Superior, “you are yet a necessary and useful tool in the hands of those who know how to wield you, though alone you are like a scythed war-chariot, dragged on by wild horses without a guiding hand, carrying havoc and destruction wherever it appears.”

Volume One—Chapter Six.

At the time of which we write, the streets of Lisbon were, perhaps, the most rugged, the most ill-lighted, the worst paved, and the most filthy, of any city in Christendom. It is true lanterns were placed before the shrines of the saints, at nearly every corner of the streets; but the glasses of some had been sacrilegiously broken, and the pale lights which glimmered from the rest served but to make more palpable the obscurity of the other part of the way; indeed, it was considered often a service of danger, by the wealthy citizen, to venture out without a torch-bearer and several armed men to protect him from the bands of marauders, who were constantly prowling about, and hesitated at no kind of atrocity. Assassination and robbery were of nightly occurrence; seldom, indeed, was the latter committed without murder; the system of the ruffians being first to plunge their daggers into the bosoms of their intended victims, and then to rifle them. Thus, although private revenge often prompted the deed, as the murdered man was always found stripped of his valuables, he was supposed to have fallen as a chance offering to Siva, and no further notice was taken of the affair; the faint cry of Acad el rey! (Note) as the cold steel entered his unguarded bosom, was heard ringing through the night air, and the trembling citizens, fearful of being subpoenaed as witnesses, or accused of the deed, would keep close their doors, and leave the unfortunate wretch to perish unaided, when timely succour might have saved him, should the dagger, by chance, have ineffectually accomplished its work.

But few years ago, we remember returning at early dawn from a party, when we encountered several persons, and two guards, standing round a man on the ground weltering in blood yet flowing warm from a deep wound in his side. A convulsive shudder passed through his frame, yet no one attempted to aid him, the guards keeping every one off with their bayonets, saying it was their duty to allow none to touch him till the officers of justice had arrived to inquire into the case. The man was then past recovery; but had aid been afforded him when first discovered, he might probably have been saved; yet, surrounded by his fellow creatures, he was allowed to bleed to death without a saving hand held forth. If we recollect rightly, he had been an officer in the Miguelite army, and had committed several atrocious acts; but had he been a friend, the same would have occurred. But to return to earlier times. It was then also the practice of the dissolute and idle young fidalgos to range the city with bacchanalian songs, injuring and insulting all they met; often on the slightest resistance, spilling blood, and committing, indeed, every sort of excess, besides amusing themselves, in their milder moods, with those practical jokes at one time fashionable in England, and probably imitated from them. In his youth, it was said that Sebastiaö Carvalho had been a leader in one of the most daring of these bands, when, to make his gigantic height more conspicuous, he dressed himself with a white hat and shoes, driving all rival parties before him. Being thus perfectly acquainted with all the mysteries of the system, he had determined, now that he had succeeded to power, to put down all disorders of the sort. Such was the state of Lisbon in 1755, and, as far as cleanliness was concerned, it was not much improved in 1830; but since then, under the beneficial influence of a liberal and more enlightened government, vast improvements have taken place; drains have been formed; it is paved and well lighted, and as well patrolled as any city in Europe, though not more so than the second city of the kingdom, Oporto, through any part of which a person may walk at night without the slightest fear of robbery, owing to a highly efficient municipal guard.

Though there were doubtless many more important personages who figured at that period, we must not lose sight of our friend Don Luis. It was nearly dark when he issued from the portals of the Jesuits’ College, and, the distance to his own residence being considerable, night had completely set in by the time he reached the lower part of the city, when it occurred to him that it would have been more prudent to have ordered Pedro to attend him. But his mind was too much engrossed by the conversation he had held with Father da Costa, to think much of the danger he ran; and as one strong poison will often prove an antidote to another, so had the new ideas opened to his view banished for a time the recollection of his own griefs and disappointments. He hurried on as fast as the badness of the way would permit, through streets extremely narrow; the houses being lofty, with many stories, their fronts adorned with various figures carved in stone, and the upper floors projecting beyond the lower, little light was afforded to the passenger, from the sky, even when clear and spangled with stars, as it was at the present time. He had already reached the street leading to that in which his father’s house was situated, without meeting any interruption, when, having just passed a shrine dedicated to Saint Anthony placed at a corner house, a small lamp burning in front of it, shedding forth its pale light, like a sad epitome of the glorious illumination that pious man spread among his much loved Lusitanians, his eyes, now directed on the ground, to pick his way clear of the immundicities which strewed the way, and now in front, in a vain endeavour to pierce the gloom, he fancied that he saw on the white stone wall of a house close to him, which the rays of the lamp reached, the shadow of a man, with arm uplifted, in the attitude of one about to strike. His nerves were fortunately well strung, his courage undaunted, and his frame well knit and active to obey his will; but not a moment was there for thought, and as the threatening apparition caught his eye, quick as lightning he sprang round, ere a dagger, gleaming brightly, had time to descend, and, seizing the hand which grasped it, wrenched the weapon from the power of the cloaked assassin, who stood behind, and dealing him a heavy blow on the face with the handle, laid him prostrate on the ground. The ruffian was, however, not without support; for, at the same moment, a man sprang across the street with dagger in hand, ready to avenge his comrade. But Don Luis was not to be taken thus at advantage; for, retreating a step, his own sword was prepared to receive the wretch on its point. The latter, however, throwing himself back in time, fled a few paces, and gave a shrill whistle, which was answered at several points, and three men rushed forward with threatening attitudes and unsheathed weapons. Don Luis was fortunate in his ground, having a wall with a projecting buttress behind him, and an uneven pavement in front, the lamp of Saint Anthony affording sufficient light to see objects around with tolerable distinctness. He was, notwithstanding, obliged to exert his utmost activity and skill to keep his assailants at bay, being happily a good swordsman, an accomplishment even then considered a necessary part of a gentleman’s education. The clash of steel rang loudly through the silence of night, but none put their heads out of their windows to inquire the cause; and, Luis disdaining to give the usual cry for assistance, was well nigh exhausted with his exertions, when, most opportunely, a person, passing a neighbouring street, was attracted by the noise, and appeared so suddenly on the scene of action, that the bravoes had scarce time to turn and defend themselves.

“Fight on, gallant sir, for the honour of gentlemen!” shouted a clear, manly voice. “Help here! Acad el rey! help, ye lazy citizens, to drive away a set of cowardly rascals, who dare not face us man to man! No matter, we might call till doomsday, and no one could come; so here is at you, sir villains;” saying which, Captain Pinto, for he was the speaker, redoubled his efforts to repel the marauders.

“Thanks for your aid, thanks, Captain Pinto,” cried Don Luis, recognising his voice; “I have but short breathing time to speak.”

“Ah, my young friend, Don Luis, is it you?” answered the Captain. “Back, ye villains, back!”

“Don Luis!” exclaimed one of the men, with an oath. “We have made a mistake.”

“No, no,” shouted another,—“cut them both down—they must not escape.”

At that instant, a broad glare of red light burst on the scene of action, proceeding from several torches borne by a party who were turning the corner of the street.

“Fly,” cried the ruffians, “fly! or we shall be captured.”

“You shall not get off so easily,” cried the Captain. “We will teach you not to attack gentlemen in this way in future.” The men attempted to escape; but Don Luis and his friend held them in check on one side; while, on the other, the party with the torches, led on by a person who seemed of distinction, rapidly approached. Making, however, a desperate effort, they rushed past them, and were lost in the obscurity, except one, through whose arm, Captain Pinto’s sword entered, and brought him to the ground.

The chief of the new comers, taking a torch from the hand of one of his attendants, ordered them, in an authoritative tone, to seize the disturbers of the public peace, and advanced towards the Captain and Don Luis, on whom they were on the point of laying hold.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “my good friend, Captain Pinto!—not yet tired of fighting? I trust you are not injured,—and your companion?” he added, holding the torch nearer Don Luis’s countenance.

“Don Luis d’Almeida, my fellow voyager,” answered the Captain.

“Ah, the son of an excellent father,” observed the stranger; “I hope he, too, is safe?”

“Many thanks to your Excellency, we are both uninjured,” returned Captain Pinto. “And my young friend, who was the first attacked, fought as bravely as he did before the enemy.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the stranger. “Brave men are more scarce than cowards. Carry those men off to prison,” he added, turning to his followers, who secured the two ruffians who had been unable to escape. “The affair must be looked into to-morrow. You, gentlemen, I will accompany to your houses, for these streets are unfortunately not fit to be walked by honest men, without guards and lights; but such things shall be amended before long.”

The stranger was a man of almost gigantic stature, and, as he strode rapidly to the scene of conflict, his movements exhibited strength and activity; the suit of dark cloth in which he was dressed, such as is now worn exclusively at Court, setting off to advantage his muscular and well knit figure. There was also a confident air of authority in his words and actions, which betokened one who felt that he had a right to command. “Come now, gentlemen, we will proceed,” he said; and ordering the torch-bearers to advance, the party moved forward, the guards bringing up the rear with the prisoners, who no sooner saw into whose power they had fallen than they quietly submitted to their fate. Don Luis was at a loss to conceive who the tall stranger could be, and as he found himself walking on the opposite side of him to his friend, he had no opportunity of asking.

“All, Senhor Don Luis,” he said, “you have lately been travelling, I understand from Captain Pinto, in a country where such disorders as these do not occur, and where a man may walk the streets at night, or journey from one end of the kingdom to the other, without fear of losing either his purse or his life.”

“Scarcely so, senhor,” answered Don Luis, “robberies are constantly occurring even in the public streets; but the English have, in general, an abhorrence of shedding blood, except that of their enemies.”

“Ah, that arises from their not being able to purchase absolution at as cheap a rate as do our countrymen,” interrupted the stranger, with a sarcastic laugh; “aided, perhaps, by a wholesome fear of detection, the best preventive of crime. However, continue: it gives me pleasure to hear accounts of England, a country I much admired, during my short residence there; although, not having time to acquire the harsh language of its inhabitants, I had some difficulty in becoming acquainted with its internal arrangements. At all events, a person may travel on the public roads without arms, or without fear of being robbed as here.”

“Pardon me, senhor, such is not the case,” answered Don Luis. “The roads are constantly infested by men on horseback, who levy contributions, even in the very neighbourhood of the capital, on the unarmed traveller.”

“Ah! I am glad to hear we are not so very much less civilised than our old friends and allies, who are apt to boast themselves so much our superiors,” returned the stranger. “We have now arrived at your house, senhor, and I will not detain you; but as I have many questions to ask respecting England, I should wish to see you to-morrow morning at eight o’clock, and till then, adeos.”

“I regret that I cannot do myself that honour, senhor,” answered Don Luis; “for I intend to set forward at daybreak to visit my father, who is in the country.”

“I should advise you to defer your journey to a later hour,” said the stranger, in rather an angry tone. “I shall esteem your doing so a favour,” he added, more mildly, as if correcting himself. “You also forget that you will be obliged to appear at the examinations of the ruffians who attacked you. For the present, I will leave Captain Pinto with you, who will perhaps accompany you in the morning. Adeos, Senhor Pinto, till the morning, when I shall see you with your young friend.” Saying which, the stranger moved on, without waiting for an answer, leaving the Captain respectfully bowing, and Don Luis much amazed, at the door of the palace, at which one of the guards had loudly knocked.

After sundry careful interrogations from within, the door was unbarred and opened. “Who is that man, who seems of so much authority here?” eagerly demanded Don Luis of his friend, as they were admitted into the hall by old Lucas.

“No other than Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho,” answered the Captain; one of the ministers of the king, “who does more work in a day than the other two in a month, and has more brains in his head and courage in his heart than all the fidalgos in Portugal put together. You will do well to follow his request; for he is not fond of having his wishes neglected.”

“In one respect I will, in requesting you to take up your abode here,” said Don Luis, as they mounted the steps, preceded by the old steward. “Of the rest we will consider; but I like not his authoritative tone.”

“Well, I will set you the example of obedience, by accepting your hospitality instead of returning on board my ship; and I trust you will follow my advice for the rest.”

Old Lucas now ushered them into a large apartment hung round with paintings, and adorned with crimson hangings, much faded and moth-eaten, it must be confessed; indeed, all the furniture wore an air rather of past than present splendour, except on a table in the centre, where was laid out a repast, which, considering it was intended for a single person, exhibited a profusion of eatables, affording considerable satisfaction to the worthy captain, though, as may be supposed, poor Don Luis felt but little inclination for the good things set before him. Much to the chagrin of the old domestic, who stood near, pressing him to taste of the various dishes, and praising their qualities, he could scarcely touch them. The old man, looking with a melancholy glance at his young master, shook his head, thinking that some serious illness must have attacked him. “Ah! this comes of going to sea, and wandering in strange countries among heretics,” he thought; “but his native air and proper food will soon restore him to health. Come, senhor, a little of this marmalade will do you good; it is of your old nurse’s making, and you used to be very fond of it once upon a time.”

“Thank you, my good Lucas, I have already finished supper; but I hope another day to do more justice to Senhora Anna’s cookery. For the present, leave us; for I have much to say to Captain Pinto.”

The old man unwillingly quitted the room, with many a lingering glance behind. “Ah! he is sadly changed from what he once was, poor young gentleman! Oh dear, oh dear!” he ejaculated, as he slowly retired.

The hardy sailor, however, made ample amends to the viands for his host’s want of appetite. “Come, Luis,” he said, “tell me how fared you with Donna Theresa? Ah! I had better not ask; your countenance tells your tale.”

“Your warnings were but too just, and I have been miserably deceived,” answered the young man.

“Do not make yourself unhappy; you will recover sooner than you expect,” said the Captain. “Remember our voyage: dark clouds and storms for the greater part of the time; and yet the sun burst out brightly, and we arrived safe in port at last. Take my word for it, everything happens for the best, and you may some day rejoice that you have undergone what you now consider so great a misfortune.”

“You have already prophesied too truly for me now to contradict you,” said Don Luis; “but it is difficult to persuade a man that a bitter draught is pleasant to the taste.”

“I do not say that it is pleasant, but, with returning health, he will be glad he took it,” said the Captain, laughing. “Come, come, this is our first evening on shore after a long voyage, and we must not be sad—so here’s a health to the fair ladies of Portugal, and I am sure there are plenty of them, so that, if one is not kind, there are others who will be so. That is a sailor’s maxim, and I should advise you to adopt it; ’twill save many a heart-ache.”

“Oh! do not talk on the subject,” exclaimed Don Luis, not relishing his friend’s principles; “I am not of so callous a nature.”

“Well, we’ll change the subject; and, while I am giving advice, let me strongly urge you to call to-morrow on the minister. He is a man not to be trifled with; and though he is a firm friend to those who please him, he is a relentless enemy to any who venture to oppose his objects.”

“But why should I fear him, I have no favours to ask, and he has no means of injuring me?” said Don Luis.

“Do not confide in that,” answered the Captain. “If you displease him, he will find means of avenging himself when you least expect it. He never yet forgave an offence. Though he is my patron and friend, and a man with many qualities I admire, I know his faults, and they are terrible ones. Pity is an utter stranger to his bosom, and the life of man he looks upon as a thing of nought, to be disposed of at his pleasure. While other men tremble with fear, his nerves are only the better strung. I remember him when he married Donna Theresa Noronha, the niece of the Conde dos Arcos, and a relation of the proud Duke of Aveiro. Her relations all protested against the match, stigmatising him as a low-born profligate, unworthy of their alliance; but he laughed, and bore her off in spite of them, though they have vowed vengeance on him ever since. But we shall see which will ultimately conquer; and, mark me, every step he takes to power is one nearer to their destruction.”

“You describe a person whose friendship I would rather shun than seek,” said Don Luis.

“There you think wrong,” said the Captain, laughing. “He is just the person you ought to make your friend; for he can be of more Service to you than any one else; while, if you fail to win his regard, and make him your enemy, you will find him a most dangerous one. At all events, call on him with me to-morrow.”

“Though fear of his enmity does not influence me, I will follow your advice, my good friend, and accompany you, which I am also hound to do after the service he rendered me to-night.”

“It matters but little what your motives are, so that you follow his wishes,” returned the Captain.

We need not follow further the conversation of the two friends, which lasted till a late hour, when at length, having arranged to call, early the following morning, on the minister, they separated to their respective rooms, Don Luis with his heart yet heavy, and his head in a whirl of confusion, from the various and important occurrences he had met with since his landing in the morning; indeed, it was with difficulty he could persuade himself that he had passed only a few short hours on the shores of Portugal, so great a change had taken place in all his thoughts and feelings. At the present period of his career, Carvalho made no attempt to vie in outward show with the rich and luxurious fidalgos of Lisbon, his mansion being small, and his domestic arrangements unostentatious; the guard at the door, who presented arms as Captain Pinto and his young friend entered the hall, being the only sign that a person of consequence resided there.

On giving their names, a servant, without delay, ushered the two gentlemen up stairs into a small ante-room, where he left them for a moment, and immediately returned, saying that his master would receive them, when, throwing open a side door, he made a sign to them to enter, and Don Luis found himself in the presence of his acquaintance of the previous evening.

Carvalho, habited in his morning gown, was pacing the chamber, which he evidently used as his dressing-room, while a secretary, at a desk near the window, was busily occupied in writing according to his dictation; the last few sentences he spoke being heard by his guests before he appeared to remember their presence. He then suddenly turned, having assured himself that his instructions were fully understood, and received them with that frank and courteous politeness for which the Portuguese are so justly esteemed, and in which he particularly excelled; placing them on seats opposite to the one into which he threw himself, in such a position that he might every now and then turn and give directions to his secretary.

“I am glad to find that your foreign travel has given you habits of punctuality and early rising,” he observed; “customs I wish the young men of your rank would more generally follow.”

“I was anxious to thank your Excellency for the aid you afforded me last night,” returned Don Luis; “and I therefore seized the earliest moment to pay my respects.”

“Ah! that reminds me that you need not be detained in Lisbon to appear as a witness against the ruffians. They did not intend to take your life, it appears, but mistook you for another person; however, a few weeks’ imprisonment will benefit them; and I conclude that you do not intend to remain long away from Court. The king looks with a jealous eye on those who absent themselves, wishing to see himself, as he ought to be, surrounded by his nobles, who seem often to forget that they but hold their rank from him, and that, at his pleasure, they may again become mere commoners.”

“My movements will depend entirely on my father’s will,” answered Don Luis; “and, after my long absence, he will probably desire me to remain with him.”

“Your father is a man I much esteem,” said the Minister; “and regret that some slight he conceives himself to have received should have driven him from Court; for I cannot suppose that he is tainted with disloyalty to our sovereign, which is more than I can say for some of the haughty fidalgos of the land, whose pride, by heavens! soars so high, that they seem to consider themselves his superiors; let them beware, or it shall be brought low enough.”

The manner of the speaker for a moment became excited; but he quickly resumed his usual calm demeanour, as he continued—“Offer my compliments to your father, and say I must request he will not detain you long away, for I feel confident that his majesty will wish to give you some employment suitable to your rank, and the high talents I know you to possess.”

Don Luis, surprised at the compliment, for he could not conceive how the minister knew anything about him, could only bow in return; nor was he particularly pleased with its authoritative tone, as coming from a man whom he had been taught to consider, on account of his birth, but of little consequence; particularly when he heard threats uttered against the class to which he belonged. The Minister, eyeing the young man narrowly, to observe the effect of his observations, then addressed a few sentences to Captain Pinto, during which time Don Luis, happening to look in the direction of the secretary, observed that his glance was fixed on him; but it was immediately withdrawn, the latter person applying himself studiously to his occupation; it was, however, sufficient to attract Don Luis’s attention more especially to his countenance, which he could not help fancying that he had seen somewhere before, and at no great distance of time. It was not probable that he had met him abroad, so that it could have been only on the previous day;—perhaps he had passed him in the street—for he possessed only an undefined, dreamy sort of recollection of the countenance;—when, on a sudden, it struck him that those expressive eyes and features were the same he had for a moment seen in the corridor of the Jesuits’ College. Yet it was extraordinary that a person employed by one who was a professed enemy of that order should have been found holding communication with them, and he felt confident that the secretary had either been playing false to his master, or deceiving in some way the holy fathers. However, he wisely, for the present, kept his counsel: determining, as in duty bound, to take the first opportunity of mentioning his suspicions to his cousin, Father da Costa, between whom and the Minister he knew there was no cordiality. He had just arrived at this conclusion, when Carvalho again turned to him, making many minute inquiries about his travels in England, which showed him, notwithstanding his declarations to the contrary, to be well acquainted with the laws and customs of that country. “Ambassadors,” he observed, “have less chance than any other strangers of learning the true state of a country; it is the interest of everybody round them to blind their eyes; and if they attempt to move about incognito, and alone, they are considered as spies, and every action is watched. In despotic countries, such as Austria, and I hear also in Russia, the matter is much worse; and I have heard of the whole country, by the borders of a road, being populated, and villages built, on the occasion of the visit of some distinguished personage, which vanished when he had passed by; though he went away with the impression that it was one of the most fertile and populous countries in the world.”

The Minister smiled at his own story, as, in duty bound, did his guests, and Don Luis began to doubt that he could possibly possess the violent and sanguinary temper which was reported: he made many more inquiries, and seemed much pleased with the answers Don Luis gave; then, in the most bland, and courteous manner, informed him and Captain Pinto, that he would no longer detain them, begging the former to call upon him on his return to Lisbon. As they rose to depart, Don Luis caught the eye of the secretary again turned towards him, with a sort of inquiring glance, but he had no opportunity of observing further, as he was obliged to follow the captain from the room.

As they were crossing a corridor, and about to descend the stairs, a young girl passed them, with light ringlets falling over her shoulders, and laughing blue eyes. In no way abashed at sight of the strangers, she bowed gracefully, and bounded on. “Who can that fair creature be who passed us?” asked Don Luis.

“The eldest daughter of the Minister by his present wife, Donna Leonora, Countess Daùn, whom he married during the time he was envoy at the Court of Austria;” answered Captain Pinto; “she shows her mother’s Saxon blood.”

“Yes, and her high birth,” said Don Luis: “she is very beautiful.”

“Very,” was the Captain’s laconic reply.

“You appear to have pleased Senhor Carvalho,” observed Captain Pinto, as they walked homeward; “I should advise you to profit by the advantage.”

“Why so? he will probably soon forget me,” said Don Luis.

“Indeed he will not. He takes an interest in your welfare, from a youthful friendship for some member of your family, who is no more, and from whom he received some deep obligation, which he would repay to you; and now you understand why he desired to see you.”

Note. Hear the king!—a cry for help.

Volume One—Chapter Seven.

The Portuguese, with much naïveté, relate a story which is told against them, that Noah, a few years ago, paid a visit to this our planet, on which he once on a time played so conspicuous a part; but that, as he travelled from country to country, and kingdom to kingdom, his fond anticipations of reviving the early recollections of his living days were far from being gratified; for not a spot of earth which his rather numerous progeny now inhabit could he recognise, so many changes had all undergone, and nowhere did he find himself comfortably at home till he arrived on the shores of Lusitania. How did his heart beat with tender remembrances, as he travelled through the country! “Ah!” he exclaimed, enraptured, “this is indeed the land I love; the self-same as I left it: the same system of agriculture, the same style of architecture, the identical roads, not a stone removed, a few more ruts, to be sure, caused by passing time, like the wrinkles in a friend’s face; the same manners, and the same customs. Ah! beloved Portugal, constant and unchangeable; here will I take up my abode.” Saying which, the venerable patriarch pitched his tent, where he sojourned during his stay on earth; and the inhabitants, in hope of being honoured by another visit, still adhere to the same system.

Now, although there can be no doubt that the above is a very witty story, we can assure our readers that it is not perfectly correct in all respects, inasmuch as there are fine churches, though it is difficult to determine the order of their architecture; and there are palaces and castles, which we do not in history find there were when Noah dwelt upon earth; but we do very strongly suspect that the roads, if there were any, could not have been worse. Also, with respect to inns, or houses of public entertainment, they cannot be very much improved since his time; for anything more execrably bad than they generally are, in any country within a week’s sail of England, can scarcely be conceived; and we have good reason to suppose that they have not very much altered since the days of the Marquis of Pombal.

In describing, therefore, a Portuguese country inn of a hundred years ago, the picture of one of the present day will fully answer our purpose, even of that to which we are about to conduct our readers, which yet exists with few marks of change about it. It stands on the northern edge of a wild sandy common, broken into irregular hillocks, partially sprinkled with gum-cistus, gentian, the flowering heath, and other low shrubs and plants, while, in the far distance, is perceived the long dark line of a pine-forest. The ground on the other side of the inn is cultivated, though very imperfectly; and here and there a few mean cottages may be seen, with heaps of dirt in front, and pools of mud, in which the favoured pigs of the inhabitants delight to wallow. The inn is a long low building, the bush hung out on a pole in front being the sign that all are welcome to enter, as was once the custom in England. The walls are of rough stone, having a row of windows, with red shutters, rather battered, and destitute of glass, on the upper story; but the only opening on the ground floor is the large entrance door, which leads at once into a spacious stable, strewed with straw, and with no very great attention to cleanliness; a manger, running round it, without any divisions for stalls; so that the animals therein may, at will, amuse themselves by kicking at each other, free from those unsocial restraints which English civilisation has introduced; very like a certain class of liberals, who would do away with wholesome laws, much for the same sensible object. This is decidedly the best part of the building, as much attention being paid to the comfort of the animals as to that of their owners; though, by a partition of rough deal boards, an apartment is separated from it to the right, which serves the purpose of kitchen, parlour, and bedroom, to the greater part of the family and guests. On a low hearth, on one side of it, a wood fire blazes, the smoke escaping through the doors and windows, as it best can; and on the walls, near the fire-place, are hung a few large and very ordinary kitchen utensils, the other parts being adorned with horse furniture, rows of onions, dried fish, and other provisions of the coarsest sort. A rough deal table and benches run close to the wall the whole length of the apartment; and there is a shorter one on the opposite side, near the fire. The floor is of clay, perfectly black, and beaten hard, but worn into irregular undulations and holes where most trodden on. We are now describing the past and the present, and probably the future, for many years to come, though we cannot pierce the gloom of the dark abyss of time; but as our business is rather with the past, we prefer adhering to that tense. The further end of the room opened into a sort of stable-yard, from which freely entered at all times several long-legged, thin white swine, with a youthful progeny of grunters, who were allowed to satisfy their inquisitive natures, if not their appetites, by poking their snouts into every pan or utensil they met with in their peregrinations, receiving now and then a gentle rebuke, administered with the bottom of a frying-pan, by the nimble-handed damsel who officiated as chief of the culinary department, accompanied by a no very complimentary epithet, at which they grunted forth their disapprobation, and continued the same proceedings. Besides the pigs, numerous fowls appeared to be welcome visitors, being allowed to establish their roost on the rafters of the roof, in one corner, and to hop about and pick up what escaped the vigilance of the yet more favoured animals. Nor must we forget, having begun with the dumb species, instead of the nobler part of creation, to mention two or three dogs, whose appearance was far from prepossessing, as they stalked about among the guests, in eager expectation of the morsels thrown to them, or of the crumbs which fell from the table. They were of a dirty yellow colour, their heads something like that of a fox, but with bodies lean and gaunt as a wolf, to which race they appeared to belong. Such is the large dog of the country; but there is every gradation of shape, size, and colour, down to the smallest turnspit, to give any specific name to which would be impossible. Having described the dogs, we must now mention the agile Griskenissa, the youthful queen of those regions. She was a laughing-mouthed damsel, her lips rather thick and full, disclosing the most pearly teeth, her nose retroussé, between a pair of large sparkling black eyes, and her figure rather more fully developed, particularly about the bust, than would accord with the Venus de Medicis. A rich bloom brightened the nut-brown tint of her not very delicate complexion, whose dark hue was increased by her occupations over the fire. Her hair was drawn back, fastened in a knot behind, and covered with a coloured handkerchief, a white one being thrown over her shoulders. The sleeves and skirt of her gown being tucked up, exhibited a pair of stout arms and legs of the same build, destitute of stockings or shoes. The noise of her tongue was, as Captain Rolando, in the “Honeymoon,” describes most unjustly that of her sex in general, like the clatter of a mill; the more she moved about, the faster it went, the grist being the questions and jokes of her guests, to which she failed not to give some sharp repartee. She was aided in the actual work of cooking by an old crone, who, now bending over the fire, was engaged in stirring a mess of broth simmering in a large pot, while a little boy, clothed in the smallest quantity of raiment which could possibly cover his body, was employed in bringing wood to feed the flame. The master of the house generally walked about with his hands in his pockets, a cigarito in his mouth, and his cap set rakingly on one side, by far too fine a gentleman to attend to the wants of his guests, though occasionally, to those of higher degree, he would condescend to make a low bow as they departed, provided they paid well, and shared with him a bottle or so of his best wine.

The sun had some time set, the apartment being thrown into obscurity, except near the blaze of the fire, and at the further end of the long table, where, round a brass lamp of that elegant shape used by the Romans, and still to be seen in Italy, were seated the landlord and four or five of his guests, deeply immersed in some game of cards, their countenances exhibiting all the eager passions of men who had large sums at stake. Indeed, several gold and silver pieces were seen to change hands, to the evident rage of the losers; though, from the dress and appearance of the men, one would not have expected to find them possessed of so large an amount. Their costume was soiled, and patched with divers shades of cloth: it consisted of short braided jackets, and red waistcoats, loose trowsers and long gaiters, with a red sash round the waist, in which was stuck, without any attempt at concealment, a long knife, in a sheath, towards whose hilt the hand seemed to have a natural tendency to move. On their heads they wore round, low-crowned hats of black felt, with rather broad brims, which, pulled a little forward, effectually concealed the features.

At the smaller table, near the fire, were several other people, discussing in silence their suppers of cabbage broth, inattentive to what was going forward at the other end of the room. Two hours of the night had passed away, the card party yet eagerly proceeding in their game, with slight variations of fortune, when the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard, and the boy was loudly summoned to hold a lantern while the animals were stalled and fed; and, soon afterwards, two men, wrapped in large riding cloaks, entered, and glancing at the guests near the fire, advanced towards the end of the long table. The gamblers, looking up for a moment, received them as friends; but their interest in the game was far too intense to permit their attention to be withdrawn for a longer period; the others looking patiently on, till one of the former sprang from his seat, exclaiming, “By St. Anthony, I play no more: curses on the game; I’ve lost my last testoon, and owe more to boot. How to pay my debts I know not.”

One of the new comers, fixing his eyes on him, smiled significantly. “What, Salvador,” he said, “know you not how a man of spirit may best recruit his exhausted finances? Banish all fears, I will soon put you in the way of it.”

“Thanks, senhor, I have trod it before,” answered Salvador; “but I like not the sight of the gibbet in the distance.”

“Fool!” muttered the other; “no man of courage is frightened at such a phantom.”

What further might have been said was cut short by another of the party dashing the cards to the ground, and trampling on them almost with screams, in his fury at having become the loser of all his wealth, darting fierce scowls at those who were the gainers, particularly the landlord, who had managed to pay himself well for the time occupied in the game, and who, now calling to the boy, ordered him to pick up the scattered pack.

The game now terminated; and the party, having again resumed their seats, made many inquiries of their newly-arrived friends. “We little expected to see you here so soon,” said the Landlord; “what made you leave Lisbon so suddenly?”

“A cursed mistake we committed last night, when two of our friends fell into the hands of justice. We had been engaged by the Conde de San Vincente, who gives us plenty of employment, to get rid of a rival of his in the affections of a certain lady; and, after following our man for some way, who we knew would make no resistance, and, feeling quite sure of him, just as Miguel was about to give him his quietus, out he whips his rapier, and uses it so manfully, after knocking down Miguel, that he kept us at bay till a friend came to his assistance; but we should have got the better of them both, when, who should pass by but the devil, in the shape of Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho himself, who forthwith seized on Miguel and Baltar, whom he has clapped into prison; and we, thinking Lisbon may be too hot for us, came off here; for he is not apt to let any escape whom he may wish to find.”

“Ah! San Vincente is a man I like to serve,” said another. “His very cowardice is a recommendation, as he first pays one well to commit a deed he dare not do himself, and then double to keep it concealed.”

“Yes, if it were not for the hatred of the proud fidalgos for each other, we honest, humble men should not be able to exist.”

“Ay, thank the saints, they give us work enough to keep our hands in practice, though scarce enough to let us live like gentlemen,” cried another.

“Forsooth, the profession has fallen into much disrepute lately, since pretenders to it offer their services to commit a murder for a couple of crowns. Such shabby villains ought to be scouted from society,” exclaimed a fourth. “When a man does undertake to do a piece of work, let it be for something, or he is acting dishonestly towards others, besides being guilty of a meanness of which any gentleman ought to be ashamed.”

“Silence, Senhores, silence!” exclaimed the Landlord, looking round; “your conversation is becoming of a nature not fit for common ears: and see, some persons at the other table are opening theirs to listen.”

“Never fear,” answered one of the last comers; “we are not ashamed of our profession, as long as it is exercised with credit.”

“That may be,” said the Landlord; “but you must remember the respectability of my house. I might lose my customers, if it were known I had the honour of your friendship. No offence to you at the same time.”

“Well, well, Senhor Bernardo; say no more on the subject,” said the other, laughing. “Ah! see, here comes your daughter with our supper; both dainty morsels, I doubt not.”

“Of the latter you may taste at will, but with my Rosa I should advise you not to attempt to make free; for she uses but scant ceremony towards those who offend her,” answered the Landlord.

“Not I! I never offended a pretty girl in my life. Hey, my bright Rosa?” said the guest, chucking her under the chin as she placed a dish of rice and stewed fowls on the table; but in return for the liberty, he received a sound box on the ear; and she tripped off, laughing, before he could catch her to renew the offence.

“Carramba! but your daughter does hit hard,” exclaimed the man; “though let us see if her cookery will make amends for her cruelty.”

As Rosa, having placed another dish on the table, was again hastening away, she encountered from a personage who just then entered the room a fresh attack of the same sort, but, it must be confessed, with scarce the same obduracy; for “Oh, Senhor Frade!” and a loud giggle, was the only answer she gave to the salute, which sounded through the apartment.

“Pax vobiscum!” exclaimed the person who had committed this atrocity, as he advanced out of the obscurity towards the group among whom he espied the landlord, well knowing that there would the best cheer be found. As the light fell on him, he exhibited a broad, sinewy figure; and throwing back his cowl, his shorn crown and coarse brown robes, with satchel by his side, proclaimed him to belong to the mendicant order of the Capuchins, his well-filled cheeks showing how assiduously he pursued his avocation. His bullet-shaped head was encircled by a rim of coarse red hair, to which colour his features assimilated; a broad snubby nose, and a pair of blear, though keen, roving eyes, made up the man. He was welcomed by all the party, with whom he appeared to be on the most intimate terms.

“Now, for the love of the saints, my pretty Rosa,” he exclaimed, as he took his seat at the post of honour near the master, “bring me something to eat, for I am almost dead with hunger and thirst;—anything will serve; a stewed pullet or so, or some broiled pork and lemon; you know that I am not particular as to the things of the appetite;—and hark you, my Rosa dear, if you can find the remains of a bottle or so of old wine, bring it, in the name of the Virgin; for I am thirsty and tired.”

The holy Father’s request was not disregarded, and he was soon busily employed in discussing the viands set before him, failing not to do ample justice to Rosa’s cookery, during which time he would not answer a word to the numerous questions put to him; but, having finished, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gown, giving a last pull at his bottle of wine, his tongue was loosened, and all the party bent their heads forward to listen to what he had to communicate; the subject of the conversation being such as to oblige them to speak in tones not loud enough to be heard beyond their immediate circle.

“What news do you bring us, Senhor Padre?” asked one of those who had lost at cards. “Have we a chance of picking up a little booty? for we are very low in the world.”

“Ah, my son, always thinking of lucre and worldly gain,” answered the Friar, laughing, “but I am in an amiable humour, and will not tantalise you long.”

“Well, Padre, no delay; out with your news,” exclaimed several of the party, bending still closer round him, with eager expression of countenance.

“Know then, my sons, that there is a chance of some work to-morrow morning which may fill our empty pockets; but recollect, we all share alike; I am not to employ my wits, and to wear myself into a phantom to gain all the information, and then to allow my convent to be deprived of the just profits.”

“Never fear, Senhor Padre, your convent shall not suffer in the division,” said the Innkeeper; “but come, let us hear your news.”

“’Tis this, then. As I passed through the village of Santa Cruz, I learned that the noble Senhor Gonçalo Christovaö and his family are staying at the Quinta of the Conde de Villarey, on their way to Lisbon, and their mules and litters are to be in readiness to start to-morrow morning at daybreak, they having the intention of breakfasting here. So there’s a double chance for you, Senhor Estalajadeiro. You first get well paid in an honest way for the stewed cats and tough old cocks you furnish them; and then our friends here will reap the harvest that remains, no slight one, if I mistake not; for there are, besides Senhor Christovaö and and his fair daughter, Donna Clara, so I learned, three maid-servants, all of whom, depend on it, will be decked out in their gold ornaments, though they will make some slight fuss in delivering them; and then there are the escudeiro and three other servants, who will run away on the first show of a blunderbuss, as will, probably, the whole troop of muleteers who accompany them.”

“Bravo, most holy friar! you deserve our warmest thanks for your services to us,” exclaimed one of the party; “and where would you advise us to wait till our friends pass?”

“Has not your own sense pointed that out to you?” answered the Friar. “At the edge of the moor where the pine grove commences, I should advise you to watch, and you can then have a clear view over the common on one side, while you must place a scout to see that no one approaches on the other.”

“Admirable generalship!” exclaimed he who had before spoken. “Were it not for your shaven crown, you would make us a capital leader, if you had courage enough to face the danger.”

“Courage!” cried the Friar, casting an angry look at the speaker. “Because I do not bluster and bully, you think I have not courage. I have done, and would do, many a deed you dare not!”

“Ah, friar, you boast already, do you? Remember, what are you, but the jackal to our prey? I’ll venture you would turn pale at the sight of a few drops of blood.”

“Fool, ’tis you will turn pale at sight of your own blood!” exclaimed the Friar, springing up, and drawing from a sheath under his gown, a long sharp stiletto, which he plunged with a steady hand into the fleshy part of the shoulder of the man who had spoken. “Now remember not to taunt me again; and recollect your life was in my power; an inch more of the steel would have silenced your tongue for ever.”

“Peace, Senhores, peace!” exclaimed the Landlord, seizing the arm of the friar, who without effort shook him off. “Remember the credit of my house; and if you wish to shed blood, let it be outside my doors.”

“Do not fear, my friend,” answered the Friar coolly; “’Tis but a slight lesson I gave to Senhor Jozé here, to speak more respectfully to one of my cloth in future. Come, man, I can cure as well as kill;” saying which, he bound up the arm of the wounded man, who, like a cowed hound, submitted without another word.

“Bravo, Frade, bravo! you are a fine fellow, and shall have all you wish,” cried the rest of the respectable assemblage.

“Well then, my friends,” said the Friar, “to convince you that if I am a jackal, I am a lion also, I will lead you in person to this adventure; but then remember I must have the lion’s share also.”

“Agreed! agreed!” exclaimed the party. “With so holy a guide we must be successful.”

“The plan is then arranged, senhores,” said the Landlord; “and now to bed. Remember you must rise betimes to be in readiness for the work, as it will not do to be observed quitting my respectable house on such an errand after the sun is up.”

The party now broke up, some stealing off to make their couches in the stable, others in different corners of the room; while the landlord, dismissing his daughter and the rest of his household to their places of repose, drew a seat near the fire, where he and the friar remained for some time in earnest conversation. The latter then rolling himself up in his gown, and pulling his cowl over his head, fell fast asleep on the bench, the host retiring to an upper room which he inhabited.

We have, as yet, described only the lower part of the house; but it possessed also an upper story intended for the accommodation of any guests of higher rank who might honour it with their presence. The greater part was occupied by one large chamber, surrounded by small recesses, in which were placed beds of most execrable hardness, invented, one might suppose, to counteract any tendency to effeminacy which the climate might have caused. As if in mockery, over the beds were thrown gaily worked cover lids, beneath which, alas! by the uninitiated traveller, neither peace nor quiet was to be found, as swarms of fierce inhabitants of two rival races were ever ready, like the Lilliputians on that renowned voyager Captain Lemuel Gulliver, to avenge on the body of the intruder any inroad made on their territory. Curtains were hung across some of the recesses intended for the guests of most consideration, and a rough table and benches were placed down the room, the windows, as we have before said, being destitute of glass, and the walls of aught but the rough mortar. Such were the only accommodations afforded even to the highest ranks; but the inns received little patronage from any, for, in the first place, no one moved about more than was absolutely necessary, and, when they were obliged to make a journey, the house of any gentleman on the road was always hospitably open to them, as is the case at the present day.

The cold grey light of the early morn had just broken upon the world, when a party of horsemen sallied out of the inn, mounted on most sorry-looking animals, the small horses, or rather ponies of the country, but whose nimble and surefooted paces belied the estimation one formed of their qualities at the first glance. The men wore their large broad cloaks, one side of which being thrown over the shoulder, and almost over the head, completely concealed their features, while the rest hung down, covering their own bodies, and a great part of those of their horses.

The robes of the friar were not perceived among them; but there was a most suspicious-looking figure who took the lead, with a broad slouched hat on his head, fastened tightly down with a handkerchief under his chin, and from beneath it appeared a rim of closely-cut red hair, and a ruddy face with a pair of twinkling eyes, the rest of the form, which was evidently of no slender mould, being enveloped, like the others, in a broad cloak. Their ponies carried them at a pace between a canter and a quick shamble over the heath we have described, in the direction of Lisbon, towards the long line of dark forest which was seen in the far distance from the higher ground on which the inn stood.

The master of the inn remained at the door, watching them till they could be no longer distinguished from the shrubs and clumps of heath which sprinkled the ground. “May the devil prosper them!” he exclaimed, “for were it not for such gentry, my very good friends, I might e’en shut up my house and go begging or robbing like them.” Having thus given vent to his thoughts, he retired within to say his prayers, and to calculate the probable amount of his share in the profits of the expedition.

Volume One—Chapter Eight.

The glowing sun of that lovely clime was already high in the heavens, in which not a cloud or vapour was to be seen; the air came soft and pure over the heath, laden with balsamic odours; and a blue, sparkling, transparent haze played over the ground, giving the promise of a scorching day. The notable daughter of the landlord stood at the door of the inn, her fingers busily employed in spinning from the distaff stuck in her waist, while she sang, at the top of her voice, an air, which, at the end of each verse, fell into a low cadence, and amused herself, by looking along the road in each direction, for the approach of travellers. At length, a cloud of dust rising in the north, greeted her eyes; and as it gradually drew nearer, she heard the jingling of bells sound faintly through the air, the most pleasing music to the ears of a Portuguese innkeeper, when she perceived that it was caused by several litters, sumpter mules, and a party of horsemen. She hastened in to give the joyful intelligence to the rest of the family, who, with her father, quickly assembled at the door to welcome the travellers, whoever they might be; for, as there was no other inn for several leagues on either side of them, there could be no doubt that they would there stop to bait their animals, and refresh themselves.

The Landlord muttered to himself, with an oath—“They are very numerous, and, if they choose to fight, my friends will have the worst of it.—Patience! I shall make my profits, at all events. Ah, honesty and a regular business is the best policy;” with this consoling reflection, he waited the arrival of the party.

An arriero, or muleteer, came running on in front, to announce that the illustrious fidalgo, Gonçalo Christovaö, was approaching; and soon afterwards, a dignified and venerable gentleman, on a stout horse, rode up, accompanied by a grave-looking personage, in the dress of a Benedictine monk, and followed by two servants, who, throwing themselves from their mules, respectfully assisted him and his companion to dismount, when they stood ready to receive the first litter which arrived.

We have often, on entering a church or palace in Italy, been directed to some picture, kept closely veiled from the vulgar eye; and, as the curtain was drawn aside, have been delighted, by viewing the lovely portrait of a Madonna or Venus from the pencil of Rafaelle or Titian; and far more, as the dignified cavalier drew aside the curtains of the litter, would the eyes of our readers have been enraptured, by the vision of bright and rare beauty which was disclosed; for surely, not even those great masters of the sublime art could, in their most blissful moments, have conceived or executed aught more perfect.

“Oh, Jesus Maria, how lovely!” exclaimed the laughing Rosa, paying an unaffected tribute of admiration to nature’s choicest work; and clapping her hands with delight, as the Portuguese peasantry invariably do, when they behold anything that causes admiration or surprise, she ran forward to offer her services.

The lovely vision we have mentioned was, as the acute reader may have supposed, a young lady; and, as she descended from the litter, leaning on the gentleman’s arm, her figure was perceived to be rather above the ordinary height of her countrywomen, but slender, and most gracefully formed; her face, as we have said, was beautiful, and very fair, with light brown ringlets escaping from under the blue hood of her travelling dress. In those days, the fashion of wearing bonnets had not been introduced even among the highest ranks; the hood or veil, thrown over the head, being considered sufficient protection; and certainly, a more elegant covering than the head-dresses worn in France or England at the same period. Indeed, an out-of-doors dress was scarcely required, as ladies seldom appeared abroad, except in their carriages or chairs: even in the present day, were they to take more exercise than they are in the habit of doing, their youthful promise of beauty would not be so sadly unrealised, as it too frequently is. As soon as the young lady had alighted, and had been ushered into the inn, the other litters drew up, from the first of which descended a respectable-looking old dame, with spectacles on nose, a parrot on a stand, two bird-cages, and a sleek, long-haired Angola cat. From the appearance of the old lady, she was the Ama, the nurse, or governess to the fair girl. A damsel followed her out of the litter, with sundry packages and baskets of eatables. Two other waiting women got out of the third litter, short, dark, and black-eyed girls; while the fourth was empty, probably, for the accommodation of the master. Five or six baggage-mules, and two mounted men-servants, brought up the rear, besides a number of drivers belonging to the litters and mules, who kept up with the cavalcade on foot.

As his distinguished guests retired into the house, the landlord, bowing most obsequiously, ushered them (alas! through the stable and kitchen), up a sadly narrow and dirty flight of steps, to the room we have described before, where the servants spread a repast they had brought with them, the landlord being perfectly content with supplying the muleteers and their animals with food.

Rosa could scarcely keep her eyes from the young lady, as she bustled round her, offering to perform any service in her power; and when, at length, she had contrived to separate her from the rest of her party, looking down on the ground as she spoke, she whispered “Do not be afraid, senhora, whatever sort of people you may meet on the road, for I am sure they would not harm any one so lovely.”

“What do you mean, my good girl?” asked the lady, in a sweet tone. “We are not likely to meet any one to harm us, for they say the roads are perfectly free from robbers.”

“Oh no, senhora, Heaven deliver us from robbers; I do not speak of them,” answered Rosa, in a hesitating manner, “but there are all sorts of odd people about, and I thought I would put you on your guard, that is all. I am sure they will not harm her,” she uttered, as she turned away with a tear in her eye.

The young lady was not at all alarmed by the hints the good-natured girl threw out; indeed, she so little attended to them, that she forgot all about them a minute afterwards.

The travellers, after remaining nearly two hours at the inn, their horses and mules being refreshed, again proceeded on their way, the host redoubling the obsequiousness of his bows as they departed, and wishing them, with much apparent earnestness, a successful journey. The track, for it did not deserve the name of a road, lay over the uncultivated moor we have before spoken of; the hollows and hillocks they were obliged to cross or to circumvent, much prolonging the distance, the utmost pace the litters could advance being scarce a league an hour; a great contrast to the present railroad speed of other countries. This slow progress was very fatiguing, increased by the fine dust, dried by the summer heats, which rose in thick clouds at every step the animals took; there was also scarce a breath of air, the fervent rays of the sun shining with uninterrupted force on their heads.

Senhor Christovaö and the grave friar rode on in front, out of hearing of the rest of the party; the latter evidently endeavouring to press some matter of importance on the consideration of the gentleman. “Depend on it, senhor, the peaceful serenity of a monastic life is the most happy lot a female can enjoy in this vale of tears; there, free from the cares and disappointments which her sisters in adversity are doomed to suffer, she spends her days in prayers and thanksgivings, in anxious expectation of the arrival of her heavenly Bridegroom.”

“Your arguments are very powerful, Senhor Padre,” returned his companion; “but yet I feel some compunction in depriving my daughter, against her will, of the innocent pleasures which accord with her age and sex.”

“Such ideas are but the instigations of the evil one, jealous that an immortal soul should be lost to him for ever,” answered the Priest. “Trust not to any feelings which war against the spirit on the side of the flesh. No human mind can conceive the dark machinations which the father of sin employs to drag forth a chosen child from the bosom of our holy Church, except we, who in our avocations study his works, and are prepared to repel him with the arms of our faith.”

“You doubtless speak words of truth and wisdom,” said the gentleman; “nor would I hesitate to allow my daughter to follow the bent of her inclinations, did she feel any calling for the life of the cloister; but she knows not what is to be her fate, or the reason of our going to Lisbon, for I have never yet ventured to inform her of my intentions.”

“Let that be my care,” returned the Priest, frowning darkly. “I will prepare her gentle soul for the happy change. But have you never, then, informed her of her mother’s dying wish, delivered to me after she had received extreme unction at my hands, that her daughter should be dedicated to the service of the Church?”

“I confess, Father, that I have hesitated to speak to her on the subject, fearful of throwing a gloom over the bright and elastic spirits of her youth,” returned Senhor Christovaö.

“Know you not, that the sooner the wings of a young bird are clipped, the less will it wish to fly; and therein have you done wrong; but clearly do I perceive the work of Satan again, in this seeking to ruin your soul, and that of your daughter. Ah! he is even now riding near you, plotting deeds of darkness. Get thee gone, thou spirit of evil!” he exclaimed with vehemence, making the sign of the cross. “Avaunt thee, Sathanas! Fear him no longer, my son; he has flown off to the regions of iniquity, from whence he came.”

“With you by my side, I fear not the evil spirit,” answered the Fidalgo, though the expression of his countenance belied his words; “and I will take the earliest opportunity of putting your directions into execution, though I knew not that my wife had expressed a wish that her daughter should enter a convent. During her last illness, you informed me she often prayed that I would permit her child to assume the veil, rather than I should compel her to wed against her inclination. This I consented to do, trusting she would nor wish to rebel against my will in the choice of a husband: as yet, her heart is free, and I have arranged that she shall marry, though yet she knows not of it, the young Conde de San Vincente, one of the oldest Puritano families, and one of the most wealthy; so that he is in every way unexceptionable. He is also a great friend of my son, who is very anxious for the match; and he tells me that the count is longing to see his intended bride. I therefore trust I shall have no difficulty on the subject, and that Clara, who has always been a dutiful child, will make no objections.”

“With all these arrangements I was perfectly acquainted,” said the Priest, in a calm tone; “but suppose she objects to marry the young count, will you not then follow her mother’s wishes? or, I may say more—for, know that your wife devoted her daughter to the Church, and the quiet of her soul depends on the fulfilment of her vows.”

“Father, you press me hard,” exclaimed the Fidalgo, in a tone of voice which showed that his feelings were galled; and his ghostly confessor saw that he might be going too far. “I seek to do what is best for the honour of my family, for my daughter’s happiness, and for the repose of the soul of my departed wife; what more would you have me do?”

“It is enough,” returned the Priest; “you promise, then, that if your daughter, Donna Clara, refuses to obey your wish that she should marry the Conde de San Vincente, she shall assume the veil, with the portion that you would bestow on her if she wedded; for, remember, if you do not, it is at the peril of your own soul, of her’s, and of that of your departed wife.”

“I promise so to do, holy Father, if thus her sainted mother vowed her to the Church,” exclaimed the Fidalgo; “but I know that my sweet child will not for a moment dream of disobeying my wishes.”

“I seek alone the good of her precious soul,” returned the Priest; and for some time they rode on in silence.

During this discussion, the fair subject of it, little suspecting that her fate was being thus summarily settled, was thinking alone of the amusements she was to meet with in the capital, to which this was her first visit, her life having been spent in the quiet seclusion of her father’s quinta, at a short distance from the city of Oporto, whose pointed walls could be seen from the windows of the mansion. All before her was unknown, and she had painted it bright and beautiful; for her soul was pure, and her mind contented and happy; nor had all the specious reasonings of the intriguing monk, who acted as her father confessor, been able to sully the one, or cast a gloom over the other; for God has benignantly afforded a sacred shield to some of the fair beings of his creation, whose own weakness and loveliness would expose them to the attacks of the darkly designing and wicked, who, though they see not, yet feel its power, and wonder at their own defeat.

Senhor Gonçalo Christovaö was the head of one of the oldest and purest noble families of Portugal, their motto being, “Kings descend from us;” not one of his ancestors having intermarried with any other family, unless they could show an equally pure escutcheon. Though of the highest class of fidalgos, he disdained to accept any title, which he saw often bestowed on men whom he looked down upon on account of their birth, priding himself far more on the antiquity of his own descent. This system was, at that time, strictly adhered to by a certain number of families, claiming the high distinction of being called Puritanos, or those of pure race, they being the highest class of fidalgos. The Fidalguia rank above the Nobres, and are entirely independent of all titles: they are divided into a great number of classes, according to the quarterings on their shields, each considering it a disgrace to marry out of their own pale.

The Nobres rank with the English esquire, being simply gentlemen who carry arms, though they often rise to rank and influence, from which, indeed, no class of the present day are debarred; but, until the time of Pombal, the Fidalguia had exclusively retained among themselves every post of power and authority, wreaking their vengeance on any who ventured to interfere with what they considered their privileges.

This short digression is necessary to explain the position in society held by Gonçalo Christovaö, for so he delighted to be spoken of. After riding for some time in silence by the side of the priest, he guided his horse close to his daughter’s litter, remorse and sorrow combating in his heart with the superstition and bigotry the friar had endeavoured to instil into it; but when he was about to speak on the subject he intended, his courage again failed him, and he smiled as he gazed on his lovely child, and inquired how she bore the fatigues of the journey.

Two weary hours passed away in crossing the moor, before the party reached the borders of one of those large pine-forests, with which the face of Portugal is so thickly sprinkled. The trees grew so closely together that it was impossible to see far amongst them; and a high bank rose on one side of the pathway, which led through a deep dell, with a sparkling rivulet running at the bottom of it. It was a shady and cool spot; but after having just quitted the bright sunshine, a certain gloomy air appeared to hang over it, and for the first time the warning of the maid at the inn occurred to the mind of the fair Clara. “Oh! my father, what a dark forest this seems!” she exclaimed; “are not robbers sometimes met with in these places? I know not why, but I do not feel so happy as I did before, and cannot help wishing you had more people to guard you.”

“Fear not, my sweet child,” answered the Fidalgo; “we muster too strong to dread an attack from any band of robbers we are likely to encounter; and if any should dare to molest us, they shall pay dearly for it.”

The words were scarcely uttered, when several musket-shots were heard, as if discharged from among the trees; and one of the servants fell from his mule,—the blood streaming from a wound in his side; and the animal of one of the other men reared, and rolled over, with his rider, to the ground. Donna Clara trembling with agitation, gazed anxiously at her father, who, drawing his sword, looked around, fearful lest any other shots from the unseen assassins might injure his child.

Confusion and dismay took possession of all the individuals of the cavalcade; the women in the litters screamed loudly and long, and the men stood aghast, not knowing which way to turn to meet their treacherous foe.

“Lift your fellow from the ground, and push on in close order,” cried Gonçalo Christovaö; “we must not remain here to be murdered. Look well to your arms, and miss not your aim, if any of the villains show themselves.”

But, alas! the order was useless; for, before the party could advance many paces, another volley was discharged among them, bringing down one of the hindmost litters, containing the maid-servants, whose shrieks and cries of terror utterly confounded the men, who stood paralysed, without attempting to offer assistance; and, at the same instant, eight horsemen, with pistols in their hands, dashed from among the trees towards the fidalgo and the litter of Donna Clara.

“Do not attempt to fire!” exclaimed one who appeared to be the leader of the band, “or you will repent it. You are in our power, and we might, if we had chosen, have killed every one of you; but, provided you make no resistance, we do not wish to shed blood, and are sorry for having hurt the servant. Deliver your money and jewels quietly, and you shall pass on: if you refuse, we shall possess ourselves of them without ceremony.”

“Wretches! how dare you thus speak to me?” demanded the Fidalgo, indignantly. “Retire instantly, and allow my people to pass without molestation, or I will order them to fire.”

“Hark! to the fidalgo—he is vapouring!” cried one of the band.

“If you dare to resist, you shall be the first victim, Senhor Fidalgo!” exclaimed he who had first spoken. “And remember your daughter—her fate be on your own head!”

The priest rode fiercely towards them, exclaiming, “Begone, wretches! or dread the anathema of the Church on your souls!”

“Hark to the priest—he’s preaching!” cried one with a broad-brimmed hat drawn over his eyes, laughing. “Pooh, pooh, Senhor Padre, we are not afraid of mother Church; so do not waste your breath: we can get a priest to curse you in return, you know.”

The brow of Gonçalo Christovaö grew dark with anger. “Vile miscreants!” he exclaimed, “you shall not intimidate us. Forward, my men!”

The servants who were near their master prepared to obey; but the muleteers seemed no way inclined to fight.

“Ah! is it so?” exclaimed the captain of the banditti. “Fire on the fools!”

Several shots were discharged; but, fortunately, none of the party were injured; and the robbers, drawing their swords, rushed on with loud oaths, but were met with steady courage by the fidalgo and his two attendants—he parrying, with great skill, every blow aimed at him, till his servants were both disarmed, but his arm growing weary, at length, of wielding his blade, a sudden blow wrenched it from his grasp, and he was thrown with violence to the ground. The priest, in the meantime, remained by Donna Clara’s litter, though he looked fully willing, had he possessed a sword, to have joined in the fray; while the muleteers stood trembling by, without attempting to interfere.

“You would have acted more wisely to have saved us this trouble,” exclaimed the leader of the robbers, as they prepared to bind the hands of the servants,—several of them dragging the priest from his mule, and treating him in the same way; the muleteers falling down on their knees, and crying for mercy, expecting every moment to have their throats cut. The fidalgo remained stunned on the ground; and, when the robber approached the first litter, to see whom it contained, Donna Clara, overcome with terror at seeing her father, as she supposed, dead, had fainted. The ruffian gazed with astonishment not unmixed with admiration, at the fair girl, now with her eyes closed, as pale as death itself; and for a moment he fancied that some shot must have struck her,—awe preventing him from even daring to touch her, till her gentle breathing convinced him that she lived; but his courage soon returned. “Quick, now, my men!” he cried. “Look into the pockets of these gentlemen, and put gags into the mouths of those senhoras, who are screaming loud enough to be heard across the forest, if they do not choose to be silent, and to deliver up their trinkets quietly. The baggage-mules must accompany us, till we can examine their burdens at our leisure.”

The banditti lost not a moment in obeying these orders, though they found considerable difficulty in executing some of them; particularly in gagging the maid-servants, who fought most desperately, before they would deliver up each separate article of their ornaments. The more booty the robbers acquired, the more their avarice increased.

Donna Clara had now partially recovered; and, looking wildly around,—“Oh! my father, my father!” she exclaimed, “where are you?”

At the sound of her voice, a new idea seemed to strike the robber leader. “Ah! methinks this fair lady would fetch a high ransom,” he exclaimed. “Come, senhora, you must condescend to make use of a less easy conveyance. Do not be alarmed, your father is not seriously hurt,” he added, in rather a softer tone; “and if you will quietly accompany us, no harm shall befall him.”

“Go with you! oh, whither?” cried the young lady, in a tone of horror. “Oh, allow us to pursue our journey, and my father will reward you.”

“We trust not to the promises of a fidalgo, but take care ourselves to secure the rewards we require,” answered the robber. “Come, lady, no more delay. You must leave your litter, for it cannot pass between the trees where our path lies.” Saying which, he rudely seized the arm of the lovely girl, who had not attempted to move till he touched her, when she instinctively drew back; but she was as a dove in the talons of a vulture; and, dragging her forward, he compelled her to descend to the ground.

Trembling with terror, she gazed around, when she beheld the form of her parent, and, breaking from the bandit, threw herself, with a shriek, by his side, raising his head, and endeavouring to recall him to life. As, regarding none around her, she hung over the inanimate form of her parent, chafing his temples, kissing his pale cheek, and using every effort to recover him which her affection dictated, even the hardened ruffians paused ere they attempted to drag her from his side; but the love of gain triumphed over all the better feelings latent in their bosoms, which her beauty had for the moment elicited, and he who appeared to be the captain was again approaching her, when the fidalgo gave signs of returning animation, and, opening his eyes, gazed anxiously at his daughter. She uttered a cry of joy, on discovering that life yet remained, giving expression to her feelings by tender endearments; but the ruffian was not to be deterred from his purpose a second time, and, seizing her arm, attempted to tear her away. With slender efforts she endeavoured to resist the outrage, clinging still closer to her father. “If you have the feelings of men, you cannot be so cruel as to compel me to leave my father thus,” she exclaimed. “Oh, wait, at least, till I see him in safety.”

“Come, come, this is absurd folly, and waste of much precious time,” cried several of the band in impatient tones.

“Give the old gentleman a shake, which will soon bring him to himself; and let him understand, that if he does not ransom his daughter in the course of three days, he will not see her again,” said he with the slouched hat.

In vain the fair girl pleaded for pity, as two of the robbers held her in their grasp, while the others raised her father, who was now sufficiently recovered to comprehend his situation. He of the slouched hat again made his proposal, with threats of vengeance if it was not acceded to.

“Hear me!” cried the Fidalgo, in a tone of rage and agony. “You dare not commit the base outrage you propose, or the vengeance of every honest man in Portugal will follow and destroy you; but yet, if without further delay you set my daughter at liberty, I most solemnly promise you any sum you may venture to demand. Do you consent?”

“No, no, senhor,” answered the leader: “we have risked our necks, and must be paid with good security; nor do we consider the empty word even of a fidalgo sufficient. You must send us the money, or you know the alternative, while we retain your daughter in our power.”

“Wretches, no! ’tis impossible I should consent!” exclaimed Gonçalo Christovaö. “I would rather stab my daughter to the heart, and then plunge the dagger into my own breast, than trust you.”

“As you like, senhor; but we do not intend to give you the choice. Here, tie this noble fidalgo to a tree, with his servants round him, and the priest to offer him consolation, and perhaps by the time some traveller comes by, he may have thought better on the subject,” said the leader.

“You dare not do it, villains!” exclaimed the Fidalgo, his agony increased to the highest pitch. “Release my child, or the vengeance of Heaven will fall on your heads.”

“Gag him, gag him!” cried several of the band, as they dragged him towards a tree to bind him to it.

“If you are less than demons, hear me!” he again exclaimed, as he put aside indignantly the rough hands near his face. “Let my daughter and her attendants go free, and she shall forward the ransom, while I remain with you.”

“Oh no, senhor!” answered the Captain; “you are doubtless a very valuable and important person; but that would not at all answer our purpose. You would cause us much more trouble to keep; and if, by any chance, the ransom did not arrive, we could, after all, only kill you in revenge, while your fair daughter would make a charming wife to some of us. You understand, senhor! ’Twill lower your pride a little, when you see one of us kennel dogs, as you call us, your son-in-law. Think of that. These are our terms; and we do not alter them. Again, I say, we must have done with this folly. Collect all the party, and curses on them, while I hold the lady.”

The banditti, according to their leader’s order, now set to work in earnest, binding the fidalgo, the priest, and the servants to trees at some little distance from each other. They then treated the muleteers in the same way, who deplored, with tears, the loss of their animals; but when it came to the females’ turn, one of them contriving to get the gag out of her mouth, set up a scream loud enough to be heard at the distance of a mile, to which she continued to give reiterated utterance, struggling so bravely, that it was some time before that implement to which it is said women have so great an aversion, could be replaced.

“Do not attempt to escape, Senhor Fidalgo,” said one of the robbers, as approaching Gonçalo Christovaö, and drawing his long knife, he flourished it in the air. “Remember we could just as easily have cut your throat as let you live, and thank the saints that it is not our interest to do so. Some one will doubtless set you free before night approaches, otherwise you may find the wolves rather troublesome—adeos.”

Donna Clara, too much overwhelmed with terror and agitation even to utter a faint scream, remained a passive spectator of the scene, scarcely comprehending the extent of her danger; nor was it till the captain of the banditti lifted her on his horse, that she seemed to return to consciousness, and even then she appeared less alarmed for her own safety than for that of her father.

The robbers, having effectually rifled every one of the travellers, even making the muleteers deliver up the few coins they possessed, collected their booty, and driving the baggage-mules together, took a pathway which appeared leading out of the main track across the forest. The captain remained the last, to see that nothing was left behind; when, bearing Donna Clara before him on his saddle, deaf to her prayers and entreaties, and regardless of her father’s agonised glances, he turned his horse’s head to follow his companions.

Volume One—Chapter Nine.

There are some feelings of the heart so intense that language possesses no words of sufficient force to describe them; and such was the passion which wrung the bosom of the proud fidalgo, when he saw his daughter, a being he loved, a part of himself, carried off by wretches so base and low that he looked upon them as formed of different materials from himself. It was far worse suffering than the martyr at the stake is doomed to bear; and rather would he have beheld his child torn by the wild beasts of the forest, than thus exposed to the lawless violence of such men. The agony of his fury deprived him almost of sensation, and of life itself; but the robber chief heeded him not, further than giving utterance to a scoffing laugh, and bestowing a glance of triumph and derision, over his shoulder, as he was disappearing among the trees; when, at the same moment, one of the band, who had been kept as a scout at some distance along the road, was seen galloping to the spot at a furious rate; and, as he perceived the captain, “Fly!” he cried, “fly! danger is near. A party of horsemen are close upon my heels.” At these words the robber, plunging his long spurs into his horse’s flanks, urged him between the thick-growing trees, followed by the scout, into the depths of the forest, where they were completely concealed from view.

The faint cries which, in her terror and despair, Donna Clara uttered, were yet heard, when a horseman approached, urging on his steed at the utmost speed, and the heart of the father heat again with the anxious hope of succour for his child; for, even as he flew along, his appearance bespoke him a cavalier of rank, being also followed by four servants at a short distance in the rear. He reined in his steed when he came near the spot where Gonçalo Christovaö was bound, and was about to dismount.

“Think not of me, senhor,” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “But hasten through that path to the right, and rescue my daughter from the hands of ruffians who have borne her off.”

At that moment a faint cry was heard through the forest, nor needed the cavalier other inducement to dash forward in the direction from which it proceeded, pointing with his hand, as he rode towards the trees, to the party who remained bound, to indicate them to his servants, one of whom, as he came up, leaped from his horse, and busied himself in releasing them, while the rest galloped after their master into the forest. No sooner did the fidalgo find himself at liberty, than seizing a sword which had been left on the ground, he rushed off in the direction his daughter had been carried, followed by his faithful escudeiro, who was the next person released from his bonds. The rest of the servants and the priest were soon set at liberty, as were some of the muleteers, the former hurrying off to join their master, entirely forgetting, in their haste, to release the women; but, fortunately for them, the muleteers had either more gallantry, or were less anxious to enter into danger. The priest also stalked off in the same direction, muttering dark curses on the heads of the robbers. When released by the muleteers, the old nurse was in an almost insensible state, from terror at the danger of her young charge; but the youthful females, even before their arms were set at liberty, made most significant gestures to have their mouths cleared of the handkerchiefs so unceremoniously thrust into them, which operation was no sooner performed, than, as the renowned Baron Munchausen’s horn, when brought near the fire, gave forth the tones frozen up during the winter, so did they give vent, as if to make amends for their compulsory silence, to the most piercing shrieks, one trying to outvie the other in their loudness and number, so that it might have been supposed they were undergoing some fresh attack from the robbers, instead of being released by their friends. The old nurse threw herself on the ground, giving way to her terror in tears. “Oh my child! my dear child!” she cried; “they have torn her away, and I shall never see her more.”

We must now follow the course of the young cavalier, who had arrived so opportunely on the scene of action; indeed, were we not writing a true history instead of a romance, we might be supposed to have brought him in merely for dramatic effect; but we can assure our readers, that in this, as in every other instance, we are adhering closely to the very voluminous, though rather illegible manuscripts, from which, with infinite labour, we are culling the present volumes. Perhaps, also, more interest may be taken in his adventures, when it is learnt that he was no other than Don Luis d’Almeida, on his way from Lisbon to his father’s quinta, near Coimbra, accompanied by Pedro and some other attendants. As, with considerable risk, he galloped between the trees, he did not even turn his head to see if his servants were following, so eager was he to rescue the daughter of the venerable-looking person he had observed bound. As may be supposed, from the intricacy of the thickets and the closeness of the trees, very slow progress could be made by people encumbered in any way as the robbers were, and thus scarce three minutes had passed before Don Luis perceived them a short distance in advance, they being unconscious, from not hearing his horse’s hoofs on the soft grass, that they were pursued. He was thus enabled to approach close to them before he was discovered, when, seeing only one man, the whole band reined in their horses, the hindermost wheeling with the intention of cutting him down, their leader ordering them not to fire, lest the report of their arms should show where they were: but the first who attempted to attack him paid dearly for his temerity; for, drawing a pistol from his holster, he discharged it, and the ruffian fell from his horse. This success somewhat checked the ardour of the rest in closing with him, and at the same time drew the attention of his servants to the spot. Fortunately for him, too, the robbers, having fired their guns, had forgotten to reload them, and before they could do so, his attendants were seen urging on their horses through the trees. The banditti, upon this, drew back together to reload their pieces; but Don Luis, seeing the advantage this would give them, drew his sword, and rushed on the foremost, his valour excited by catching sight of the light robes of the lady among them, the trees growing thickly around preventing more than one attacking him at a time. The captain of the band now approached, still holding the fainting form of Donna Clara in his grasp. “Fire, you fools!” he cried. “Never mind if you hit Damiaö. It cannot be helped; for we shall be cut down in detail, if we get not rid of yon daring madman. Fire!”

Two of his party obeyed; but their aim was uncertain, and the balls struck the trees near them.

“Fire again!” shouted the Captain; and another of his men having loaded his piece, discharged it; but it was for the destruction of a friend; for the ball striking Damiaö’s horse, the animal fell, and Don Luis, dealing a blow on the ruffian’s head before he could recover himself, rode furiously at the captor of the lady. His three followers at the same time coming up, gave full occupation to the remainder of the band, who were, however, still superior in numbers; and though their courage was somewhat lessened by the loss of their companions, yet the hopes of keeping possession of their booty induced them, led on by him with the slouched hat, to continue the combat. The bandit chief, encumbered as he was by his fair prize, would have been completely unable to defend himself from Don Luis’s furious attack, had he not interposed her as his shield; but the young cavalier was not thus to be baffled; for, changing suddenly his sword to his bridle hand, and leaning forward, he so dexterously clasped the lovely girl round the waist, that the robber, completely taken by surprise, relinquished his hold, and beheld her securely seated in front of her rescuer before he had time to draw a weapon for his defence; when Don Luis, again changing his sword to his right hand, dealt him a blow on the shoulder, that completely disabled him from further resistance. A shot from the pistol of Pedro had likewise severely wounded him with the slouched hat; and the shouts of Gonçalo Christovaö, and his attendants, being now heard, the banditti lost courage, and, turning their horses, galloped after their wounded leader, leaving Don Luis master of the field, with all the booty, except the jewels and money they carried about them. With the fair charge he held in his arms, it was impossible for him to attempt to follow; nor did he think fit to risk the lives of his attendants in a pursuit, which, considering that the robbers were probably well acquainted with the country, would no doubt prove fruitless.

As, his faithful Pedro holding his horse, he gently lifted Donna Clara to the ground, he now, for the first time, observed her extreme beauty; and, though he had fancied his heart seared to all female attractions, he could not help acknowledging that he had never seen one so lovely as the fair girl to whom he had just afforded such essential service. “Fear not, lady,” he said, in a tone modulated by his feelings; “you are free from all danger, and your father, also, is unharmed. See, here he comes to assure you of his safety.”

As he spoke, the fidalgo arrived on the spot, and Don Luis’s heart beat quick with new, undefined sensations, as Donna Clara, forgetting all her terrors and danger on seeing her father in safety, sprang forward, and fell weeping on his neck, while he folded her in a tender embrace. For some minutes neither could find words to give utterance to their feelings of joy, which were too deep, too tender, indeed, for mere words; the father standing gazing on the lovely countenance of his daughter, as she reclined in his arms, while she looked up with an inquiring glance to assure herself that she was not deceived. At length, the Fidalgo addressed Don Luis with that dignified air which marks the man of true nobility.

“Senhor, you have bestowed an inestimable benefit on me,” he said: “let me not longer remain in ignorance of the name of one to whom I would endeavour to offer that earnest gratitude which, however, no words can express.”

“Oh! do not speak of gratitude, senhor,” answered Don Luis: “it is I who have to rejoice in my happiness at having been of service to one so fair and lovely as your daughter. My name is Don Luis d’Almeida.”

“Ah! the son of one whose reputation I well know,” answered the Fidalgo. “And truly delighted I am to hear by whom so great a weight of gratitude has been imposed. My name, also, you may probably have heard; it is Gonçalo Christovaö.”

“A name so illustrious I could not fail to have heard, senhor,” answered Don Luis; “and my satisfaction is doubled at knowing to whom I have been of service.” The fidalgo bowed in return for the compliment, at which he was well pleased; nor did it fail to increase his estimation for the person who paid it.

“But pardon me, Don Luis,” he said; “we ought no longer to remain here; for those wretches are capable of any treachery, and may return to fire on us at a distance.”

“You observe rightly, senhor; we will no longer delay here,” answered Don Luis; and, offering his support to Donna Clara on one side, while her father aided her on the other,—she, expressing her thanks to her gallant deliverer much more by looks than words,—they conducted her towards the spot where the litters had been left; the patient mules having stood quiet during the whole time of the affray.

The muleteers, with shouts of pleasure, collected their scattered beasts, whom they had never expected to see again, and busily employed themselves in putting the litters and baggage to rights. Leaving the body of the slain robber as food for the wolves, the servants dragged forward his companion who had been wounded, one of them, more humane than the rest, attempting to stop the blood flowing from a deep wound in his shoulder, but in vain; yet the man, though he felt himself to be dying, would give no information respecting the rest of the banditti. They were close to the road, when they encountered the priest; and the wounded robber, seeing a person in the clerical dress, earnestly entreated that the consolations of religion might be administered to him. At a sign from the priest, he was therefore placed on the bank, facing the road, and the servants retiring, the holy man knelt down by his side, to hear the confession of his sins, before which he could offer none of the satisfactory comforts of absolution; but the detail occupied a considerable time; for his peccadillos were, alas! of no slight magnitude, nor of little interest, it would seem, by the look of earnest attention which overspread the countenance of his listener. The robber threw many a dark imputation on the characters of some of high rank and influence in the realm, by whose instigation he had committed various atrocities, yet unconfessed and unabsolved. “Now, Father,” said the dying man, “absolve me from these sins which press most heavily on me, and I will afterwards make confession of the remainder.”

“Not so, my son,” answered the Priest; “you must make a clear discharge of your conscience; for I may not afford absolution to a heart yet loaded with iniquity.”

“Oh! Father, I am dying, and feel that I am a miserable sinner!” ejaculated the man, with a feeble voice; “but there is a deed I swore not to reveal to any one, and I may not break my oath. Oh! grant me, then, absolution, ere I die.”

“That may not be,” answered the Priest; “oaths made to sinners like ourselves, for a wicked purpose, can be annulled by a minister of religion, as the only way of making retribution for the crime.”

“It was a deed of blood, Father, but I sought not to do it of my own accord; another instigated me to it by bribes which my poverty could not resist, and I swore never to reveal it.”

“I have said such oaths are valueless!” exclaimed the Priest eagerly. “Come, haste, for your last moments are approaching, when you will be consigned to the terrible flames of purgatory, for thousands and thousands of years, without a mass said for the repose of your soul, if you do not go at once to the ever-burning and bottomless pit, among infidels and heretics.”

The hair of the man stood on end with horror, at the picture of torment offered to his imagination; his eyeballs rolled wildly, as with clenched hands he for an instant sat upright on the ground, and seemed as if about to rise altogether.

“I will confess, I will confess!” he cried, “though I break my oath. ’Twas the young Conde de San Vincente who hired me by a large bribe to do the deed. There was a lady whose affections he sought to gain, but her husband was—Oh, Father, where are you? I am cold—very cold!” cried the man.

“Who was the husband?—you slew him?” asked the Priest, stooping down over the dying wretch.

“He was the—” but ere he could pronounce the name which hung quivering on his lips, he uttered a loud shriek, and, with a convulsive shudder, fell back a lifeless corpse. The priest, however, had heard enough for his purpose; and uttering, or pretending to utter, a prayer over the body, he rose from the ground, and some of the servants coming up, one of them threw a cloak over the distorted features of the dead man.

While the scene of horror we have described was enacting, Don Luis had been actively employed in restoring order to the scattered cavalcade; his first care being to place Donna Clara in her litter, in which her old gouvernante accompanied her. The fidalgo was too much injured and fatigued to remount his horse, and therefore took his seat in his litter; the two wounded men-servants being placed in the third, while the females mounted the mules of the former; one of the mules of the fourth litter having been wounded, they were unable to support a burden.

These various arrangements having been made; the fidalgo, with many expressions of gratitude, would have bid farewell to his deliverer; but Don Luis, fearful that the brigands might again return, insisted on escorting him and his daughter to Leiria, the nearest town on the road to Lisbon, where, if thought advisable, a guard might be procured. “I should be performing but half my devoir as a knight, if I were to quit you in the middle of the forest,” said Don Luis; “a few hours’ delay can be of slight consequence to me, and I may happily be of some further service to you.”

“I cannot refuse your courteous offer, senhor,” answered the Fidalgo, pointing to his daughter. “For my daughter’s sake, it is most acceptable, as I yet tremble for her safety.”

Further delay being unnecessary, the party was again put in motion, Don Luis now riding by the side of the fidalgo’s litter, and ever and anon, notwithstanding his previous intentions to the contrary, approaching that of Donna Clara, to inquire if she had recovered from her alarm, and to assure her that she had no further cause for fear; an assurance in which, proceeding from the lips of so handsome a cavalier, and uttered in a tone of respectful courtesy, she could not fail to put implicit confidence. Notwithstanding his words, however, he kept a constant and watchful glance on every side, having also given private instructions to his own people, and to those of Gonçalo Christovaö to have their arms in readiness for any sudden attack. By insensible degrees he was led to enter more into conversation with his fair companion, and, as he spoke, his words became animated with a new spirit; all thoughts of the past being banished from his mind, while the roses again returned to her cheeks before blanched by fear, her soft eyes beaming with a strange and undefined happiness.

While Don Luis rode on to address the fidalgo, the old Nurse began to comment on his appearance. “What a handsome young cavalier is that,” she said; “so brave too,—why, the servants say he killed ten of the brigands with his own hand! What a noble countenance he has! with such sparkling black eyes! and how many polite inquiries he made after our health! Oh! mine is sore shaken by the fright.—Is he not handsome?”

“Do you think so, good nurse?” answered Donna Clara unconsciously. “I did not look.—He is very brave and very good, I am sure.”

“That he is; and so gallant, too,” said the Nurse. “How few young gentlemen would take the trouble to turn back to protect us. What a pity he is married!”

“Married!” exclaimed Donna Clara; and there was a sinking at her heart, and she felt her cheek again grow pale, she knew not why.

“If he is not married, he soon is to be, to his cousin Donna Theresa d’Alorna. The moment I heard his name I remembered that I had learned all about it from Senhora Anna, his father’s housekeeper, whose birth-place is near Oporto, and who came back to see her kindred some time ago.”

While the old lady was thus running on, the subject of her conversation again rode to the side of the litter; for it was extraordinary how incumbent on him he considered it to make frequent inquiries respecting the young lady’s health. Now, many people will ask if Don Luis had thus suddenly forgotten Donna Theresa and all his griefs; and though we cannot, with perfect certainty, answer that question, yet we have strong reasons to suspect that, for the time, he thought very little about either one or the other; nor had he, indeed, from the moment when he dashed his spurs into his horse’s flanks, as he rode forward to rescue Donna Clara from the power of the brigands, and, as now he rode by her side, gazing on her lovely countenance, and regarding her as one who confided in him for protection, he knew not how it was that all nature seemed suddenly to have assumed a brighter garb, and the weight to have been lifted from his heart. We must, however, beg no one to suppose we mean to insinuate, either that he had fallen in love with the lady, or that she had fallen in love with him, at first sight; because all people of mature judgment agree that, if such is possible, it can occur alone to very silly young people; and that the descriptions of such folly are to be found only in the most absurd and extravagant romances. Of course, therefore, in a grave history, like the present work, we should not venture even to hint at such a thing; and, with regard to his affection for his cousin, it must be remembered that she had treated him with great cruelty and deceit; and that young hearts, however their possessors may fancy them seared and blighted, are of a very elastic and reviving nature, requiring but the warm sun and genial showers of spring to restore their freshness and bloom.

However that may be, when Don Luis again rode up to the side of the litter, his thoughts dwelt on no other subject than its fair occupant, and he felt a slight sensation of disappointment, as, instead of leaning forward to hear what he had to communicate, she reclined back in her seat. “I fear Donna Clara is fatigued with all she has undergone,” he observed.

“Yes, senhor,” she answered, with a half averted eye, “I have, indeed, yet scarcely recovered from terror, though I know it is foolish to be further alarmed; but—” and she hesitated to proceed.

“Do you know, Senhor Don Luis,” exclaimed the old Nurse, eager to speak, and at the same time to relieve the embarrassment of her charge, “that I have heard a great deal of you, and seem to know you perfectly well, though I never saw you before. Ah! senhor, I have heard, too, of your fair cousin, Donna Theresa, and am surprised she is not with you; for I thought you were to have been married before this.”

At Donna Theresa’s name a cloud passed across the cavalier’s brow.

“You must have been misinformed, senhora,” he answered gravely. “My cousin is engaged to the Marquis of Tavora.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon, senhor,” said the old Nurse; “I hope I have not offended by the question; but I hear that she is a very lovely young lady.”

“Oh no, no, you have not offended,” said Don Luis, as he rode from the side of the litter, to avoid showing the blush which burned on his cheek at hearing an affair so lightly alluded to, which he had fancied unknown to the world. Very different was the effect of his words on Donna Clara; for though she felt that, whether he was single, engaged, or married, ought to be a matter of complete indifference to her, yet a certain uneasy sensation seemed removed from her breast, and she again leaned forward to speak, when she found he was no longer by her side.

More than an hour elapsed before Don Luis again approached the litter, during which period the young lady unconsciously allowed a number of new sensations, which had never before been known to her, to take possession of her heart; and she welcomed his return with a smile whose sweetness might have softened the bosom of a stoic,—and certainly her gallant deliverer was not one. For the remainder of the journey he did not leave the side of her litter for more than a few minutes at a time, always gladly again returning to it; and, although they had emerged some time before from the dark forest of pines, and were traversing a comparatively thickly-peopled country, so that all fear of the brigands was banished, yet he insisted on accompanying the party to the end of their day’s journey. As the travellers wound round the base of a hill, the bright rays of the evening sun were throwing a ruddy hue on the topmost turrets of the once proud castle of Leiria; which, standing on the summit of an eminence, situated to the north of that most ancient town, now burst on their view, enclosed in an amphitheatre of hills, surrounding a smiling, well-cultivated valley. A road winding round the foot of the hill conducted them, through the narrow streets of the town, to the house of a fidalgo, who, though absent, had requested Gonçalo Christovaö to take up his abode there.

Don Luis spent the evening in the society of the fidalgo and his daughter; nor did he lose the ground he had gained in the estimation of either; though the priest regarded him with frowning looks, keeping a lynx-eyed watch on every expression of his countenance, and on each word he uttered: the whole party, however, overcome with fatigue, were glad to retire at an early hour to rest.

The sun had already risen above the walls of the town on the following morning, before Don Luis thought of ordering his horses, and he then considered it but an act of common courtesy to wait till he had seen one of Donna Clara’s attendants, to inquire how their lady had borne the fatigues of the journey, and at last, when a black-eyed soubrette tripped down stairs, she kept the handsome stranger in conversation with abundance of questions in return, hoping that he neither had suffered in any way, and finishing by assuring him that her young mistress would be quite offended, she felt sure, if he departed without allowing her again to thank him in person for his gallantry. These observations, we must remark, were entirely the damsel’s own ideas; for, of course, Donna Clara would not have dreamed of delaying Don Luis in his journey on her account; but so thought not the soubrette, and she was merely acting towards her mistress as she would have wished others to do towards herself; for it is remarkable what quick perceptions her class possess on such matters. He therefore could not be so ungallant as to refuse her request, and then he bethought him also that he ought to pay his respects to Gonçalo Christovaö, who had not yet issued from his sleeping apartment. He had for some time been pacing the drawing-room with rather impatient steps, when, on facing the door, it opened, and Donna Clara appeared, enveloped in the full and graceful drapery of her travelling dress, a slight pallor on her delicate cheeks, her eyes soft and liquid, and with a slight degree of bashfulness in her manner as she advanced into the room. There seems to be always a brighter halo of freshness and purity, circling round a young and innocent girl when she first greets the early morn with her smile of gladness, before the glowing sun of noon-day has cast his scorching beams upon her head to dim the seraph-like lustre of her beauty. So lovely, indeed, did Donna Clara appear to the eyes of Don Luis, that for a moment, as the blood rushed quickly from his heart, he stopped, unconsciously, to gaze with admiration involuntary; but, recovering his usual manner, he approached her with graceful courtesy, to inquire if she had suffered from the terror and fatigue of the previous day. She answered, in tones of silvery softness, a sweet smile beaming on her lips, and, as she spoke, his eyes wandered over her features, imprinting every lineament indelibly on the tablets of his memory. Though he knew it not, neither age, grief, nor madness itself, could efface that image of beauty he had drawn. Years might pass away, his own eyes might grow dim, that lovely form might fade, but there it would remain, unchangeable, cherished, and adored!

Though old age has stolen on us, it has made us neither sullen nor morose, and we can yet find pleasure in recurring to the fresh days of our youth, when a lovely face had power to make an impression on our hearts; and we can thus vividly picture to ourselves many of those, seen perhaps but once, suddenly bursting on our view, like a picture of Titian’s, never to be forgotten; and it is from those we describe the fair creatures we would introduce to our readers. Now and again we have met the same, we have fancied, in the person of a younger sister, or a daughter, or perhaps of no kindred except that of sentiments and disposition, which always give a similar expression to the countenance. Sometimes, too, we have met the self-same being, changed, alas! from the creature of angelic loveliness we once knew;—the roses have fled her cheeks, the sylph-like form is no longer there; we hear no more her soft silvery voice; but soon some old familiar expression, some reference to past days, conjures up the former image in all its glowing tints of loveliness, and we deem our youth again returned, and once more do her joyous laughter and the sweet notes of her voice ring, like fairy music, in our ears. ’Tis for this reason that we esteem painting the first, the most divine of the arts; for, with regard to music, the hand or the voice may fail; with poetry, the language may alter or be lost, and the words bring no meaning to the senses; but painting has survived the destruction of kingdoms, the dispersion of nations, a people whose language and very name would have passed away, but that the productions of this art remain to tell their history. Who has not gazed with rapture on some lovely, almost speaking, portrait of one absent, or perhaps lost to us for ever? As we have stood before it, we have seemed to hold converse with it; the eyes have appeared to burn with the mysterious light of intellect, and the lips to move; and we have answered to the words we in fancy heard! Can poetry or music work this magic effect? No; they have their own charms—and oh! how powerful our soul confesses! but we have seen paintings which combine all, which have poetry in every line, and music in every tint.

We are fond, we confess, of making digressions, either when travelling through beautiful scenery, or in conversation, to sketch the views, and to cull the flowers to be found on each side of our path, which, however pleasant to ourselves, who know what is before us, is a bad system to pursue, we own, when our readers are anxious to proceed with our history, and we must therefore apologise to them for our wanderings, and promise in future to keep as much as possible in the direct path.

We must again request our readers to understand, that we do not affirm that Don Luis was in love with Donna Clara; but that we merely wish to explain clearly that he was not at all likely to forget her, which circumstance may be of consequence to remember for the elucidation of the subsequent part of this narrative; to hasten on with which, we need not give the conversation which took place between them, because, also, though highly interesting to themselves, it may not be so to our readers.

At length, however, Donna Clara appeared to be seized with a fit of timidity, wherefore we do not know; for Don Luis was most respectful, and he intended to appear as reserved and cold as he was fully convinced he felt; and we can only guess, therefore, that it was at the time he was employed in making that mental portrait we have described, in which process his eyes were necessarily fixed on her fair features. Now his eyes had a melancholy, tender glance, owing to his late unhappiness; and we have observed that, from the pitying nature of the female heart, such always make the strongest impression on it; and it is a fact for which we will vouch, that, precisely at the same time, she was making the same use of her eyes, in drawing on her mind, though in a slightly different way; for, while his were fixed while he spoke, with a steady gaze, her glances were but for a moment, ever and anon, lifted to his countenance, and again quickly thrown on the ground, as a miniature painter does in the practice of his art. Now, the young people were taking each other’s miniatures in the most artistical way, though they were not aware of it; nor was the operation quite finished (for they found much pleasure in prolonging it) when Gonçalo Christovaö entered the room to relieve his daughter from the slight embarrassment she was beginning to feel. The morning meal was then placed on the table; and, during the time necessarily employed in discussing it, they threw in a few finishing touches, before omitted, which certainly made the portraits very perfect—fully equal to those from the pencil of Rochard, who so frequently, while preserving an exact likeness, improves on the beauty of the originals; though it was impossible such should be the case with the miniature Don Luis carried away of Donna Clara, however much she might have flattered him.

Breakfast in those days was composed of different materials from what it is at present in England, tea being used by very few in the morning except as a medicine, light wine and water being drunk instead, with a little bread, the noon-day meal and the supper being the only substantial repasts.

During the course of conversation, Donna Clara mentioned a serious loss which had occurred to her of a small case of jewels. “I prized them highly, not for their intrinsic value, but that they were my beloved mother’s; nor have I even ever lifted them from the box since she last placed them there.”

Don Luis, of course, as a man of gallantry, vowed that he would use every exertion to recover them, though he could scarcely tell how he should set about the task. Donna Clara, we need not say, thanked him, with many blushes, for his kind intentions; at the same time more minutely describing her lost treasure, for she could not resist a sort of presentiment that he would recover it.

The morning meal having been discussed in the way we have described, and a very pleasant way Don Luis thought it, though it had not a fattening effect on him certainly, for he quite forgot to eat anything, the litters were ordered to the door, and he had the honour of leading the young lady to her seat, in doing which he was quite surprised to discover a slight trembling of her hand, as unavoidably he gently pressed it, though nothing of the sort occurred with Senhora Gertrudes, the old nurse, as most gallantly he placed her opposite to her mistress, by which slight attention he completely won that most respectable old lady’s heart. He then offered his arm to the fidalgo, who gave him a warm embrace at parting, making him promise to visit him soon at Lisbon. He then observed that the curtain of Donna Clara’s litter was loose, so he flew to secure it, for which service he received a rich reward in a sweet smile and a few words of thanks; they, of course, required a suitable answer, and thus he lingered by her side until the whole cavalcade were waiting his last bow, to be put in motion. He delayed them some time before he discovered such to be the case, and was aroused only by hearing the fidalgo’s voice inquiring of the muleteers why they did not proceed, and their answering that they were ready. Donna Clara then bent her head, and waved her hand, Gonçalo Christovaö bowed, and all his attendants took off their hats, which salutation being returned by Don Luis, the whole party moved forward; but he did not quit his position till the last faint tinkle of the mules’ bells had died away. He might have stood there longer, as Pedro, who had been making his private comments on what he observed, thought very probable; but knowing that it was high time his master should be in the saddle, he brought his horse close to him, making the animal rear a little, while he held the stirrup, a very significant gesture for him to mount. Looking round, and seeing all his party prepared, he threw himself on his horse, courteously returning the bows made by the bystanders, and set forward to retrace his steps of the previous day. Having now introduced two very interesting young people to each other, we will leave them to pursue their journeys in different directions, while we turn to other scenes and fresh characters, for none of which, however, have we so much regard as for those we have just quitted.

Volume One—Chapter Ten.

In looking over the many various and bulky documents before us, from which we are compiling this history, we see an account of a personage who played a conspicuous part in the scenes we are about to describe. Dom Joseph Mascarenhas and Lancastre, Duke of Aveiro, was descended from Dom George, a natural son of John the Second, King of Portugal, called the Perfect. He was hereditary grand master of the house of the King of Portugal, president of the court of the palace, and one of the high lords of the kingdom. He was not born to this high rank, owing it more to a caprice of fortune than to any good qualities he possessed. His elder brother, the Marquis of Gouvea, having fallen in love with the wife of a fidalgo of the first order, and won her affection in return, which was discovered by the husband; as the only way of enjoying their criminal passion, he fled with her to a foreign country. Such, according to the laws of Portugal, is considered a capital crime, and punished by perpetual banishment, which sentence being carried into effect against the marquis, his younger brother succeeded to his title and estates. An uncle of the Gouveas, Father Gaspar de Incarnaçaö, one of the many priests by whom the old king, John the Fifth, was surrounded, being soon after nominated Prime Minister, through his interest, the dukedom of Aveiro, which had previously become extinct, was bestowed on Dom Joseph. During the reign of that imbecile and fanatical sovereign, he had enjoyed considerable influence at Court, when he had made a deadly and personal enemy of Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho, then a young and daring adventurer, without power or influence, who had presumed to lift his eyes towards a lady of his family, whose affections his handsome figure and gallant manners had won. The duke, highly indignant at the daring presumption of one whom he designated as a low-born plebeian, strenuously opposed the match, threatening vengeance on the head of the lover if he presumed to persevere, at the same time insulting him with every term of opprobrium. But the man who was destined to curb and break the haughty spirits of the whole body of a potent nobility, was not likely to be deterred from his purpose by the threats of a single family; and, in spite of all their care, he bore the lady off from the seclusion in which they had immured her to keep her out of his way. In consequence of this insult to the honour of his family, the duke had sworn the most deadly vengeance against Carvalho, taking every means to thwart his aspiring aims; and thus did the blackest hatred rankle in the breasts of both, each seeking the first opportunity to destroy the other. His duchess, by whom he had one son, the Marquis of Gouvea, yet a child, was sister to the Marchioness of Tavora, but devoid of her pride and ambition, and devoted entirely to her domestic duties.

The duke, at the time of which we write, had retired, during the heat of the summer, to his country-house of Azeitaö, on the borders of the Tagus, at some distance from Lisbon. A hot and sultry day was near drawing to a close, the setting sun just tingeing the topmost boughs of a grove of shining leaved orange-trees, beneath whose shade the master of the domain had for some time past been pacing, in no very enviable mood, it would seem, from the fierce and discontented expression which sat upon his brow, and the violent action in which he was indulging. His outward appearance certainly did not betoken his lofty birth and ancient lineage, except that the haughty and imperious air he wore showed that he was accustomed to have his commands implicitly obeyed; his figure being low, and destitute of symmetry and grace. “Curses on the man who has dared to come between me and my plans,” he exclaimed, as he struck his clenched hand against his brow. “Trusting in the confidence the king has foolishly reposed in him, he has dared, not only to treat me, the chief noble in the realm, as an equal, forsooth, but with marked insult and disdain, to exhibit his hatred and jealousy of my rank; but he shall not continue so to do much longer, all powerful as he deems himself. Would that the assassin’s knife could reach his bosom! but the fools are afraid of his giant strength and figure, and declare that no steel can harm him. Oh, that heaven or hell would send me aid to work out my vengeance!—I would give half my wealth to see him dead at my feet!”

“What wouldst thou, my son?” said a voice, in a deep and hollow tone. He started, with horror on his countenance. His thoughts, his conscience told him, had been evil, and he was one over whom superstition and bigotry held full sway; for a moment, therefore, he expected to see the father of sin in a bodily presence rising up before him. He looked up, and beheld a dark figure of gigantic height, it seemed, amid the thickening shadows of the trees. A cold sweat stood on his brow. Had his dark thoughts then conjured up a spirit of evil? With noiseless steps the figure approached over the soft mossy ground, and, instead of the unwelcome visitor he had expected, he saw the Father Malagrida standing before him. He breathed more freely, and felt his courage revive in the presence of so righteous a man, whose sign alone was sufficient to keep at bay the whole infernal host.

“What would you, my son?” repeated the Father. “Some half-uttered sentences fell on my ear, and I observed your violent action. Tell me, my son, what thoughts oppress your bosom, and I will pour balm into it.”

“Father, you cannot aid me,” said the Duke; “it is beyond your province.”

“There is nothing beyond my province, there is nothing I cannot foresee,” exclaimed the Jesuit, in a deep tone. “Think you I see with the mortal eyes men see with, or judge with the judgment of the vulgar? No, my son, my spirit is elevated above the world. The vision of prophecy illumines my mind, and where men of common souls, unenlightened by Divine grace, grope on in the dark, like blind moles, all before me is clear and light. Speak not, then. I know your thoughts, and you need not fear to indulge in them; for they are righteous and sanctified. You would seek to inflict a just punishment on the evil doer—you would chastise him who has elevated himself, by aid of the spirit of darkness, to a post of power, in order that he may heap damnation on his own head by afflicting with cruelties and insults those chosen of the Lord as his servants.”

“Father, you have divined my thoughts,” exclaimed the Duke. “I was, at the moment you arrived, considering by what means I could bring down punishment on the head of that man, Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho, equally the foe of the fidalgos and of religion.”

“All means are allowable when the end proposed is holy,” answered the Jesuit. “And what more righteous object than the punishment of the wicked? Be assured, my son, that Heaven will avenge itself in due time on the destroyer of its servants, and blessed will those be who are chosen as the instruments to work out its inscrutable ends. Hear me, Duke of Aveiro! The Lord of Heaven has chosen me, as he did the most holy prophet Balaam of olden time, whose deep learning taught him to understand the language of the beasts of the field; and to me he has given in charge to deliver his messages to the kings and potentates who rule the world. Thus does he declare that he who is exalted shall be brought low, and that he who will protect his servants shall be exalted even to sit on the regal throne.”

The Duke started. “Is such the message Heaven deigns to send to me?” he exclaimed, as he gazed with a look of doubt and astonishment at the speaker.

“Ah, thou confidest not in my sayings,” exclaimed Malagrida; “thou doubtest that I speak the words of inspiration. Beware, Duke of Aveiro, beware of the temptations of Satan!”

“Holy Father, I believe your words,” answered the Duke, trembling.

“Rememberest thou not, then, that in thy veins flows the royal blood of Portugal? then why not mount that throne when he who now reigns has departed? Say! ought he to rule a Catholic people, who cherishes the persecutor of our holy religion, who confides in one who would destroy the bulwarks of the Church, who has driven its most devoted servants from his presence? No, my son, I will answer for you, no. Such a man ought not to live, and blessed is he who does the work of Heaven in destroying him.”

The Duke stood gazing on the Jesuit as one whose senses are bewildered by the sudden communication either of joyful or disastrous intelligence. Had he ever before indulged in thoughts such as these words conjured up? Yes, he had; but, as he thought, he trembled; but now all his fears were banished, and those imaginings which he had before fancied were the instigations of the evil one, he was now told, were the inspirations of the Divine will. Neither the Duke nor Malagrida had moved since they first met; the tall gaunt figure of the priest appearing of still greater height from a bright gleam of sunshine, which, piercing through the foliage, fell upon his head, as he waved his arms wildly round while he spoke; the former now standing in the deep shade beneath the thickly growing orange-trees, which extended in a long avenue, the ground beneath being striped with lines of the brightest gold and black. Now, some may suppose that Malagrida was an impersonification of the evil one, come to tempt the unfortunate Duke to his destruction; but such was not the case. He had from his earliest day’s been an enthusiast, with an eager mind, weakened by the exercises of superstition, and now insanity was making rapid progress over it, though he still retained a considerable spice of that species of cunning which often accompanies madness, pointing out the best means of attaining what was most advantageous to him. He thus, while he fancied that he was giving utterance to the inspirations of Heaven, was perfectly well aware that he was making a tool of the weak and bigoted Duke, not discovering that he was himself influenced by another his superior, but who, in his estimation, was vastly his inferior in talent and holiness. Respecting the latter quality he might not have far erred.

He stood gazing down on his noble dupe for several minutes. “Come,” he said, “my son, whose brow I may some day see graced by a regal diadem, let us walk beneath this shady grove, and talk further on this subject. Should Heaven not alter its intention of placing you on the throne of these realms, you will not forget the interests of the Church, and of one of its most devoted servants, who has been the privileged and true prophet of your elevation.”

“No, holy Father, trust to my gratitude,” answered the Duke. “The Church, under my protection, shall flourish in full power; and you shall ever remain the guardian of my conscience, and my spiritual adviser.”

“Such is well, my son,” answered the Jesuit; “and, ere long, your good intentions will be rewarded. In the meantime, be prepared for the events which are at hand, and be not dismayed by the difficulties in your path. He who would succeed must suffer all things, and dare all things; nor fear but that the Church will grant absolution, even unto the shedding the blood of the wicked.”

“I understand your words; Father,” answered the Duke, in an agitated and hollow tone. “The matter you speak of is of deep importance, and requires mature consideration; yet would I hazard all to destroy that upstart Carvalho, who so insolently lords it over us nobles, by birth his masters.”

Thus conversing, the Duke and Malagrida continued pacing the orange grove till the quick coming shades of darkness made it no longer safe to speak aloud on such dangerous subjects, lest any, unperceived, might approach and overhear them.

As the name of the Father Malagrida was at one time known over a great part of the Catholic world, by some lauded as a saint and prophet, by others scorned as an impudent hypocrite and impostor, we may be excused for giving a slight sketch of his history.

Gabriel Malagrida, an Italian, was born in 1689, at Mercajo, in the Milanese, and was thus, at the time we have introduced him, upwards of sixty years old. At an early age he migrated to Portugal, then the paradise of priests and religious adventurers of all classes, but particularly of the Jesuits, who possessed the supreme control over the consciences of the royal family and the chief nobility; and into that order he was there, after the usual probation, admitted. His peculiar talents were soon discovered, and he was despatched as a missionary to South America. Over the whole of that part under the dominion of Portugal he travelled barefooted and alone; his only sustenance the wild roots and herbs, which he dug with his own hands; his body being covered with the marks imprinted on it by the teeth and claws of the wild beasts he encountered. Having escaped the glories of martyrdom, such a life fully entitled him to the character of a saint of the very first order, which, on his recall by his superior, he took every opportunity to improve; adding to it that of a prophet and worker of miracles, thousands being ready to swear to the fulfilment of the predictions he had uttered, and to the miracles he had wrought. King John the Fifth, of pious memory, who ever preferred the society of bigots, flatterers, buffoons, and fools, to the cares of government, for which he probably felt a consciousness of total incapacity, leaving his kingdom to rapid decay, while he was slowly toiling to merit heaven and gain forgiveness for rather numerous peccadillos, which private memoirs hint he had some difficulty in giving up, had distinguished Malagrida by marked partiality, and had performed what were called exercises under his direction. He had, likewise, been a favourite with the queen, Mary Anne of Austria; and, on his return from South America, the present king, Joseph, then Prince of Brazil, had gone out to meet him, and throwing himself at his feet, had implored his blessing. It is, indeed, scarcely possible, in the present day, to conceive a Court so completely debased by superstition, so overrun by herds of slothful, ignorant, or designing priests, as was that of Lisbon; from whose worse than Augean filth it was Carvalho’s Herculean undertaking, in some degree, to cleanse it for the time. Malagrida having thus retained almost supreme power over the consciences of the chief persons in the realm for a long series of years, his hatred was rancorous and deadly against the man who had deprived him of it; and the Minister had occasion for the utmost watchfulness and talent to guard himself against the secret machinations and the public attacks with which he and the rest of his order attempted to destroy him.

When Carvalho first returned to Portugal, after his embassy to the Court of London, he had paid every respect to the Jesuits, particularly to Father Moreira, the confessor to the Prince of Brazil, in order, by his aid, to gain the confidence of the heir to the throne; but no sooner did he find his power secure, than he threw off the mask and proclaimed himself the enemy of the whole order, whom he declared the chief cause of the ignorance and bigotry of the people.

It is not surprising, therefore, that they should regard with fear and hatred a man so opposed to all their principles of government; and, accordingly, they used every means in their power to instigate the people against him, thundering anathemas on his head from their pulpits, and spreading tracts, loaded with abuse, among all circles. No one equalled Malagrida in the measures he took, or the daring he exhibited; but, though years first rolled on, the bitter and relentless vengeance of the Minister ultimately overtook him.

Such was the man we left with the Duke of Aveiro: their conference was yet unfinished, when, having taken another turn, they had reached the further end of the avenue, which led to a small grotto of stone-work, surrounded by a thicket of low shrubs. Malagrida laid his arm on the shoulder of the Duke, exclaiming, with deep energy, “Nought but the death of the persecutor of its servants will satisfy the vengeance of Heaven.”

A hollow voice echoed, “the vengeance of Heaven!” and, at the same time a noise was heard in the shrubbery. Both the monk and the noble started—perhaps neither had quite deceived themselves as to their secret aims.

“Avaunt thee, Sathanas, if thou art the spirit of evil,” exclaimed Malagrida.

The Duke trembled with agitation. The rustling noise was again heard. “Ah! ’tis some villain spy,” he cried, drawing his sword and rushing towards the spot. “His death shall secure his silence.”

Being now persuaded that it was a mortal enemy he had to encounter, his boldness returned, and, without hesitation, he sprung into the thicket; but all was silent: the gloom preventing his seeing many feet before him. He beat about for a considerable time, plunging his sword into every bush that appeared darker than the others; but to no purpose, for the sound was not repeated. Malagrida watched on the outside, but no one appeared.

“It was a deception of the evil one, to turn us from our path,” he cried. “Come forth, my son, and fear not. That was no mortal voice we heard, and with me you need fear no spirit of darkness.”

The Duke at length came out of the shrubbery, his dress torn and disordered, and his voice yet trembling with alarm. “Surely some one must have been hidden there,” he said: “yet, if there was, he must have escaped, and will report our words to one who is not likely to forget them.”

“Fear not; no mortal could have remained undiscovered,” answered the Jesuit; “and of nought else need you be afraid.”

“Since you affirm it, Father, I am convinced also that the noise was caused by no mortal being,” said the Duke; “but we ought no longer to remain here. I like not this threatening gloom. Let us return to the more open ground: the air here is oppressive and damp, and aids to conjure up doubts and fears to my mind.”

“Again, I say, fear not; but remember my words—both dare and do,” returned Malagrida. “It is now time that I should depart.”

“First come, then, to the house, holy Father, and take some refreshment and rest,” said the Duke.

“My body requires neither food nor rest when I am about a great work,” answered the Priest. “It is advisable, also, that I should be observed by none of your retainers. Return, then, to your house, and forget not what I have said. I will tarry in this spot to see if the evil one shall again venture to make his presence known, and if he comes not before long, secretly, as I came, will I again depart. Farewell, my son.”

The Duke, however, was unwilling to leave the side of the holy man, with the prospect of a long dark avenue before him, which he must traverse alone, exposed to the assaults of the spirits of evil; but Malagrida signed him to depart, waving his arms wildly round, and then, turning towards the grotto, disappeared in the gloom.

He waited not a moment longer, but with quick steps hurried towards his house, his heart beating with apprehension; and, as he went, he fancied that he heard voices on every side gibbering and muttering threats and curses against him, till his terror made him break into a run; nor did he stop till he arrived at the door of his mansion. Pale and breathless with the exertion, his brow covered with perspiration, he rushed into the room where his duchess was sitting, not perceiving her, and threw himself into a seat. She looked up, alarmed, marking his disordered appearance.

“What is the matter with my lord?” she said, as she approached him, and took his hand.

The contact of a human being, and one for whom he possessed as much affection as he was capable of feeling for any, revived his spirits. “Oh! nothing, nothing!” he answered. “A freak made me run faster than I have run since I was a boy.”

“I rejoice to hear it; for I feared you were ill, or that something had alarmed you,” returned the Duchess.

“Oh no! I am well—perfectly well,” exclaimed the Duke, bursting into a wild laugh. “Ha! ha! What think you of the title of Queen, fair lady? Would it not be a proud thing to be a king, to trample on the neck of that insolent plebeian Carvalho, who now lords it so boldly?”

“He is a bad man, my lord,” answered the Duchess, meekly; “and Heaven will punish him.”

“Bad! he is the incarnation of the evil one,” cried the Duke, stamping his foot. “But you answer not my question. Would you not be a queen, and see your Marquezinho a prince? Ha! then you might be proud indeed!”

“I seek not for more than I possess,” answered the lady. “Oh! my lord, indulge not in such dangerous thoughts: they can but bring destruction on your head. That you do think of them I know too well; for I have of late heard you muttering them in your sleep.”

“Then go to bed, and dream of them yourself, fair lady: you will find them pleasant and enticing,” said the Duke, again laughing.

“It is early, my lord, and the sun has but just set,” answered the Duchess.

“Oh, I forgot—I forgot!” exclaimed her husband. “No matter, you must keep country hours. It is good for the health: so to bed—to bed, and dream of a royal crown.”

“’Tis a dream, my lord, which has cost many a one his head,” said the Duchess, sadly.

The Duke started, and his pallor again returned. “What folly is this?” he exclaimed, angrily. “I spoke but in jest.—Now, obey me, and to bed!”

The duchess turned a look of grief towards her haughty lord; but, accustomed to obey his imperious commands, she retired to her room.

“That woman is not to be trusted,” muttered the Duke, when left alone. “She has neither ambition nor courage. It was folly to speak to her on the subject.”

We constantly observe that weak and vain men have some parasite attached to them, who plays on the former quality by flattering the latter for his own individual interests, at the same time despising and often destroying the very person who supports him, like the noxious weed the tree to which it clings; and such an one had the Duke of Aveiro, in the person of his secretary, master of the household, and chief butler, Captain Policarpio d’Azevedo; for in all those capacities did that worthy gentleman serve him, besides holding a commission in the army. The duke now summoned his confidant, ordering supper to be brought, and having disencumbered himself of his morning costume, and dressed in a light gown, he seated himself at table. Captain Policarpio soon appeared, bearing a dish, which he placed before his master; and then took his station behind his chair, while a troop of other servants followed, with the remainder of the repast, who were ordered forthwith to retire. It may seem strange, but it is a notorious fact, that at the time of which we speak, and even until very lately, commissions in the army were procured by the nobles for their domestics, as a reward for services often of a very doubtful nature. Many of the principal fidalgos retained in their household three or four of these gentry holding the rank of captain, who waited on them at their meals, dressed in their uniforms, and often decked with the Order of Christ; and it was not till the army was remodelled by Lord Beresford, that the abuse was finally abolished. It may be supposed that an army so organised could not be in a very efficient state, or possessed of officers with a very high tone of feeling among them. It also showed the arrogant dispositions of the fidalgos, who thus attempted to assume even more than the state of princes.

“You have now served me faithfully for some years, Policarpio, and it is time your services were more amply rewarded,” began the Duke.

“Oh, your Excellency is too kind, too generous; for when you are served for love, why speak of reward?—the satisfaction of following so good a master is in itself sufficient payment,” answered the Escudeiro, sidling round, so as to come in sight of his lord.

“Because it is my pleasure to repay those who serve me faithfully and well as you have done,” answered the Duke. “It may soon, too, be in my power to reward you far more than I have yet done; for when the master rises, so will those who follow him. Mark that, Policarpio!”

“How can my lord rise higher than he is at present?” said the flatterer, surprised at the question, and eager to learn to what it might further tend. “Is not my lord already one of the greatest men in the kingdom, both in rank and wealth?”

“I was so, truly, under the reign of our late pious king; but things have changed, and a vile upstart has dared to insult my honour; but the day will come, and soon, too, when I may have my full revenge, and he who now triumphs in power shall writhe beneath my feet.”

“May my lord have success in all his wishes, and enjoy full revenge on all his enemies!” answered the Escudeiro.

“Wishes are but of little avail, without action,” observed the Noble; “and much must be accomplished before my hopes are fulfilled.”

“Whatever need be done, I will undertake to serve you, my lord,” answered Captain Policarpio, bowing, and laying his hand to his heart.

“Ah, my friend, you are a man in whom I can place implicit confidence,” said the Duke; “and I know that you would rejoice in my prosperity. What think you, then, if the crown of Portugal were placed on my brow? Would not then my friends have cause to esteem themselves fortunate?”

“Those are already fortunate who serve your Excellency; and no one is more calculated to adorn a throne,” answered the subtle follower,—his own ambition taking fire on the instant at thoughts of his master’s aggrandisement, in the advantages of which he might well expect to participate. “And well do I feel assured that you will not neglect those who have hitherto obeyed you faithfully. Do but point out the means to attain your aims, and no scruples, no obstacles shall deter me from prosecuting them.”

“Well, well, we will talk of that anon, my worthy servant,” answered the Duke. “It is but lately Heaven has thought fit to inspire my heart with such mighty aims; nor have I yet been able to form any plans; but this alone I know, that while that enemy to our holy religion, Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho exists, all will be fruitless; and he who would do me service will strike a poniard to his heart. In this will he commit no sin, as I have been assured by Heaven itself, in the sacred person of one of its most devoted ministers.”

“I should fear nothing to serve my master,” said Policarpio. “But how can the death of the Minister alone place your Excellency on the throne?”

“Hark, you!” whispered the Duke, drawing his servant close to him. “The king himself may die. He is weak and sickly; or he may be killed while hunting; he may be thrown from his horse, or a shot may strike him.—Ha! dost thou understand me?”

The attendant nodded, a smile of satisfaction passing over his features. “I comprehend, I comprehend; nor will your Excellency’s hint be thrown away.”

Much more, to the same effect as the above, the Duke spoke, a mixture of blasphemy, folly, and daring, to which his worthy servant listened with profound humility and attention, fully determined to take advantage of the knowledge he had gained; if successful, to follow the fortunes of his master, or to betray him, if he saw a probability of his plans failing: and thus are traitors nearly always served.

However, we must confess that we take no interest in these personages, or their conversation; nor do we believe that it would either instruct or amuse our readers—which is our only aim in writing—were we to detail it: we therefore refrain from doing so. Indeed, would the truth of history allow us, we would gladly consign all bad characters to the shades of oblivion, and describe such only as had high and noble motives for their actions; but, alas! as the world is constituted, did we do so, we should be most justly accused of compiling an extravagant and absurd romance, without either truth for the groundwork, or nature in the colouring; thus neglecting what we conceive are the great rules to be observed by those who would paint an historical picture of days gone by. We are, therefore, compelled to introduce such a man as the Duke of Aveiro, in whom we have sought, but sought in vain, to discover some redeeming qualities; but he appears to have possessed but few friends, even among his own class, and those of his own political opinions; as he is described by all as a man singularly ignorant and grossly superstitious; of a vindictive and savage disposition, and arrogant and haughty to all who approached him. We wished to have drawn him otherwise; but we found it impossible so to do and adhere to truth. This we mention, that our readers may not suppose we have caricatured in his person a Portuguese nobleman of the past century, who could thus weakly yield to the instigations of a designing madman like Malagrida, and believe in his blasphemous prophecies; but we can assure them that we have faithfully translated the very language of that person, avoiding even much that might shock the ear of the present generation.

The insane ambition of the Duke being once kindled with the hopes of promised success, every thought of his mind was occupied with projects, equally replete with wickedness and folly, to compass his end; nor did he from that time forth again know one moment of tranquillity or happiness. Leaving his duchess and young son at Azeitaö, he, a few days afterwards, set off for Lisbon, with a nephew, who constantly resided in his house, accompanied by his constant attendant, Captain Policarpio, and followed by a train of servants.

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

We invariably feel much satisfaction, when, in turning over the pages of the manuscripts before us, we come to the name of Don Luis d’Almeida, albeit he played no very conspicuous part in the events of the times; yet we take pleasure in following his course, and we also feel tolerably certain that we are about to read of some interesting adventure.

We left him, followed by his train, riding through the narrow and winding street of Leiria, towards the gate by which he had entered the previous evening. As he wound down the rugged pathway, after passing the gates, he cast a last look at the battered moss-grown walls, and ruined towers of that ancient town, now for ever associated in his mind with the fair young being from whom he had there parted, and then, putting spurs to his horse, he galloped on, at the great risk of breaking his neck, his followers in vain endeavouring to keep him in view. His luggage also would certainly have been left to the mercy of the brigands, had he not fortunately recollected that such might be its fate; so he wisely drew in his rein, and allowed his horse to proceed at its own pace till his party should come up with him.

He could not discover the reason, but so it was, that, although proceeding towards his home, he did not enjoy his morning ride half so much as that of the last evening. It could not be because a certain young lady was travelling south while he was going north; for he thought, and fancied that he thought very wisely, that he could not take any interest in one, although he acknowledged her to be very lovely, whom he had neither seen nor heard of twenty hours before. He concluded that it was because he disliked solitude, and he had now no one with whom to converse; but, for some reason or other, he did not think half so much of the infidelity and treachery of Donna Theresa; and when he did think of the subject, he began rather to pity her, and to congratulate himself on having escaped from the toils of a heartless coquette. It was some time, however, before the last happy idea occurred to him, for at first his feelings towards her were rather bitter; then he was angry with himself for indulging in them, and then very miserable, and then, as if by magic, appeared the portrait he had Daguerreo-typed in the morning, of Donna Clara in her travelling mantle of blue silk.

But we shall never carry Don Luis to his home, and back again to Lisbon, if we do not proceed at a faster rate. To account for his having four persons in his train, we must explain that, besides Pedro, one other only was his own servant, the third was a native of Galicia, of that hardy race called Gallegos, who come with willing hands, light, honest hearts, and empty pockets, to make their fortune in Portugal; and the one in question was returning to enjoy the fruits of his labour with his family, in respectable independence in his native land, now mounted on a stout mule, with his pockets well lined with gold. He had easily obtained permission to accompany Don Luis thus far, having once served in his father’s house. The other man was a tenant of the count’s, whom legal business had called to Lisbon. Pedro, whose heart was light and free, amused himself from morning till night by singing, in high glee at returning once more to his home to relate all the wonders he had seen in his travels.

After waiting a couple of hours at a small village on the road to bait their animals and recruit themselves, it was late in the day before they entered the forest in which the attack on Gonçalo Christovaö had been made, and the party began to look around, in expectation of a fresh encounter with the banditti, although that kind of gentry were not fond of meeting with those from whom little booty, and abundance of hard blows, were to be expected. However, as they neared the scene of the encounter, even Don Luis began to think it would have been wiser to have procured a guard, or waited for a larger party of travellers, lest the banditti, observing their small number, might, to revenge themselves for their defeat, pick them off from an ambush at a distance. Pedro no longer sang his merry songs, his fellow said all the prayers he could remember, the Gallego vowed a candle to Saint Jago de Compostella, and the farmer a pig to the priest, if they escaped the danger. The muleteers who had charge of the baggage, though they had seen nothing of the fray, caught the contagion of fear, giving but scanty promise of fighting if brought to the trial. The body of the robber was no longer there, but at a little distance from the spot where he had been left, lay his hat, and part of his dress, torn and bloody, telling plainly that Christian sepulture he would never now enjoy; for limb by limb had the body been borne off by the savage inhabitants of the forest. Don Luis stopped a moment involuntarily on the spot, shuddering at the wretch’s fate; but Pedro, being in no romantic humour, hinted to his master that all the time they were affording an opportunity to the comrades of the deceased to take better aim, and begged him to move forward without delay, declaring that he saw the muzzle of a gun projecting from among the thick-growing leaves beyond the bank.

Accordingly they proceeded down the hill, and crossed the stream, the rest keeping close to Don Luis, and splashing him not a little in their hurry to get across, looking anxiously behind them, to see if the brigands were in their rear, and expecting every moment to hear the sharp click of the locks of their carbines, with the ringing report of their discharge, each hoping that he should not be the one picked off. When they mounted the opposite hill, and had arrived on the open heath, the hearts of all the party beat more freely, and as they got beyond musket range of the wood they laughed at their previous terrors, no longer feeling inclined to scold their master for the coolness he had shown, or the slow pace at which he had chosen to ride.

The sun had just sunk as they reached the inn where Gonçalo Christovaö and his family had rested the day before, at the door of which the buxom Rosa was standing, busily employed in spinning, and looking out for a stray traveller; and of course her delight was proportionably great, when she found that so large a party, with so graceful a cavalier, were about to honour the house with their presence.

The horses and mules were stalled, and Don Luis was shown upstairs, while Pedro set himself to work to aid Rosa in preparing his master’s supper, during which operation he exerted his utmost powers of pleasing to ingratiate himself in her favour. But she was either out of humour at something, or offended by his addresses, for she returned his attentions with scanty courtesy, appearing anxious to get rid of his presence; that, however, was not so easy a matter, as he had never been remarkable for either bashfulness or modesty: at all events, if he ever had possessed those qualities, he had most effectually eased himself of them during his travels. Do all he could—praise her beauty, her figure, or her voice as she sang at her employment over the fire—Rosa was not in the mood to be won by any of his fascinations, and insisted on carrying up some of the dishes herself; perhaps it was from her very natural wish to see more of his master, as she had not every day the opportunity of admiring so handsome a guest.

As she was preparing the table, Don Luis could not help observing a handsome ring, with a sparkling diamond, on her little finger, an unusual ornament for a person of her class, though with her gala costume she might have worn ear-rings and several gold chains. He made no remark till she went down stairs and returned again, when, in a playful manner, he admired the jewel. “Sim senhor, it is very pretty,” she answered, rather confused, and busied herself in putting the dishes in order.

“What kind friend gave you so pretty an ornament?” said Don Luis; “I fear you run a great risk of dimming its lustre.”

At that moment a noise, which sounded very like a growl, though it might have been a groan, proceeded from one of the recesses in the room, across which a curtain was drawn.

“What noise is that?” exclaimed Don Luis, “Have you any sick person in the house?”

“’Tis an unfortunate frade, a very holy man, who was taken ill here last night,” answered the damsel. Another growl interrupted her observations. “I’ll run and bring you up an omelette, senhor,” she said quickly, as she escaped out of the room.

Pedro gave his master a nod, as much as to say, “I do not exactly believe her,” when, running towards the curtains, he poked his head between the in, and then took the liberty of drawing them aside, so as to let the light fall into the recess, where a pair of ferrety eyes were seen glaring forth, with no very amicable expression, on the intruder, while a ruddy countenance, with a red rim of hair under a black skull cap, appeared above the bed clothes.

“In the name of all the saints, let down the curtain, and allow a sick man to rest in peace,” exclaimed a gruff voice. “The light hurts my eyes, and prevents me from sleeping.”

“Your pardon, senhor,” answered Don Luis, politely. “My servant’s curiosity has made him commit a solecism in good manners, for which pray excuse him.”

“Well, let him draw the curtain, and leave me to repose,” returned the voice, ending the sentence with what sounded very like an oath, too profane to proceed from such reverend lips.

Pedro did as he was ordered; but not until he had taken another glance, to assure himself that he had before seen that pair of eyes at no very distant period, though he did not express his opinion aloud to his master, nor could he venture to do so by signs; for he felt a moral conviction, that they were still glaring on him through some opening in the drapery, an idea which, as may be supposed, made him feel anything but at his ease. He determined, however, to keep a narrow watch on the inmate of the recess, and on the movements of several other doubtful-looking personages whom he had seen about the inn; yet he was puzzled how to prevent them from guessing that his suspicions were aroused; for he knew that every word he uttered in the room would be overheard; and, if he whispered to his master, it would make the matter still worse; therefore, like a prudent statesman, he determined to wait the course of events.

By the time he had arrived at this determination, Rosa returned, and began to clear away the dishes, when he observed that she no longer wore the ring on her finger; yet he forebore to make any further observation on the subject. He waited till he was preparing his master’s couch for the night, when he seized the opportunity to make him comprehend his suspicions, by pointing significantly towards the recess, in which the sick friar lay, then, putting his head on the pillow, and shaking it, and drawing his finger across his throat, and again shaking his head; by which signs, Don Luis understood him to say, “If you do go to sleep, you will have your throat cut;” no very pleasing prospect for a person so overcome by weariness, that he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Pedro, however, merely meant to advise him not to go to sleep till his return; and he then hurried out to hint his doubts, if possible, to the rest of the party, and to desire them to come up stairs immediately, where they could roll themselves up in their cloaks, in the corners of the room, begging them on no account to separate.

Don Luis, having also his suspicions aroused, observed, as he looked round the room, that his luggage, with his holsters, had been piled up close to the recess in which the friar slept. It might, certainly, have been placed there by accident; but, for caution’s sake, as he walked about the room, he very quietly removed his weapons, and hung them up close to his bed, carefully examining the primings of his pistols. Pedro soon returned with the rest of the party, and, having assisted in undressing his master, who threw himself on the bed, he rolled himself up on the ground close to him, while the other men followed his example in another corner, from whence, in a few minutes, loud snores proceeding, gave notice of their being wrapt in sleep. A small lamp, burning in the centre of the room, gave a dim and uncertain light, throwing long shadows from the tables and chairs, and exhibiting a troop of mice, like tiny phantoms, playing on the floor, and picking up the crumbs from the evening repast. Having gazed at these objects for some time, till they grew still more confused, Don Luis could no longer resist the inclination he felt to close his eyes, persuading himself that, after all, there was no cause for fear.

Two or three hours passed quietly away, when, on a sudden, he was awoke by an exclamation from Pedro; and, starting up, he beheld him grasping tightly the legs of a man, whom he recognised as the invalid friar; who, with uplifted arm, was on the point of plunging a long knife into poor Pedro, having already possessed himself of the holsters, when Don Luis sprang up, and seized him firmly.

“Spare my life, senhor,” he said with the greatest coolness; “I was not going to take yours; but merely to carry your weapons out of harm’s way; for I do not like to see such murderous things in the hands of youths.”

While he was speaking, Pedro had contrived to rise and seize his other arm.

“How dare you tell me so abominable a falsehood?” exclaimed Don Luis.—“Wretch! you are in my power, and deserve to die.”

“I am in your power at this moment, I very well know,” answered the Friar; “but, if you were to kill me, you would not benefit yourselves. I should therefore advise you to allow me to return quietly to bed, and I shall be grateful; if not, a cry from me would bring a whole party of men, who have sworn to avenge themselves on you, and who would make small ceremony in cutting all your throats, and burying you before morning.”

“I grant you your life, then, in trust that you will show your gratitude,” said Don Luis.

“Was a Capuchin friar ever ungrateful?” exclaimed their prisoner. “Well, then, I should advise you to barricade the door, load your arms, call your servants, and declare, if any body tries to enter, you will shoot me. Now, having given you my advice, let me go quietly to bed again, for I really am ill, and undertook only to withdraw your pistols, lest you should hurt anybody with them.”

“Well, Senhor Frade,” answered Don Luis, laughing, “you certainly are a most cool and impudent gentleman; but I will trust to you, when we have secured the door; in the meantime, you must consent to sit quiet for awhile, with your arms tied behind you, in this chair.”

“Take care what you are about, senhores. You hurt my arm, which I sprained badly the other day, or you would not have caught me so easily,” observed the Friar.

“Oh!” thought Pedro, as he saw that the friar’s arm was bandaged up and bloody, “Well, well, holy Father, you must sit quiet then,” he added, aloud, then called to his fellow-servant: “Come here, Bento, and take the liberty of shooting the friar through the head, if he attempts to call out, while I assist our master in securing the fortress. I’ll be answerable for your getting absolution.”

The friar was therefore obliged to sit down, while Bento stood over him; Don Luis, and the rest of the party, with as little noise as possible, placing the tables and chairs against the door, though such a barricade would offer but slight resistance, should any strong force be used outside. They then examined the room well, to see that no one else was hidden there, and to discover if there were any other outlets, by which they might be surprised.

In the course of the search, as Pedro was looking into the cell of the friar, he discovered a broad-brimmed hat, thrown under the foot of the bed, so he brought it out, and placed it on that reverend person’s head, nodding most approvingly, as if to an old acquaintance; then threw it back to whence he had taken it.

“You may now retire to your couch, Senhor Frade,” said Don Luis.—“We will no longer disturb the tranquillity of your slumbers; and, on condition that you do your best to aid us, you shall not suffer.”

“I promise you, on the honour of a friar, that if I can help it, no harm shall happen to you; and in return, you must promise me, on the honour of a fidalgo, that you will never mention to any human being that you have seen me here, or allow your people to do so, whatever your suspicions may be; for I have repented of certain little peccadillos I have committed, and intend to lead a new life.”

“If you adhere to the conditions, I promise not to betray you,” said Don Luis.

“Very well; and now, in mercy’s sake, don’t keep me up in the cold any longer,” said the Friar.

“Permit me first, senhor, to deprive you of that delicate little penknife,” said Pedro, taking the friar’s dagger from his hands, “and now, pray retire to your couch.”

The friar was not long in doing as he was ordered; and, as if to convince them of the purity of his conscience, he was soon fast asleep, as might be supposed from his loud snores.

Not long afterwards, some one was heard pressing against the door. “Curses on the lazy friar,” muttered a voice outside, in a low growl, yet loud enough to be heard through the crevices of the walls,—“He’s snoring away like a hog, without thinking of his promise to us.”

“Open the door, and steal softly in,” said another voice. “You can easily get possession of their arms, when we can rush in to bind them, and then it will be time enough to bind the estalajadeiro, and the rest of the household, though I suspect Senhora Rosa will give us some little trouble; however, we can let her loose the first, to release the rest, when we are far off with the booty.”

“A very good plan, doubtless; but I am not going to run the chance of being shot by that hot-headed youngster. What can have become of the frade? Hark! the lazy brute is still snoring on, forgetful of our interests.”

“Will nothing waken him?” said another voice. “Try the door again.”

Another attempt was now made to open the door without noise. Don Luis and his servants stood prepared, with pistols in hand, to defend themselves, while Pedro kept his eye on the snoring friar, who, the more the people outside spoke, made the louder nasal music to drown their voices. After the door had been several times gently shaken, and the wooden fastening turned in several ways to no purpose—

“Carramba!” exclaimed one of the voices. “They have secured the door inside, and, unless that houndish friar will wake up, we shall be foiled completely. Curses on the fool! There he snores away. This delay will never do; we must dash open the door, and cut all their throats.”

“By Saint Anthony, nothing would give me greater satisfaction,” said another. “I long to revenge myself for the loss that youth caused us yesterday, and see, Heaven has delivered him into our hands!”

“So do I; but the estalajadeiro declared he would have no murder, nor any of the horses taken, which might be traced to give his house a bad name; and that nobody should know he had a hand in it.”

“That is very well; but I should like to know what we are to do then?” asked another.

“There is only one way left: dash the door off its hinges, tie the young fidalgo and his servants to the beds, and walk off with whatever we may find convenient.”

“Agreed, agreed!” said two or three voices. “Your plan is a good one, Rodrigo. Call the others up stairs. Remember, we all rush in together; and do not forget to give the friar a good beating, as if by mistake, to punish him for his stupidity. We would dash his brains out if he were not useful.”

The Friar snored louder than ever. Several feet were heard ascending the stair; then there was a sudden rush, and the ill-secured door was dashed off its hinges with a loud noise, falling inside, when a dozen or more dark forms were seen attempting to scramble over the tables and chairs.

Don Luis fired his pistol, unwisely, perhaps—one ought to try negotiation before going to war—and the ball took effect on some one in the rear; then changing his sword to the right hand, he rushed forward to meet the first who should enter, while his servants discharged their pistols at the aperture, now crowded with human beings.

“Murder! murder!” shouted the Friar, leaping up in his bed, as if just awoke from sleep; but Pedro kept his eye upon him.

“Carramba! fire in on them, or we shall have more holes in our ribs than the doctors can cure.”

“Hold!” shouted the Friar: “if you do, you will kill me, you fools!”

The robbers heeded him not, throwing a volley into the room; but no one fell. At the same time, a shrill female voice was heard crying out, “Murder! murder!”

“On, comrades! We must not be baulked by this foolery!” and before the smoke cleared away, making a desperate rush, they leaped over all obstacles into the room, the headmost attacking Don Luis with great fury; but they were not good swordsmen, and for several passes he easily kept them at bay. Numbers, however, must soon have overpowered him, those behind again loading their muskets, when he received succour from a quarter he little expected.

“I will keep my promise, and soon clear the room of these rascals, while you go and aid your master,” cried the Friar to Pedro. “By all that is sacred, I will.”

Before Pedro had time to answer, he sprang up, seizing a thick oak stick from the head of the bed, and rushed towards the robbers, flourishing it over his head, and exclaiming, “I will pay you for your kind intentions towards me, my masters.”

This sudden reinforcement made the parties more equal; for Pedro, seeing that the friar really intended to aid them, was able to assist his master. Down came the friar’s stick on the head of the foremost robbers, and blow after blow descended with more execution than the swords of Don Luis and his party.

“The friar has turned traitor,” shouted several voices. “Cut him down, cut him down!”

“Hold, hold, ye fools!” cried the Friar, in return. “Back, back, or it will be the worse for you!”

At that instant the innkeeper seemed aroused from his slumbers; for his voice, also, was heard exclaiming, “Back, back, ye cursed idiots! What! would you have my house looked upon as a den of thieves for this night’s work? Back, back! or by the Holy Virgin some of you will not live to repent it!”

He seemed to be enforcing his orders by blows; for a scuffle was heard outside, above which arose the shrill tones of a woman’s voice, the robbers appearing to be giving way.

The man with whom Don Luis was chiefly engaged glared fiercely on him. “You killed my brother yesterday, and I will be revenged on you,” he exclaimed. “I know you, Don Luis d’Almeida: you foiled me before; but we shall meet again ere long, when this blade shall drink your life’s blood:” saying which, with curses on his companions for their cowardice, he bounded down the stairs after them, leaving Don Luis and his attendants masters of the room; while the innkeeper and the friar were seen on the top of the stairs, the latter still flourishing his cudgel, and vehemently abusing the banditti in no measured terms. The voices of the robbers were heard outside, in high and fierce dispute, the sounds gradually dying away as they gained a greater distance from the house.

The innkeeper, followed by the friar, then entered the apartment, making many apologies for the outrage. “I hope, senhor, you will not bring ruin on an unfortunate man, by mentioning the occurrences of the night,” he said, in a supplicating tone. “You see, senhor, I am entirely in the power of those gentlemen, and could not avoid what happened; therefore, as none of your party are hurt, and you have wounded two of the banditti, I trust that this punishment will satisfy you.”

“Oh yes, yes; I know that Don Luis will be generous, and act like a true fidalgo,” interrupted the Friar. “You see that I kept my word; so in future remember you may trust to a friar’s promise: and now, by your leave, cavalheros, I will go to bed again, for the night air does not agree with me, and my shoulder is painful.” Saying which, he composedly walked to his recess, and covered himself up with the clothes.

“I ought to make no terms with you,” said Don Luis; “yet, having no wish to ruin you, I shall not complain, if you will undertake that we receive no further annoyance.”

“Oh yes, senhor, yes; on my word of honour as a gentleman, you shall be unmolested,” returned the Innkeeper, putting his hand to his heart, and bowing low.

“The fidalgo will do as we beg him, I know,” cried the Friar, from his dormitory; “so go away, and leave him to finish the night in peace.”

“You will not blame me, senhor, for what has occurred. Well, senhor, I am happy again, so, if your servants will help me, I will put up the door, and leave you to repose.”

Though Don Luis was not to be deceived by the humble demeanour of the innkeeper, or the cool impudence of the friar, his only prudent plan was to pretend to believe them. He therefore waited till order was restored in the room, and the innkeeper had bowed himself away, when, loading his pistols carefully, he threw himself on his bed to wait for daylight. Pedro, however, still suspecting treachery, did not trust to a word that had been said; but, as soon as he saw that his master was again asleep, drawing a chair to the table, he sat himself down with his pistols before him, and a flask of wine, which, standing quietly in a corner, had escaped destruction. “Now, Senhor Frade,” he thought, “if you play me false—and I cannot say I trust you—I will have a pop at you with one pistol, while the other shall bring down the first man who attempts to come in at the door.” The other servants, though very much frightened at first, dropped off, one by one, to sleep; but he, conquering his drowsiness, kept his eye on the friar, every instant expecting to see the banditti rush into the room. He earnestly longed for day, to quit the place; and, at length, his wishes were gratified by seeing a pale stream of light gleaming through the ill-closing shutters, when, as it grew brighter and brighter, he hurried to open them, and to let in the fresh morning air, rousing his master and the rest of the party.

The Friar sat up in his bed and nodded familiarly to him. “If you had trusted to me you might have spent a pleasanter night, Senhor Pedro,” said he: “I hope, however, you enjoyed your vigils. Good morning, Don Luis: you remember your promise.”

“I do not intend to betray you,” answered Don Luis; “but you must do me another service. Some jewels were stolen from a young lady who travelled this way yesterday, and I must insist on their being given to me, that I may restore them to their owner; now, I doubt not that you are able to procure them for me. Will you undertake to do so?”

The Friar thought for a minute. “If I undertake to procure the jewels, what am I to expect in return?” he asked.

“You well know that you deserve nothing, and that I am too lenient in allowing you to escape unpunished,” answered Don Luis; “but I will give an hundred milreas to the person who brings them to my father’s house in the course of a week.”

“The bargain is struck,” answered the Friar. “And now, senhor, adeos: I shall always retain a high respect for you.”

“I cannot exactly return the compliment,” said Don Luis; “but I shall always remember you, as the most daring, impudent scoundrel I have ever met.”

“Va com Deos. Get along with you; you are joking, fidalgo,” returned the Friar, laughing. “I am but a poor mendicant servant of heaven, and be assured I shall not forget you in my prayers.”

Don Luis did not answer him; but, followed by Pedro and his other attendants, bearing the luggage, he repaired to the stable, where their beasts were saddled, and they were soon ready to depart.

The landlord made his appearance, followed by Rosa, with tears in her eyes: “You will not be cruel, senhor, and make a complaint about what happened last night,” she said; “for if you do, you will ruin us all, and we shall be sent to prison, or turned into the road to starve.”

“I have already said I would make no complaint,” answered Don Luis; “and, Senhor Estalajadeiro, I must discharge my bill to you.”

“Oh, senhor, I cannot think of such a thing after the inconveniences you have endured,” answered the landlord, bowing; “yet, senhor, I am a poor man with a family. It is but a trifle, four milreas in all, for which I shall be thankful.”

“Very well, here is the amount,” said Don Luis, giving him the money; “and I should advise you to be more careful in future what guests you entertain.” Saying which, he leapt into his saddle, and, with his attendants, resumed his journey towards his home, the landlord bowing most humbly till they were out of sight.

Pedro, eager to let his tongue have full play, took the liberty of an old servant, and rode up to the side of his master, whose horse’s head he allowed to be just a little in advance, as a mark of respect. “Those people at the inn are very great rascals, senhor,” he began.

“There can be but little doubt of it,” returned his master.

“Ah, senhor, and the greatest of all is the friar. Do you know, senhor, he was one of those who attacked Gonçalo Christovaö, yesterday? I marked his slouched hat, his ferret eyes, and the cut on his shoulder, which he declares is a bruise: now I saw plenty of blood about it, and blood does not flow from a bruise in that way.”

“I suspected as much,” said Don Luis; “but were I to make a complaint against him, no notice, probably, would be taken of it; for his robes will protect a friar as long as he is guilty of no heretical opinions, even though he may have committed murder, and the other people would take an early opportunity to revenge themselves, while I should not benefit society.”

“You were quite right, senhor, in what you did,” answered Pedro; “I wish merely to observe, that we must not trust to any of them; for, depend upon it, both the friar and the landlord are in league with the robbers; though, for some reason or other, it did not suit them to cut our throats, as the rest wished to do. I hope that, none of them are on the watch to pick us off as we ride along; and if it pleases you, senhor, had we not better push on as quick as we can through this grove? These trees afford such close shelter to lurking foes, who may shoot every one of us without our being able to get near them.”

Notwithstanding Pedro’s apprehensions, they passed the grove in safety, and again emerged into a more open country, partly cultivated, though in a very careless way, with a few miserable hamlets and cottages scattered here and there; and round the fields near them were trained vines, propped up some four or five feet from the ground, from which the thin common wine used by the poor people is made.

Towards the close of a long day’s journey, during which they had twice rested their horses, Don Luis and his followers arrived in front of a handsome gateway, over the top of which the arms of the Almeidas were placed, beautifully carved in stone. He gazed at them with pride for an instant, while Pedro dismounted to open the gates; and, as he entered a long avenue of cork-trees, his heart beat with the fond anticipation of again being pressed in the arms of a father who fondly loved him, and for whom he, in return, felt the most devoted affection and respect.

The sun shone brightly through the trees on the broad open space in front of the house, in the centre of which a bright jet of water sparkled high in the air, throwing on all sides its glittering drops, as it descended again into a large circular tank swarming with fish of gold and silver scales. A flight of broad stone steps, with heavy balustrades, led up to the entrance door of the house, which was, as is usually the case, of a single story, the ground floor being used only for servants’ rooms and offices. It was a long low building, with two wings, the centre part receding and forming a court in front between them. Over the entrance were again seen the arms of the family, delicately carved, on a large stone shield; and in many parts of the building were either small shields or devices taken from it; but, besides these ornaments, the house had few lordly pretensions. Just as they arrived in front of the mansion, a servant belonging to the premises caught sight of them, and shouting at the top of his voice, as he ran forward to meet them, “The young Count, Don Luis, our Morgado, is arrived,” seized his young master’s hand, and covered it with kisses. The noise brought out the heads both of male and female servants from various windows, who, when they saw who had arrived, popped them in again, and hastened down, each anxious to be the first to welcome their young lord; so that, by the time he reached the steps, a number had collected to offer their congratulations. At the same moment, a venerable and dignified-looking person appeared at the door, whom Don Luis no sooner saw, than, leaping from his horse, he sprang up the steps, regardless of all the smiling faces on each side, and threw himself, half kneeling, into his arms. His father, for it was the old Count, embraced him affectionately. “My son, my son,” he exclaimed, “your return restores light and joy to my heart; nor have you, Luis, disappointed my fond expectations. I am proud, very proud of you.” What words could be more gratifying to a son’s ears? and Luis was a son to appreciate them.

After the first greetings with his father were over, he turned to the old domestics, who, with smiling countenances, stood around, anxious to show their pleasure; nor was their zeal feigned, for there is in Portugal that kindly communication kept up between master and servant which causes the latter to take a warm interest in all connected with the welfare of his superior. Suffice it to say, that sincere were the rejoicings throughout the household at the return of their young lord; nor was Pedro forgotten, as he took very good care to assure himself.

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

Here we have arrived at the last chapter of our first volume, without having advanced any way in our story; but it is, we conceive, an error on the right side, as the chief interest will be found in the two following ones, without any fear of our materials being exhausted.

We have also placed ourselves in a dilemma; for while we are anxious to describe certain events which befell Don Luis, our gallantry would lead us to follow the fair Donna Clara on her journey to Lisbon; for, although far advanced, as we are, down the vale of years, and invulnerable to the soft blandishments of the sex, that feeling, or sentiment, still retains its influence over us, owing to our having been educated before the civilisation of our countrymen was refined by their intercourse with the Indians of North America, or the intellectual inhabitants of Australia—before, indeed, the days of modern chivalry.

It is remarkable that, although Senhora Gertrudes exerted herself to the utmost to amuse her young lady, Donna Clara found her journey from Leiria to Lisbon very long and tedious; and it more than once occurred to her, how far more agreeable it would have been had Don Luis d’Almeida been travelling in the same instead of in a contrary direction; but she did not utter her thoughts to her old nurse—indeed, she scarcely acknowledged them to herself. The weather, too, had become dark and gloomy, and the horses of a small body of cavalry, whom her father had procured as an escort for part of the way, created a dust and disturbance, the men looking much more like banditti than soldiers, so that she was very glad when the towers of Lisbon, and the broad flowing Tagus, appeared in sight. When the travellers were within a short distance of the city, a party of cavaliers were seen approaching, who drew in their reins as they came close to the fidalgo; one of the foremost leaping from his horse, and advancing towards him. He was a young man of graceful and refined exterior, dressed rather in the extreme of fashion, with an abundance of lace to his ruffles and shirt, his waistcoat richly flowered, and jewels glittering on the handle of his sword; his countenance, also, bore strong marks of dissipation, and there was a wild, careless manner in his whole air.

“Welcome to Lisbon, my honoured father; and my fair sister, I trust she has not suffered from the journey. I have brought my friend, San Vincente, out to meet you,” he added, introducing a young man, whose dark handsome countenance was disfigured by a lowering brow, and a furtive glance of the eye. Both gentlemen bowed low and often.

“I am most happy in having so early an opportunity to make the personal acquaintance of one of whom I have heard so much, and with whom I hope shortly to be yet more intimate.” The count bowed lower still at the compliment, and the priest, who rode near his patron, eyed him narrowly.

“We received notice of your approach but at a late hour, and instantly mounted our horses to ride forward to meet you,” said the young Fidalgo. “Excuse me, I will now go and address my sister;” and he rode up to the side of her litter. “Ah, my pretty Clara, blooming and fresh as ever!” he said, after the first greetings were over. “I am delighted to see you drawn out of the seclusion of that horrid place, Oporto, to enjoy the gaieties of the capital, where you will soon get rid of that bashful timidity which sits so ill upon you. Ah! I have a friend whom I must introduce to you, the Conde de San Vincente; see, he is riding by the side of our father. You have often heard of him, of course?”

“I have heard his name mentioned,” answered his sister; “but little else respecting him.”

“You will know more of him soon, then. He is an excellent fellow, and a particular acquaintance of mine; rather proud and haughty towards the scum of the earth, the lower orders, and not of a very forgiving temper if insulted; but those are qualities ladies seldom find fault with. I will bring him up to you presently, to pay his respects.”

“Oh no, no, do not inconvenience the count. You will have another opportunity of introducing your friend,” said Donna Clara.

“What a timid little bird you are,” answered the young Fidalgo, laughing. “Now, I dare say your heart is fluttering with agitation. Why, the count is dying to see you, I have so praised you to him; and as soon as he can escape from the side of our father, he will come to throw himself at your feet.”

He soon afterwards rode on and joined his father and the count, when, having contrived to bring their conversation to a close, he returned with the latter to the side of his sister’s litter. Clara cast a hurried glance at the countenance of her brother’s friend, and with that quick perception with which some women are fortunately endued, in that one moment she read more of his character than her brother had discovered during the whole course of his acquaintance; not that she could dream of the dark crimes and vices of which he was capable; such was impossible to her pure mind; but she saw something there which she did not like, she knew not what, and she returned a cold bow to the many flourishes of his hat, and chosen phrases of compliment with which the count honoured her.

Though rather piqued at her indifference, he was not in the least abashed; but kept his place on one side, while her brother rode on the other, endeavouring, though in vain, to win her attention by flattery to her beauty and by stories of the day, till they arrived in front of the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, a relation of Gonçalo Christovaö, where he had been invited to take up his abode during his stay in Lisbon. The count threw himself from his horse, and offered to hand Clara from her litter, an attention she could not, without marked rudeness, refuse; but as her hand touched his, a shudder passed through her frame, such as, it is said and believed, the victim feels in the presence of his destroyer; and she turned aside her head, to avoid the glance of those dark baneful eyes, which she felt an undefined consciousness were capable of withering her young pure happiness, her very existence itself.

Again bowing coldly to him, she withdrew her hand, when he was obliged to take his leave, while she flew to join her father, who with great ceremony conducted her upstairs, and introduced her to the old marchioness, who, surrounded by a number of old women, more hideous, if possible, than the witches in Macbeth, was standing ready to receive her guests at the entrance of the ante-room leading to the state apartment, a mark of very great distinction. She was a lady well advanced in years, of most grave and formal aspect; every motion of her body, and every thought of her mind, being regulated by what she considered the strict rules of etiquette. Her dress, like her mind, was composed of the stiffest materials, her gown being of a thick rich silk, capable of standing alone without the wearer, making a loud rustling as she moved forward and curtsied to Clara, whom, timid and blushing, her father presented to her; when the old lady bestowed a kiss (rather savoury of snuff, it must be owned) on each side of her face. “You are a very pretty young lady,” she said, staring at her; “so was I once; but the world since then has changed with me, as it will with you. I am glad to see you, Gonçalo Christovaö,” she added, though her looks belied her words; for it appeared impossible that any feelings of gladness could exist beneath that rigid aspect. “Remember, you are to make my house, and all it contains, entirely your own during your residence here: a daughter of yours will not be guilty of any of those levities in which young ladies of the present day are too apt to indulge; and I hear that you have brought your most excellent confessor with you, who will instil into her mind those principles of decorum and religion so essential in the conduct of a young lady.” The marchioness having delivered this oration, led the way to her room of state, her attendants drawing aside to allow her and her guests to pass, and then followed in line, and arranged themselves on each side of the apartment.

The conversation was continued in the same stiff and formal strain, so that poor Clara was delighted when she was allowed to retire to the rooms appropriated to her use, where Senhora Gertrudes was ready to receive her, not at all more pleased than her young lady with the attendants of the marchioness.

Although, during the excitement of the journey, Clara had borne up against the effects of the terror she had endured, when she attempted to rise on the morning after her arrival, she fell back on her couch weak and feverish, and a severe illness seized her, which for many days confined her to her room; during which time numerous were the inquiries made at the door of the palace, the fame of her beauty having spread among the nobles of the city, all eager to see the new ornament which they hoped was to be added to the Court.

The most constant visitor was the Conde de San Vincente, for his fiery passions had been at once captivated by her tranquil beauty; the very indifference she had exhibited towards him serving to increase the flame, so that, looking on her as his affianced bride, he vowed the most deadly vengeance against any who should venture to come between him and the consummation of his hopes. He had sufficient tact carefully to conceal his character from her father, as he had, indeed, the darker shades from her brother, who would not otherwise have continued on the same intimate terms with him, though, it is to be feared, from the low state of morals at that time in society, he would not have treated him with the scorn and hatred he deserved.

Unremitting, therefore, in his attentions to the fidalgo, making promises of large settlements, and a handsome establishment, he completely won him to forward his wishes; indeed, in those times, few fathers ever thought of asking their daughters’ consent in forming for them a connexion in which the whole happiness of their future life was concerned; and the young ladies, having few opportunities allowed them of choosing for themselves, generally yielded to their fate without a murmur; too often afterwards indemnifying themselves at the expense of their husband’s honour.

In the meantime poor Clara remained in happy ignorance of the fate awaiting her; though the hints carelessly thrown out by her brother had for the time alarmed her; but she persuaded herself that he had but spoken in joke, and thought no more on the subject; her only remaining doubts being occasioned by her not having been informed of the reason for her visit to Lisbon. She was occasionally visited by the old marchioness, whose conversation was very far from contributing to enliven her, being chiefly long homilies for the regulation of her religious and moral conduct, and warnings against the sins which the pomps and vanities of the world would lead her to commit. Then she would launch out into praise of the advantages to be derived from a life of seclusion from the temptations of the world, ending with deep regrets that she herself in her youth had not rather assumed the veil, than subjected herself to the unhappiness she had endured; though it may be observed that she had never thought so till she had lost all taste for the pleasures she reprobated, and had contrived for a long course of years to yield very freely to the temptations she spoke of, without very seriously damaging her reputation; the marquis, her husband, having been of a very kind and indulgent disposition, and she having discovered certain peccadillos of his, which enabled her to keep a constant check over him, and prevented him from inquiring too minutely into what she chose to do.

The chief cause of her present style of conversation was, that the Padre Alfonzo, who had determined, for reasons of his own, that his fair young penitent should assume the veil, and was now employing every means he thought likely to aid his purpose, had for that reason assiduously paid his court to the marchioness from the moment of his arrival, and easily gained her over to his views, pointing out the advantages which Clara would find, both in a spiritual and moral point of view, in a monastic life, and the misery she would endure if united to a man of so bad a character as he hinted that of the count to be. He also assured the old lady that it would much contribute to gain pardon from heaven for her own trespasses, if she were the means of offering so acceptable a sacrifice to the Church; and the last argument completely gained his point.

Gonçalo Christovaö was at first very much alarmed at his daughter’s illness, but being assured by the physicians that there was no danger to be apprehended, he with resignation awaited her recovery. It must be observed, that though, in this instance, the doctors were perfectly right, they knew very little of the subject, their chief specific being that of Doctor Sangrado, and a judicious administering of mummy powder, and various drugs long since banished from every pharmacopeia in civilised Europe. Fortunately they came to the determination that Clara did not require bleeding, and thus, under the care of kind nature, she was allowed to recover without their interference, and all praised the physicians who had wrought so speedy a cure. Her father, having made up his mind that she should become the bride of his estimable young friend, the Conde San Vincente, determined, as soon as he considered she was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, to open the subject to her. Now, he was, as we have said, a very amiable man, and an affectionate father; but he was one of those people who, according to circumstances, may be either praised for their firmness or blamed for their obstinacy; if he had once taken an idea into his head, he was very fond of retaining it, from the difficulty he had in getting it there. Of his own accord, and by the advice of his son, he had determined that his daughter should espouse the Conde San Vincente, while his confessor, in whose judgment he put implicit confidence, had persuaded him, by dint of much argument, that if she would not marry according to his will, she must inevitably assume the veil. Besides the quality which his enemies would have called obstinacy, he possessed another, which the same persons would have designated as a passionate temper, though his admirers might look upon it as a just indignation: it had rarely been aroused, principally from his having always enjoyed his own way, no one attempting to oppose his will, so that he was not even aware of it himself, imagining that he was of the mildest disposition possible. When he entered his daughter’s apartment, he found her risen from her bed, and seated on a sofa near the open window, enjoying the fresh air, the only remedy which she required to restore her to perfect health. He took her hand as he seated himself by her side. He began much in the way fathers always must begin when they have the same sort of subject to communicate, particularly when they have some floating suspicions that it may not afford entire satisfaction to their hearers, and that they must be prepared for a slight opposition to their will, as his confessor had warned him might now be the case. He talked a great deal about his love and affection, and his care for her interests and happiness, in answer to which his daughter looked into his face, and thanked him with a sweet beaming smile, and an assurance of her confidence in his love. Then he talked of the necessity of leaving as large a fortune as possible to his son, whose expenses were, he confessed, considerable, that he might maintain the family honour and dignity, in which she most readily acquiesced. He next approached the main point. He observed that young ladies must form matrimonial connexions suitable to their family and station, and that nothing was more disgraceful or wrong than for a person of pure and noble blood to wed with one who could not boast an equal number of quarterings on their escutcheons. Clara said she had always heard such was the case, and believed it fully; then she looked down on the ground, wondering what was next to come. The Fidalgo went on to observe, that there were very few unmarried men of his acquaintance whom he should consider as a suitable match for his daughter, that many of pure blood were poor, and that he would, on no account, expose her to the miseries of poverty; and that there were several aged bachelors and widowers who were most unexceptionable, but that there were objections to her marrying an old man, especially if not very wealthy. She again thanked him, and agreed in some part of the observations. It did occur to her for an instant, and she longed to say so, that she thought she had met with one who might perhaps please him, but her modesty restrained her, so she blushed at her own thoughts, and fixed her eyes more intently on the ground. He had now arrived at the delicate point, and he began to speak quicker, as if to get over it; for he saw his daughter turning paler every instant, and he could not bear to watch her, so he averted his eyes while he spoke. He said that he had looked round among all his acquaintance, in which search her brother had materially aided him, to find a suitable husband for her, as he considered that she ought now to marry; that, after infinite trouble, he had succeeded in selecting one in every way her equal in blood, being of the highest Fidalguia, and of title and large property, so that she must consider herself as a very fortunate girl. Poor Clara now trembled violently, but her father did not, or would not, observe her agitation. He continued, that her intended husband was a particular friend of her brothel, who much wished the match to take place; that he was the young Conde San Vincente; and that he had engaged his word as a fidalgo that she should marry him and no one else: therefore, that she must be prepared to receive him on the following day as her future husband. At this communication Clara turned deadly pale, and trembled so violently, that she almost fell from her seat. Her worst suspicions were realised: that dreaded man must be her husband! She shuddered at the thought; for her confessor had taken care to instil into her mind his opinion of the count, more by dark insinuations than by any direct accusation; for the former he knew would have far greater effect, while the latter might be refuted, and might injure himself. There was a spirit in the bosom of that young girl which she knew not of, both firm and enduring, enabling her to resist tyranny with determination; but she first made use of the feminine weapons most natural to her age and habits.

“Oh, my father, I love you, and have always sought to obey your wishes; but do not now require of me what I cannot do,—cause me not now to act in disobedience to your commands. Oh! alter that decision, which it would break my heart to obey. It is impossible that I should love the count, and you would not make me wed one for whom I can never feel affection?”

The fidalgo looked at her with amazement. He had never supposed it possible that she should offer any resistance to his wishes, though they might not at first please her. It is just probable that, had she not mentally daguerreo-typed that likeness of Don Luis at Leiria, she might not have thought of opposing the commands of her father, who, however, never made any such calculation; nor had the said Don Luis even occurred to his recollection, as he knew him to be the son of a poor noble, whose property was much involved.

“What is this nonsense I hear about love and affection? What objections can you have to the count? He is young, handsome, and rich, as you know; and as you have scarcely seen him, it is not possible that you can dislike him; so that you will soon learn to love him as much as is necessary; and what further would you wish? Come, come, Clara, I have always been an indulgent father to you,—do not let me now find you a disobedient child, in the most important affair of your life. Am not I the fittest person to choose a husband for you? and tell me, how could you, who can know nothing of the world, select one for yourself? Such an idea would be unmaidenly and highly incorrect, and one in which no young lady would dream of indulging; and I have pledged my word to the count, therefore you must marry him.”

Clara did not see the clearness of her father’s reasoning. “I would do all to please you,” she again answered; “I would die, and, oh! willingly, for your sake; but this I cannot do.”

“Clara, beware you do not make me utter such words as I thought never to speak to you. My honour is dearer to me than my life: it is dearer even than my child’s life or happiness; and my honour is pledged to the count. It must be so.”

“Oh, my father, I must die, then, if I obey you!” returned the fair girl, faintly.

The fidalgo’s heart was softened, and, for the moment, he repented of his pledge; but it must be redeemed, if the count demanded it.

“Clara, there is an alternative, but one that I wish you not to choose. Your mother, on her death-bed, made it her dying request that you should rather take the veil than marry against your will. I have vowed to fulfil her wish. I give you, therefore, your choice. Within a month you must wed the Count San Vincente, or give up the world and all its pleasures, and dwell for the remainder of your life in the gloomy precincts of a convent. But I know my pretty Clara will recover from her fit of bashful fears, and long before that time the count will have won the love you speak of.”

“Oh no, no!” exclaimed Clara, with energy. “Let me far rather enter a convent. I will at once so decide; and let me not be exposed to the dark glances of the count, which alone fill me with terror.”

“Clara, you will excite my just anger,” returned the Fidalgo, in a tone which very plainly showed his anger was excited already. “I will not now hear your decision. At the end of the month we will again speak on the subject; till then I will not allude to it. I insist on your receiving the count, in the meantime, and shall inform him that he must not expect your answer till that period has elapsed.”

Clara burst into tears; but her father was angry, and they did not influence him. He was, as we have said, not accustomed to be opposed. Seeing that she continued weeping (it was at her father’s unkindness, so unusual in him, towards her), his feelings were moved, which made him only still more angry; so he rose to quit her, in order to avoid the sight. “Clara, this is but increasing your folly. I must now quit you, and remember to-morrow to wear at least a serene countenance to receive the count.” He stooped down, as was his wont, to kiss her brow, when she threw herself on his neck, and wept hysterically; but he placed her again on the seat, and left the room, muttering, “It must be thus,” and ordered Senhora Gertrudes to attend her mistress.

The proud fidalgo was not the most happy man in Lisbon that night. As he met Senhora Gertrudes, he told her to advise her young mistress to think of marrying, instead of entering a convent, which general directions the old lady was very well able to obey.

“What is it the fidalgo has been telling me, that my child wishes to go into a convent? Why, she never before uttered such an idea to me! Would she have all that beautiful fair hair cut off, and hide that lovely face within the gloomy walls of a nunnery? I should die to see my child so lost to the world.”

“Oh no, no, I do not wish to go into a nunnery, my good ama,” returned Clara, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently to speak; “but I do not wish to marry.”

“Not wish to marry! Ha, ha! that’s what many young ladies say, but don’t mean, minha alma! You would be very happy to marry, if the right person offered. Now, suppose that handsome young Don Luis d’Almeida proposed to you. Would not he please you, my child?”

“Oh, but he is not the person selected for me, my good nurse,” answered Clara, blushing as she spoke.

“Who is it, then, my love?—speak, pray,” cried the nurse anxiously.

“It is that dark Count San Vincente, my brother’s friend,” answered the young lady.

“Oh, he is not half so handsome as Don Luis; so I am not surprised at your not liking him; and he did not even deign to speak to me, when he came out to meet us on our coming here. Don Luis will suit you much better, and I will tell the fidalgo so. Come, now, dry your eyes, and you shall be happy.”

We fear, Senhora Gertrudes, you were not fulfilling your master’s intentions by your last impolitic observations.

“But, alas! my kind nurse, my father has pledged his word to the count, and cannot retract,” answered Clara.

“I don’t understand anything about pledging words; but I will not have my child made unhappy, to please that rude count. So do not fear, my soul. I will persuade your father, or I will frighten the count. I will do something or other; but you shall neither marry him nor go into a convent. Now, go to bed again, my love, and to-morrow you will be quite well and happy.”

As soon as it was reported that Donna Clara was sufficiently recovered to receive visitors, numbers crowded to the door of the marchioness’s palace, eager to ascertain, in person, whether the beauty was over praised, which, it was generally supposed, would adorn the Court. Among the first who came to make her acquaintance, whom she received in her own apartment, was Donna Theresa d’Alorna, the betrothed of the young Marquis of Tavora; for, although their families were in no way related, that intimacy had been kept up between them which existed generally amongst the Fidalguia, and was so necessary for their own preservation as an order, against all other classes. As Donna Theresa was announced, a slight blush tinged the fair cheek of Donna Clara; for she could not avoid coupling her name with that of Don Luis, till she recollected that he had himself contradicted the report her nurse had heard; and she rose to receive her visitor with that elegant courtesy so natural to her. The young ladies saluted each other on the cheek before they spoke, when Clara led her guest to a seat.

“I have been longing to come and see you, since I heard of your arrival,” Donna Theresa began. “And no sooner was I told that you could receive me, than I flew hither.”

Clara thanked her for her politeness.

“They told me you were very beautiful,” she continued; “and, for a wonder, report has not exaggerated your perfections. Oh! you will commit immense havoc in the Court. You have but to appear, to conquer!”

Clara smiled, and assured her she was too complimentary.

“Oh, not half enough so!” she answered; “but it is said you are already given away; that the bargain is struck, the arrangements made; and that the Conde San Vincente is the happy man. However, I now see you are a great deal too good for him. You cannot have seen him very often, I suppose?”

“I have seen him but twice,” answered Clara.

“Oh, how fortunate you were!” answered Donna Theresa, laughing. “Few have so many opportunities of judging of their future lords and masters. Then, for a second wonder, the report is correct, and you are betrothed to the count?”

“Oh, I trust in Heaven not,” said Clara, sorrowfully: “I could never love the count.”

“Very likely not,” returned her visitor, laughing. “It is a question seldom asked of us poor girls till we arrive at the altar, with a lie on our tongues. But your father wishes for the match?”

Clara bowed assent.

“Oh, then, I fear, poor bird, you are entrapped; but you need not be unhappy alone, for you have plenty of sisters in affliction;” and a shade passed over the lovely countenance of Donna Theresa.

“But is it possible to marry a man one cannot love?” asked Clara, with emphasis on her words.

“Possible! why yes, such is but a trifle, which thousands do every day,” answered her guest, laughing at her simplicity. “It is a trifle not worth thinking about. We poor women are doomed to have husbands of some sort; such is our unavoidable lot, and we must submit to it; but for my part, I prefer having one I do not love; for he will give me much less trouble in managing, and I shall be able to enjoy as much liberty as I can desire. Now I should advise you to follow my example.”

Clara shook her head; she was shocked at what she heard.

“Ah, I see you have a great deal of rustic simplicity to cure yourself of, before you can properly appreciate the pleasures of a city life; but after you have married the count, I shall find you wonderfully improved.”

“I can never marry the count: I shall enter a convent rather,” said Clara.

“Oh, horror of horrors! I know not why such places were invented, except as a punishment for our sins, or by some sour, crusty old fathers, to frighten their daughters into obedience to their tyrannical commands. I have heard some extraordinary stories about two or three convents in the old king’s time, which I will tell you; for they may amuse you, though I do not think they would encourage a modest young lady to enter one, as they are not much improved since then.”

We do not give the stories; for we must observe, that the minds of young ladies in those days were less refined than at the present time; and that they assumed far more freedom in their language, particularly those who had been educated like Donna Theresa; though the recital, to which Clara’s pure ears were unaccustomed, made the blushes rise on her cheeks. It is only necessary to say, that several convents were entirely suppressed by Pombal, on account of their scandalous excesses and immoralities, which had become a disgrace to civilisation and Christianity.

Donna Theresa’s conversation had, however, the effect of making Clara feel that she ought rather to undergo any misery than assume the veil; and, that her only course was to obey her father’s commands; an opinion, her new friend did her utmost to foster. She became also accustomed to the count’s expression of features, which had, at first, alarmed her; for he exerted himself to please her, and her brother lost no opportunity of praising his generous qualities. The count had also contrived to gain over the old marchioness, by a variety of artifices, which he well knew how to practise, and the confessor, for some unexplained reason, had not again spoken to Clara on the subject of her taking the veil; so that she was left, poor girl! with the old nurse, as the only friend in whom she could confide, or who seemed to take a real interest in her welfare. Yet, simple virtue, and purity of thought, will often strengthen the weak to counteract all the wiles and plots of the subtle intriguer, though confident in his strength and talent. Thus affairs continued; her month of probation was nearly drawing to a close, and, in a few days, she must consent to receive the count as her husband, or assume the veil; all she had heard increased her dislike to the latter alternative, and everybody around her endeavoured to persuade her, that the other was a very happy lot.

The count had, by some means or other, discovered the cause of the delay; and that she was hesitating about accepting him, not from his having any rival in her affections, whom he might chastise, as he vowed he would, if he discovered one; but, because she felt so great an antipathy to him, that she fancied she should prefer a life of seclusion in a convent, to wedding him with rank, wealth, and liberty. This was not very complimentary to him, nor was he pleased by it; but he was not a man who foolishly gave vent to his feelings in outward show, though he vowed an oath, deep and bitter, that, once master of that bright jewel, he would wring her young heart for its present obduracy, till she should repent ever having dared, for an instant, to oppose his lordly will.

He persuaded the marchioness that gaiety was most likely to restore her young friend to her usual state of spirits and health; and, perhaps, the old lady was not sorry to discover a plausible excuse for opening her palace once more to the gay world. Her father and brother wisely judged that if they could give her a taste for the amusements of society, she was less likely to wish to quit it. There was also to be a Beja Mao, literally a kissing hands, or drawing-room, at the Court, when she was to be introduced to the royal family, so that there was little time afforded her for thought or meditation; indeed, very little would have turned the scale, and made her accept the count at once; but she sought to put off the day, which she knew must seal her misery, till the end of the period allowed her.

The only person who appeared to be an indifferent spectator of what was taking place, was the father confessor, Padre Alfonzo: he merely kept his gaze fixed on her, with an ominous frown on his brow, whenever the count was engaged in conversation with her; and his was, perhaps, the only eye beneath which the glance of the young noble cowered.

A few days before the end of the month, the confessor encountered the fidalgo alone: it was towards the close of the evening, as he was pacing a long gallery of the palace, hung with the grim portraits of some of his ancestors, who were those likewise of the marchioness.

“Your daughter appears inclined to obey your wishes,” said the Priest. “But if not, you remember your vow to our holy Church; and let your heart be steeled, and your honour unsullied, as was that of your noble predecessors. Let me feel confident that your wife’s dying request may be fulfilled, and again swear, that as long as the count urges his suit to your daughter, she shall accept him, or become the bride of Heaven.”

“Father, I have already said so, and I again swear, that she shall marry the man I choose, or assume the veil,” exclaimed the Fidalgo.

“I am satisfied,” said the Priest.

End of the First Volume.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

In painting a true picture of times and events, we must introduce among our figures the wealthy and great, the wicked, the wretched, and the indigent, or we should present no true likeness of the world as it exists; but we must also beg leave to bring forward a personage who was certainly not wealthy or great; who vowed that he was not wicked, for he performed his duty to God and man; who was not wretched, for he was singing all day long; while he declared that he could not be indigent, for he possessed abundance to supply all his wants, though, fortunately for himself, they were very few.

This personage was a cobbler. Now, it is a curious fact, which no one will venture to dispute, that, from the time of the cobbler who tacked the bits of Ali Baba’s brother together, as mentioned in the authentic history of the Forty Thieves—with which we trust all our readers are acquainted—to the days of the celebrated cobbler who lived in a stall, “which served him for parlour, and kitchen, and hall,” cobblers have borne a strong similarity to each other, with distinctive qualities separating them from other men, as can be proved by the above and numerous other instances, both in all countries and all ages.

In England, a tailor is looked upon, not only as inferior to other men, but actually to be of no more consideration than the ninth part of a man: now, in Portugal, the same unjust sort of prejudice exists against shoemakers; consequently, cobblers are considered utterly below all notice.

Our cobbler, however, did not care one iota for the opinions of people, whom, in his sleeve, he despised and ridiculed: “For,” said he, when he had collected a small knot of attentive listeners, “if, in England, as I hear, they laugh at a tailor, and esteem a cobbler, and here they honour a tailor and despise a cobbler; while in France, for what I know to the contrary, they may admire both, and not think much of a hat-maker; and if, in this country, no man will carry a load, while our next door neighbours come on purpose so to do, I should very much like to know who is in the right, and who in the wrong, and which trade is really derogatory to the dignity of man? Mark another absurdity—how different nations and people despise each other, when one may not be at all superior to the other. When Jerusalem was a city of the Jews, I should like to know who would have dared walk into it and scoff at a man because he was a Jew? Here every one reviles that people. If a Turk comes here, he is stared at as a savage and a heathen; and if a Christian goes to Turkey, he is called an unbeliever and a barbarian—now which is right, and which is wrong? Why should I, therefore, put myself out of my way to follow any other trade than the one I like? I choose to be a cobbler: it suits my taste. I can talk, sing, or meditate at pleasure, while I mend shoes. What fools men are! The statesman thinks no one so wise as himself; the lawyer considers the soldier only fit food for powder; while the latter despises the peaceable merchant; the merchant looks upon all in trade as beneath him; and he who deals in silks thinks himself infinitely superior to the vendor of leather; while they all join in despising the cobbler. What fools, what fools men are! Why, I laugh at them,” he would say, as he wound up his discourse, at the same time indulging in a low, quiet chuckle. These observations very much edified and pleased his auditors, who, being of about the same rank in society as he appeared, felt that such sentiments were their own; adding, on their parts, that all distinction of classes was a most unjust arrangement. They would then begin to discuss among themselves, whether they were not as well able to govern the state as those who actually held the reins. When they got to this point the cobbler laughed at them. He was fond of laughing at people who talked nonsense. He thus laughed, in turn, at the greater part of the world.

While we have been giving this long account of the character and sayings of the cobbler, we entirely overlooked the main points to be described; namely, his outward appearance, and when and where he lived. Our readers, we dare say, expect to hear that he was an odd, little, crooked old fellow, with a dirty face and unshorn locks; but we can assure them history informs us, on the contrary, that he was once young—nor was he now old; that he was well-made, and when he drew himself up, his height was respectable; that when his work was done, and he had shaved and washed, his face was as clean as that of any of his very numerous acquaintance. From this description, it may be deduced, that his appearance was in his favour; his colour was dark, his eyes were piercing and jetty black, as was his hair, and that he had fine teeth, and a long nose, rather hooked. Some, indeed, hinted that he was a Jew; but, being a strong athletic fellow, with his long sharp leather-knife by his side, none dared call him so to his face; besides, he was constant at his devotions, and a regular attendant at all religious ceremonies; none more devoutly kneeling and crossing themselves when the mysterious and sublime Host passed by, borne under a rich canopy, in the hands of a venerable priest, accompanied by monks and choristers chanting forth hymns of praise, and preceded by some pious person tinkling a bell, to give notice of its approach, that all, uncovered, might bend in adoration.

No one knew exactly whence he came; but, a short time previous to the events we have related in the former part of this history, he made his appearance one morning with his stock in trade on his back, and established himself in a deep recess in the wall of a large house, directly facing the entrance to the palace of the Duke of Aveiro. He set down his stool, threw a bundle of leather on one side, the implements of his craft on the other, with a few old shoes, put his lapstone on his knees, and began working away as if he had lived there all his life.

He soon made friends with the servants of the palace: he mended the footmen’s shoes, charging them less, and doing the work better, than any one else could have done; and next, one by one, the women brought out their slippers or sandals; and for each he had a smile and a compliment, or a piece of wit, in readiness: sometimes a moral reflection, if the beauties of the dame he addressed had become faded by years, and if he had observed her kissing with greater fervour the little images of saints brought round from the churches, or more constant in her attendance at mass than others. If the lady was young, with sparkling black eyes, he knew exactly how to bestow his praise, and, at all events, their feet were a sure subject for compliment. Considering the small sums he charged, they could not but wait to pay him with a little chat, while he was putting the last stitch or so into his work; for, come when they would, so it was that a few minutes’ work always remained to be completed; and, as they did not complain, he did not correct his fault, being thus enabled, in a quiet, confidential way, to learn all that was going forward in the establishment. What he learned will be detailed in the course of this history.

We have said that he had taken up his abode in a recess in the wall of a house opposite the palace; but we do not wish to describe the house as facing the palace, for it looked into a street running at right angles to it; the recess being part of a doorway in the garden-wall, now stopped up. This house was inhabited by a very rich merchant and his family, most exemplary Catholics, who set a lesson of piety to the community by their regular observance of all the ordinances of the Church, and by their fastings and alms: yet, notwithstanding this, people dared to point the finger of scorn at them, stigmatising them as Jews and heretics, and longing to show their zeal for religion by offering them up in that grateful sacrifice to the benign power, the most holy Auto da Fè—thus to become sharers in their hoarded riches. Whatever were their own private notions regarding the established faith, they certainly suffered under the inabilities of the New Christians, as those were called who had Jewish or even Moorish blood in their veins, the term having origin from the following cause.

At an early period in Lusitanian history, we find that the Jews had collected in great numbers in Portugal, and down to the reign of John the First they had their synagogues and rabbins; indeed, in no country in Europe did they enjoy greater prosperity, their wealth adding much to the power of the kingdom.

In Spain, also, they had acquired considerable influence, till the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, when those pious sovereigns having driven the Moors from their dominions, conceived that their duty to Heaven ordained that they should depopulate the other half of the cities in Spain, by banishing the Jews also. This idea, fostered by the avarice of some and the bigotry of others, was put into execution, and great numbers of the unfortunate refugees were received by John the Second on condition of their paying a certain tribute, and quitting the kingdom within a limited period, he undertaking to provide them with vessels to transport them wherever they desired to proceed. The king’s state of health prevented him from seeing his orders put into execution, while the captains and seamen of the vessels treated those who had embarked in the most barbarous manner; keeping them at sea till they had entirely consumed their own provisions, and then compelling them to buy of them at exorbitant rates; so that those who remained in Portugal, fearful of the like treatment, allowed the prescribed time to elapse, and thus forfeited their liberty. Such was the situation of the Jews when Emanuel began his reign, and generously restored them to liberty, for which extraordinary benevolence they offered him, in gratitude, a large sum of money; but he refused it, in the hopes of gaining their affections by kind treatment, and converting them to Christianity. At length, however, bigotry, and envy at their increasing wealth, caused a loud clamour to be raised against them, and Emanuel was induced, contrary to his own judgment, by the representations of his counsellors, and the interference of the Spanish sovereigns, to order all, both Jews and Moors, who refused to embrace the Christian faith, to quit his dominions. A day was fixed for their departure, after which all who remained in the country were to lose their liberty; but, as it approached, the king, greatly afflicted at the thoughts of driving so many of his subjects into banishment, devised a scheme which was eventually of great benefit to the kingdom. He ordered all the children of the Jews, under fourteen years of age, to be forcibly taken from their parents, that they might be educated in the Christian faith, thus gaining converts to the Church at the expense of all the laws of justice and humanity.

“What a moving spectacle was this to behold!” exclaims the reverend Father Ozorio. “Children torn from the agonised embraces of their screaming mothers, or dragged from the necks of their affectionate brothers and sisters, from whom they were to be for ever separated, while the fathers sternly gazed, and cursed the perpetrators of deeds they had no power to avenge! The city of Lisbon was filled with cries and lamentations; even the spectators could not refrain from tears. Parents, in the excess of their frenzy, were seen to lay violent hands on themselves; many, rather than submit to the severity of the decree, hurling their infants into wells and pits. Never was such tribulation heard in Israel since the days of Herod the Tetrarch!”

No vessels had been provided for their transport, as had been promised, and thus, when the day for their departure had passed, they again forfeited their liberty. Thus harassed, they at length, to recover their children and their liberty, affected to become Christians, the king giving them every encouragement, so that the greater number lived contentedly in the Portuguese dominions.

Though thus professing the religion of the country, it could not be supposed that they could regard it with any fond affection, and consequently their faith was ever looked upon with suspicion by the rest of the inhabitants, particularly by those who envied their industry and wealth: that hell-invented tribunal of the Inquisition taking every means, on the slightest pretext, to subject them to its tyrannical power. Many embraced the earliest opportunity of escaping to Holland, England, and other free countries, where they could enjoy uninterruptedly the exercise of their faith. Those that remained still continued to intermarry among themselves, and, it was supposed, not without considerable reason, to exercise in private the rites they were forbidden to perform in public. Whatever, therefore, was their profession of faith, none gave them credit for their belief in the holy Catholic Church, but bestowed on them the distinctive appellation of New Christians, which they retained at the time of which we are now speaking.

The Marquis of Pombal, with that liberal policy which marked many of his actions, finally abolished all such distinctions; but before he had succeeded in doing so, King Joseph took it into his most sagacious head, that, for the benefit of religion, there ought to be some sign placed on all those with Jewish blood in their veins. He consequently ordered a decree to be promulgated that all such should wear white hats.

The Minister remonstrated, but in vain. Finding reason ineffectual, he pretended compliance, and presented himself to the king with the edict, at the same time drawing out from under his cloak two white hats. On the king inquiring the meaning of the joke—“Oh!” replied Pombal, “I come prepared to obey your majesty’s edict, with one hat for you and another for myself,” thus hinting the well-known fact, that the royal family itself was not entirely free from the imaginary stain; the family of the Minister also, it was said, having sprung from the stock of Abraham, as are a vast many others. The king laughed, and gave up the point.

On the death of Joseph, and the banishment of his Minister, when bigotry and priestcraft regained their supremacy, the New Christians were again subject to persecutions, and it is only under the present free constitution that all difference has been finally, and, we trust, for ever, abolished.

But we have wandered from our subject, and have, by nearly a century, forestalled events. Our readers will exclaim, What has this long account of the Jews, and King Joseph and his Minister, with the white hats, got to do with the cobbler and his stall? Spera hum poco—(which is to say, in Portuguese, “Stop a little,” a very favourite expression before all their actions, whereby they often lose the right time)—we shall presently see; for if it has nothing to do with the cobbler, it has with the family under whose walls he plied his trade, for they were New Christians; many indeed affirmed that they still adhered to the faith of their forefathers, and there were various stories current respecting the performance of their ancient rites. It was said, that when strangers were admitted to the house, there was one room, of considerable dimensions, always kept closed, which was supposed to be dedicated to the purposes of a synagogue. The vulgar believed that, at the Feast of the Passover, they immolated a Christian child yet unweaned; the origin of which idea was, of course, the sacrifice of the Paschal lamb; and there were various other stories, equally absurd and revolting, having less foundation in truth. However, Senhor Matteos de Menezes and his family had escaped the power of the Inquisition: it might have been by timely donations of no inconsiderable amount to holy Mother Church, so that even the Grand Inquisitor himself could not doubt the completeness of their conversion, and the purity of their faith.

Having given a full description of the locality of the cobbler’s stall, we may now go on spinning the thread of our history; and if some of our readers complain that we have turned our mystic spindle too slowly, we must beg their pardon, and assure them that we are about to progress at a rapid rate, with scenes of the most thrilling interest, such as will cause their eyes to ache ere they can lay down the book.

The cobbler was one day seated in his stall, hard at work, hammering a new heel on to a shoe, at the same time thinking of the number of fools there were in the world, and yet how few were aware that they belonged to that class of creation; for, as we observed, our cobbler was a philosopher in his way, and had he been born in the higher ranks of society, he would have been a noted wit and satirist, laughing at the follies and scourging the vices of his equals. But he found the follies of the poor too slight, or too sad, to laugh at, and their vices more the fault of institutions than their own, and beyond correction. Next, he thought of the state of the nation. He saw a priesthood wallowing in sloth, corrupted, bigoted, and abandoned to every vice; a nobility haughty, ignorant, vicious, and tyrannical; a king weak, superstitious, and profligate; a people sunk in apathy, and the grossest superstition, without courage or intelligence to assert their rights. And he pitied them; but he knew there was one man in the realm able and willing to overthrow the power of the first, to crush the arrogant pride of the second, to rule the king, to enlighten the people, and to give justice to all; and he had long determined to aid his designs; for the cobbler had more power than the world supposed, and he thanked Heaven he did not belong to any of these classes. These thoughts had just passed through his mind, when he heard a tramping of steeds, and looking up, he beheld a cavalcade approaching, at the head of which rode the Duke of Aveiro, accompanied by his handsome young nephew on one side, while on the other was his equerry, Captain Policarpio, in earnest conversation with him, heedless of the people who thronged the streets, the horses bespattering them with mud and dirt, the attendants, also, taking a pleasure in causing confusion and annoyance to all whom they passed. A youth, with a basket of oranges on his head, was offering them for sale, when one of the domestics adroitly managed to make his horse sidle against him. The vendor of fruit, with a cry of terror, endeavoured to escape, when his foot slipped, and letting go his basket, the contents rolled out on the ground, over which the others trampled, with loud laughter at the disaster, none deigning to make the slightest amends to the youth. Some of the passers by stopped to assist him, for he was sobbing piteously at his loss, but dared not complain.

Our cobbler saw the occurrence. “Take care, my masters,” as he watched the arrogant noble who had just reached his palace gates; “take care, or you will discover, when too late to remedy your faults, that your days of prosperity have passed away.” No sooner did the duke enter the lofty gateway of his palace, than the major-domo rushed down stairs to hold his stirrup while he alighted, his young kinsman throwing himself from his steed, without waiting for assistance, and the attendants bustling about and creating more noise and confusion than was at all necessary.

“Why has the duke so suddenly returned to the city?” thought the Cobbler. “I must watch and learn, for ’tis about no good, I am certain.”

It has just occurred to us, that we have never given our cobbler’s name. By diligent search through the vast pile of manuscripts before us, we have discovered the important piece of information that he was called Antonio, generally with O Memendab, or the Mender, added thereto. No dignified title, certainly! but he was contented with it, and so must we be; for we cannot anywhere discover what was his other name, if he ever had one, which we deem problematical.

Several days passed before Antonio became much wiser as to the cause of the duke’s movements than on the first day of his arrival, though he narrowly watched all his outgoings, and incomings, and also most diligently questioned the servants who stepped across the street to have five minutes’ chat with him. The duke had just driven out, when one of the lackeys, rejoicing in the name of Jozé, was sauntering about the hall, and having nothing to do, bethought him that he would honour the cobbler with his society.

“Good day, Senhor Jozé,” said the Cobbler, as he saw him approach; “you have pleasant times of it, with nothing to do, and plenty to eat, while I must hammer, hammer, and stitch, stitch, all day long, to earn a few vintems to supply my food.”

“You are right, Senhor Antonio, you are right,” answered Jozé, as he leaned, with his hands in his pockets, a toothpick in his mouth, and his legs crossed, against the wall; “we have a tolerable life of it; for, except that the duke sits inside, while we stand outside, what difference is there between us? and when the people take off their hats, it is as much to our fine coats as to him. Then we eat the same food, and drink the same wines as he does, only a good deal more of each than he can, in which we have the advantage of him, and as for knowledge, between ourselves, there is not much difference either.”

“Ah! the duke is a good master, and blessed with good servants,” returned Antonio.

“Why, as to his servants, I must not speak, as I am one of them,” answered Jozé, pulling out his ruffles; “but his Excellency himself—whom God preserve—would be all the better if he did not beat us so confoundedly when he is angered; but that is a trifle—it is his privilege, and we must be content.”

“You are right, Senhor Jozé, there is no use quarrelling with one’s lot. What would be the advantage to him of being a duke, if he might not do what pleases him?” said the Cobbler, plying his awl as if he thought much more of mending the old shoe on his lap, than of the words he was speaking. “He appears to be fonder of taking carriage exercise than he was?”

“Oh! he is driving about all day,” said Jozé, “first to one place, then to another; now to pay his respects to his majesty, then to some fidalgo he never before thought of visiting. It is said that this change has been worked by the influence of the pious saint, the holy Father Malagrida, who tells him, that to be at enmity with his fellow-men is sinful and wicked, and that he must reform his life, and be in charity with all. To prove his sincerity, the last time it was my turn to go out, we drove to the palace of the Marquis of Tavora, to whom he has not spoken for years; but he craved forgiveness for some insult he had committed towards him, and when they parted, they embraced in the most affectionate way, the duke kissing the hand of the marchioness most lovingly. Oh, it was quite pathetic to see them!”

“Oh, it must have been,” returned Antonio; “and you say he has renewed his friendship with several other nobles?”

“Oh yes, there was the Count d’Atouquia, who had never spoken to him since he ran his brother through the body one night in a street brawl, and now they are hand and glove: then he has written to the Count d’Almeida, before whom he used to carry himself so haughtily, though the count thought himself just as great a man as our lord. Then he paid a visit of ceremony to the Senhor Silva, whom he has constantly passed in the streets as if he was some commoner or plebeian; and he dined yesterday with the Marquis d’Alorna, with whom he was on bad terms formerly. We do not know what to make of it; and I should not think of speaking on the subject to any one but a friend like you; but, to tell you the truth, our opinion is, that there is some marriage about to take place between the young viscount, our lord’s nephew, and some lady of one of these noble families, or perhaps his son is to be betrothed to one of them.”

“I have no doubt you have exactly hit off the truth,” said the Cobbler, nodding his head sagaciously; “but I would advise you not to talk about your lord’s affairs to people in general: to a friend like me it is different; for you know the less said the soonest mended; but I am as close as cobbler’s wax,” and he kneaded a lump of that composition in his fingers.

“Ah! I know you are, or I should not be so great a fool as to talk to you as I do,” said Jozé, sagaciously. “By-the-bye, have you heard of the marriage about to take place between the young Marquis of Tavora, who is a great friend of our young viscount, and the daughter of the Count d’Alorna?”

“Not I,” answered Antonio; “I hear nothing except what my friends like to tell me as I sit at my work,” and he strenuously stitched away at the shoe on his lap.

As soon as the evening arrived, Antonio packed up his tools, and placed them within the hall of Senhor Menezes’ house, where it was his custom to leave them, by permission of the servants, with whom it seemed he was acquainted, though they seldom came out to talk to him. He then, looking to see that no one observed him, repaired, after taking many turnings, as was his wont, to his lodgings, which, considering his apparent poverty, were far more respectable than could have been expected. He there, throwing off his working suit with an air of disdain, and washing his hands and face, attired himself in the garments of a man of fashion, when, buckling a sword to his side, and throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he again sallied forth in such guise, that no one could have recognised in him the humble cobbler of the morning. He now appeared a well-grown man of some thirty-five or forty years of age, with large dark whiskers, and full black eyes, as he walked along with an independent air, and perhaps a slight swagger in his gait, as if he enjoyed his emancipation from his daily toil. He again looked cautiously around, throwing the right side of his cloak over his left shoulder, and hastily traversing several streets up and down hill, he arrived before a mansion, at the door of which a sentinel was stationed. He gave some name to the porter, who immediately allowed him to pass, another servant showing him into an anteroom on the top of the first flight of steps. “Wait here a few minutes, senhor, and my master will speak with you,” said the domestic, as he withdrew with the quiet step of one accustomed to attend on people high in office.

“I have information that may be of great value,” thought Antonio to himself, as he paced up and down the ill-furnished room; “but the reward may be proportionably great; and I would far rather confide in him than in any of the miserable wretches who have crawled till now about the Court, and have seized the high offices of state, their pride overflowing with the thoughts of their bastard descent from some profligate prince or mitred abbot of a few centuries back, since which time they have had but little fresh blood to improve the stream.” He thought this, as we have said; for he was not one to give utterance to what was passing in his mind: a door opened, and a man of dignified carriage and lofty stature stood before him, in whose presence even Antonio shrunk into insignificance.

It was the Minister Carvalho. “Ah! my faithful Antonio, you are ever punctual to your time,” he began. “Had I twenty such strenuous supporters, Portugal would quickly again lift up her head among the kingdoms of Europe.” Antonio bowed, in acknowledgment of the compliment, which he valued exactly at what it was worth. “But tell me, my friend, what information have you collected lately?” added the Minister, speaking quickly.

“I have seen much, and guessed more, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio. “In the first place, the duke returned suddenly to Lisbon, and has since then renewed his acquaintance with various families with whom he was formerly at enmity. Now, a man does not do so unless he is about to repent of his sins, or, far more probably, unless he is about some mischief. Then, Senhor Policarpio has been running about in all directions, like his master, making friends with those whom he never before deigned to address; though he is insolent enough to many over whom he dares to tyrannise. The duke also constantly receives visits from that mad Jesuit Malagrida, a professed enemy of your Excellency, and from many others openly disaffected to your government; but I have brought here a list of all those who have visited the duke; and here is another, containing the names of those with whom he has had communication at other places, as far as I can learn.” Saying which, he handed two papers to the Minister, adding, “With these your Excellency will be able to form a better opinion than I can venture to offer.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Minister, taking the papers eagerly, and running his eye over their contents. “Beware, my lord duke, or you will soon, methinks, be in my power; and we shall then see if you dare to scorn the lowly commoner. I see his aims,” he continued, half speaking to himself. “He hopes to gain our sovereign’s ear, and then, with an army of parasites, to hurl me to destruction; but I am prepared for his machinations, and ere long he shall feel so. I must break the pride of these arrogant fidalgos, or they will lord it over the king himself,—base wretches, whose whole being is composed of avarice and the most sordid selfishness, without valour, honour, or patriotism,—who care not for the fate of their country, so that they can undisturbedly enjoy their own luxuries. Ah, miscreants! I will overwhelm you when you little expect it!” Suddenly stopping in his soliloquy, he seemed to recollect that another person was present, and turning to Antonio, he again addressed him. “The information you bring me is valuable, my friend; but there is much yet to be learned. Continue constant to your purpose, and you shall be rewarded highly: in the meantime, take this purse. You have earned it well.”

Antonio stretched not out his hand to clutch the gold, as many would have done; but, unconsciously drawing himself up, he replied, “No, senhor; pardon me, I seek not such reward. Freely, and of my own accord, I have served you, and no gold would repay me for the days of watching and drudgery I have for this purpose undergone. Because the blood of Abraham flows in my veins, think not that I must needs be avaricious. When I was in want of money, you gave it me; if I require more, I will ask it; but such is not the recompense I seek. When the time comes, I will demand my reward, and it will be such alone as you in justice will be bound to grant.”

Carvalho gazed at the speaker earnestly. “You have a soul above your class, and deserve a higher destiny,” he said.

“I may not be what I appear to the world, nor seek I a higher destiny than is my lot,” returned Antonio. “If I have your Excellency’s permission, I will depart.”

“You are at liberty; I will detain you no longer,” said Carvalho. “Adeos, my friend.”

Antonio bowed low to the Minister, who retired to his inner chamber; while, as he found his way, unquestioned into the street, he whispered to himself, “He will serve my purpose.”

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

We find ourselves so constantly recurring to Don Luis d’Almeida, that we begin to fear our readers, particularly the fairer portion of them, will soon get heartily tired of hearing so much about him; and, therefore, to please them, we would, were we composing a mere story from our own brain, effectually get rid of him, by carrying him into a dark forest at midnight, amid a storm of thunder and lightning, when a hundred brigands should rush upon him from their lurking places, and plunge their daggers into his bosom; but that, by so doing, we should infringe the plan on which we have determined, to adhere strictly to the truth of history. We do not, however, feel ourselves called upon to describe minutely the events of each day, and we will, therefore, pass over rather more than a week, which he had spent in his father’s society, when, towards the evening, he was seated, in a listless humour, with a book in his hand, on a stone terrace, overlooking a garden, stretched out below it. But his eyes seemed to glance much less frequently at the pages before him, than at the pure blue sky, or the bright parterres of flowers, the sparkling fountains, the primly cut box trees, and the long straight walks; though, even then, it seemed that his eye was less occupied than his mental vision. But we need not inquire what were his thoughts; perhaps, they were of the scenes he had witnessed in his travels; perhaps of Theresa’s falsehood; and there is a possibility of their having been of the fair portrait he had so quickly taken of Donna Clara.—A servant suddenly recalled him to the present moment, by informing him that a holy friar, waiting at the gate, begged earnestly to see him on some matter of importance.

“I will speak to him,” he exclaimed, rising; and, throwing down his book, he took his way towards the gate. He there perceived a figure in the monastic habit, walking slowly up and down, and, turning his head with a cautious look in every direction; and, as the person approached, he was not long in distinguishing the features of the friar who had played so very suspicious a part at the inn.

“Ah, my young friend,” exclaimed that worthy personage, with the greatest effrontery; “I have not, you see, forgotten either you, or your requests. It struck me, that you very much wished to possess the jewels you spoke of, so, from the strong desire I felt to serve you, I exerted myself diligently to procure them for you. I hope that you have not forgotten your part of the contract; for, though I should myself require no reward, yet I was obliged to pay various sums to the persons who held the property.”

“I perfectly appreciate your feelings, reverend Father,” returned Don Luis. “Nor have I forgotten my promise. Where are the jewels?”

“I have not been able to bring them with me, my son, for weighty reasons; but where are the hundred milreas? for though that sum is not a quarter of their real value, the gentlemen who had appropriated them have a predilection for hard cash.”

Don Luis had good reasons for suspecting that the friar was deceiving him, as he answered, “The money shall be forthcoming when you show me the jewels; but, under the circumstances of the case, you can scarcely expect me to pay you beforehand.”

“Why, I confess that you have seen me in rather suspicious company, senhor; but yet it is cruel to doubt the honesty of an humble friar. To convince you of my sincerity, I have brought this ring, which I believe belonged to the young lady you said had been robbed by those rascally banditti.”

Don Luis took the ring which the friar offered. “This, Senhor Frade, is but a small portion of the trinkets I expected. It was for the recovery of the casket I promised you the reward.”

“I am aware of that, senhor; but I wish to show you that, though you doubt me, I put every confidence in your honour; and, if you were not so impatient, I would deliver the proposal which I came here to make. In the first place, I beg you will keep that ring, as an earnest of my sincerity; and, if you will trust me with the money, I will return with the casket; but if not, the only way by which you can recover it, is to follow my directions.”

Don Luis considered a moment; but there was such a roguish glance in the twinkle of the friar’s eye, that he thought it would be folly to trust him, and that he should probably neither see the casket nor his money again, though he would willingly have risked a far larger sum for the sake of recovering the jewels. Yet he wished first to hear what the friar had to propose.

“I see how it is,” said the Friar, laughing. “You think me a rogue in grain, so there is no use concealing the matter; but I am not offended, I assure you. Other people have thought me so too, who knew me better than you do, till they found out their mistake, as you will some day: however, if you had trusted me, you might have saved yourself considerable trouble.”

“Well, well, Father,” interrupted Don Luis, getting rather impatient at all this circumlocution, “let me hear your proposition, and then I shall be able to determine how to act.”

“You must know, then, my young friend, that this precious casket, which you are so anxious to gain, is in the possession of a very holy and pious man, an aged hermit, whose food is the roots of the earth, or the nuts from the trees, and his drink the pure water from the brook,” began the Friar, speaking very slowly, and eyeing Don Luis, with a laughing glance. “And thus it befell, that this holy man became possessed of the casket. You know a hill, which stands about two leagues from hence, on the summit of which is a chapel dedicated to our Lady of the Rock?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Don Luis, rather impatiently, and vexed at the friar’s evident intention of putting his temper to the proof, “I have often been there in my boyhood; but pray proceed with your story, if you intend it to lead to anything satisfactory.”

“Of course I do, my young friend,” answered the Friar. “I was going to tell you where the holy man resides, when you interrupted me. You must know, then, that beneath the hill on which the chapel stands, there is a cave, which has of late years been cleared from the rubbish which formerly blocked it up, and has been converted into a very tolerable habitation for the summer months, during which period this holy man is constantly there to be found, as he is at present, or was when I was there last, attending to the duties of the sacred edifice above. His great sanctity, his prayers, and fastings, have on many occasions been found to be of the greatest service, both in replenishing his pockets, and in restoring those to health who have consulted him; but his great forte is in saying masses for the souls of the departed, which have double the efficacy of those of any other religious person, as he constantly affirms, and no one can disprove, nor does any one dream of disputing the word of so holy a man. I am now, senhor, approaching the point which is of more consequence to you. You must know that the comrades of the men, whom, as I am told, you killed in the forest, when they attacked the fidalgo Gonçalo Christovaö, were tolerably well aware that they had a considerable share of unrepented crimes on their consciences; and that, consequently, their stay in purgatory would be of rather long duration, unless great exertions were made to get them clear of it. Now, most of them having a fellow-feeling for their unfortunate friends, turned it in their minds how they could best contrive to shorten their residence in that very unpleasant abode; and, at last, it was agreed that they should engage the holy man I speak of, and of whom they had all heard, to say as many masses as half the booty they had taken would supply, at the lowest possible rate; for which purpose, they laid aside the very casket you are in search of. Now, it chanced that I was paying a visit to this holy man, who, I am proud to say, is a friend of mine; and he showed me the casket, begging me to estimate its value, that he might know how many masses he ought to say. I no sooner beheld it, than I at once recollected your request; so I told him that, though in Lisbon it might be sold for a larger sum, yet he would here be very fortunate if he succeeded in receiving a hundred milreas for it, particularly as I suspected it was stolen property; for which sum he might say fully sufficient masses to get the souls of the departed rogues quietly domesticated in the realms of Paradise. He agreed with me, that, if it did not, it must be their own fault, for being so desperately wicked, so that there could be no help for them. I then told him, that if he would let me have the casket, I would return with the money for it; but it is very extraordinary, senhor, that he objected to do so,—not, of course, that he could have any doubts about my honesty, but that the happiness of the souls in purgatory would be at stake, if, by any chance, it was lost. I had no arguments to offer to his objections, so I was obliged to give up the point; and I hastened here to inform you of the discovery I had made, that I might either return with the money, or allow you to go and fetch the casket yourself. If you still persist in so unjustly distrusting me, senhor, if you will visit our Lady of the Rock early to-morrow morning, you will there find the holy man performing mass. Wait till it is over, and the people have departed,—for the fame of his sanctity has collected many worshippers there,—follow him to his cave, without speaking; when, if you produce the money, he will restore the casket to you; then, without staying to inquire further, return home. If, however, you will allow me to advise you as a friend, add twenty milreas or so to the amount, to increase the number of masses; for you must remember that it was by your hand the men fell, though I do not mean to say that it was not their own fault; but it will be charity well bestowed, as I fear they were wretched sinners, and, do all we can, they must remain in purgatory a long time.”

Don Luis listened to this long story with considerable doubts as to the truth of the greater part of it, yet it was so in accordance with the ideas and customs of the times, that he could not altogether discredit it; he therefore answered, “I must thank you, Senhor Frade, for the trouble you have taken in my service; and I beg you to inform your holy friend that I will repair to his hermitage to-morrow morning, and will take the amount agreed on to release the jewels.”

“Then you will not trust me with the money, senhor?” said the Friar, smiling. “Patience—I am not easily offended, and take it all in good part; but do not forget the additional twenty milreas; and if you happen to have a little spare cash about you to bestow on an humble and indigent servant of the Church, I shall be thankful, and will not forget you in my prayers; for I have come a long distance to serve you, and have put more trust in your honour than you seem inclined to place in mine.”

“I will pay you for the ring, Senhor Frade,” said Don Luis, who could not help being amused at the imperturbable impudence of the friar; “though you seem to forget certain incidents which occurred at the inn, on my journey here,—not to mention others on the previous day.”

“Now, now, you ought not to rake up old grievances,” answered the Friar. “It is not charitable; and charity is the first of Christian virtues, you well know. Besides, you cannot deny that I have served you faithfully.”

“I will not refuse you,” said Don Luis, bestowing all the silver he had about him, “you argue so logically to gain your point. I trust that you will not play me false.”

“Confide in the honour of a Capuchin,” said the Friar, putting his hand to his heart. “May we meet again under happier auspices than those by which we became acquainted; and, believe me, I am grateful for your bounty. Adeos, senhor! It is growing dark, and I have a long way to go before I rest; but an humble friar has nought to fear.”

“Farewell, my friend!” said Don Luis. “I certainly have met none like you.”

“Oh, you flatter—you flatter,” was the answer. “Do not, however, forget your friend. Diogo Lopez is my name,—an humble one at present; but it may become some day well-known to the world. Adeos, adeos, senhor!”

Don Luis, without further parley, re-entered the Quinta, and, for some minutes, he fancied that he could hear the quiet chuckle of the friar echoing in his ears.

Early the next morning he ordered his horse, telling Pedro whither he was going; and, putting his pistols in his holsters, with his sword by his side,—for in those days nobody ever thought of riding, forth unarmed,—he set off for the chapel of our Lady of the Rock,—not forgetting the hundred milreas to redeem the casket, to which he added twenty more, to be expended for the benefit of the souls of those miserable men to whose deaths he had certainly contributed, though he in no way blamed himself on that account. It must be remembered that he had been brought up in a strict belief of the religion of his country; nor had he in any way learned to doubt the main points of that faith in which all those dear to him confided; so that he had full confidence in the efficacy of prayer for the souls of departed sinners; nor do we wish to dispute the point with those who profess the same creed.

The road he was obliged to take, scarcely deserving the name of one, was so broken, and cut up into deep ruts, and covered with loose stones, that nearly an hour elapsed before he reached the foot of the little rocky hill on which the chapel stood. There, perceiving a lad sitting on the top of a wall, “whistling for want of thought,” and without any occupation, he called to him, and bade him hold his horse, with the promise of a reward, while he climbed up the winding rugged path to the top of the rock. It was an isolated height, rising far above all the neighbouring hills,—thus commanding an extensive view on every side. The little chapel was built on the highest point, with a rude stone cross in front, and surmounted by five tall pine trees, their taper stems bent by the blasts to which they were exposed, without a branch below their broad, ever-verdant heads. The chapel was a rough building, of merely two gable ends, and a small porch in front, facing the west; but the view fully repaid the trouble of mounting the hill, even had he come without an object. To the south, over an undulating country, covered with fields and pine-groves, he could distinguish his father’s house and estates; on the west, in the furthest point in the horizon, was to be seen a thin bright line of blue, indicating the presence of the boundless ocean; while on the north appeared the heights of Coimbra, covered with its colleges, monasteries, and churches, below which ran the placid stream of the Mondego, on whose willow-covered banks once wept, with tears of anguish, the lovely and ill-fated Ines de Castro, for ever celebrated in the immortal song of Camoens. On the east, again, over a wide sea of pine-forest, which, indeed, extended on every side of the rock, rose hill upon hill, and mountain upon mountain, till the furthest ridges were lost in a blue haze.

Don Luis entered the chapel, which was, as the friar told him it would be, filled with country people, some beating their breasts, others kissing the ground, and licking up the dust, and the rest rapt in an ecstasy of devotion; while the little altar glittered with lighted tapers. The walls of the edifice were hung with offerings from the pious; among which were seen, carved in wax, what were intended to be representations of the arms, legs, feet, or hands of the human body, those members having been cured by the miraculous interposition of our Lady of the Rock, and the prayers of the holy hermit; these falling to her share, while he appropriated whatever was offered in the shape of money, observing, that such could be of no possible use to our Lady, who was supplied with all she could require. There were also pictures of her appearance in the bodily form, to comfort and assure her devout worshippers. A priest, whose features Luis could not distinguish, further than that he was an aged man, with a long flowing white beard over his breast, clothed in his vestments, was performing the ceremony of mass. It was, however, nearly completed; so, having knelt down, and offered up a short prayer, he again retired, to wait till the people had departed, in order to follow the priest to his cave, as he had agreed. While he was standing and gazing at the lovely view, he heard a groaning near him, and, turning round, he beheld a sight which might have caused a smile on his lips, had he not rather pitied the unfortunate sufferers. There were two old women, who appeared to have started together in a race, on their unprotected knees, in which they were endeavouring to make a certain number of circuits round the chapel, each strenuously trying to get as close to the walls as possible, to save her distance. A strong, sturdy-looking fellow soon after came out, and commenced the same penance; but he very soon distanced his aged competitors for absolution, quickly performing his rounds, at the same time vehemently beating his breast. Perhaps his knees were hardened by habitual kneeling in devotion; but Luis observed a most suspicious thickness about them, which might have been caused by their recent swelling, or he might have taken the precaution to pad them, suspecting to what his sins would condemn him. He, however, gained the credit of zealous penitence.

Before this ceremony was quite completed, the rest of the congregation came out of the chapel, and among them was a man whom Don Luis caught eyeing him very narrowly, but, the moment the man saw that he was observed, he disappeared hastily down the hill. Don Luis, therefore, concluded that he was merely astonished at seeing a gentleman there at that early hour of the morning. He had some time longer to wait before all the people had quitted the hill, when, as he was still admiring the view before him, he heard a slight noise, and his name whispered, and, on turning round, he saw the priest who had officiated at the chapel descending the rock by a steep path on the opposite side to that which his congregation had taken. Luis directly followed him, when he saw a signal for him to do so; but so quickly did the venerable person descend, that he could scarcely keep him in view without danger of breaking his neck, from his ignorance of the stepping-stones in the side of the hill, with which his guide, from his unhesitating pace, seemed perfectly familiar. He had proceeded about three-quarters of the way, and had yet some of the most precipitous part of the descent to make, when he perceived the priest, who had reached the bottom, after looking cautiously around, proceed a few paces at the base of the rock, and, again repeating his signal, disappear beneath an overhanging cliff. As soon as Luis had likewise reached the bottom, he followed the same course; when, as he was passing under the cliff, he again heard his name called by a voice which seemed to proceed from the bowels of the earth, and, looking earnestly in that direction, perceived a small cavity in the side of the rock, but so shrouded by brushwood, that he might easily have passed it several times had it not been particularly called to his notice.

“Enter, my son, and fear not,” said the voice: “nought but what is holy is here to be found.”

Luis, putting aside the boughs which grew across the entrance, and stooping low to avoid striking his head against the rugged arch which formed it, entered the cave; but, on first leaving the bright glare of sunshine, his eyes were so oppressed by the darkness, that he could not venture to advance, until suddenly a small flickering light appeared before him, sufficient, however, to show him that he stood in a naturally vaulted chamber, or rather passage, in which he might stand perfectly upright, of some twelve feet in width, but of a length it was impossible to determine, the sides of the jagged and unhewn rock, and the floor, being covered with soft fine sand. In vain did his sight seek to pierce beyond the twinkling light, but it served to guide his footsteps, when it seemed to be in motion, and approaching him. He now saw the venerable figure of the hermit standing a short way up the cave, with snowy beard, the hair round his shaven crown and his eyebrows being of the same silvery hue. In his hand was a small taper, which he held before him.

“What seekest thou of me, my son?” he uttered, in the same low tones Luis had before heard. “If it is aught which my prayers can be of service to gain for thee, they shall, without intermission, be offered up.”

“In this case your prayers are not required, most reverend hermit,” returned Don Luis. “I understand that you have in your possession a casket of jewels which you are willing to deliver to me for a certain recompense.”

“It is the truth, my son. I have a casket, about which I was yesterday speaking to that most holy and devout brother, the friar Diogo Lopez, a man in whom the gifts of Divine grace shine most conspicuously, my most particular and esteemed friend, yet one whose fair fame the tongue of calumny has dared to slander; who has been accused of consorting with robbers and evil-doers, even to sharing in the profits of their mal-practices. Oft has he come to me, with tears in his eyes, mourning his hard fate; and, in the hopes of gaining the favour of Heaven to clear his fame, has he flagellated his back with the cord of repentance, till the blood has flowed in torrents to the ground. Oh! brother Diogo is truly a righteous man!”

“Your pardon, Father! I came to inquire for a casket of jewels, and not to discuss the character of Frè Diogo; about which the less said in his praise the smaller will be the chance of his actions contradicting your words,” answered Luis.

“You are severe, my son, you are severe on brother Diogo. But about the jewels; now you recall the circumstance to my mind, I do recollect that he told me that a young and estimable friend of his was anxious to obtain them; and that he was to come here this morning, with a hundred and fifty milreas, which he was willing to give for them, besides thirty more which he was anxious to offer for masses to be said for the souls of certain unfortunate men who were killed a few days ago.”

“You are under a slight error with regard to the amount of the sum I promised your respectable friend; but the hundred milreas I will give when you deliver the casket, and I will, beyond that, offer twenty more to be expended in masses.”

“That is acting like a true fidalgo,” answered the Hermit; “and I feel assured that the souls of the brigands will be highly obliged to you. Of course, I must have been mistaken with regard to the additional fifty milreas; but age has somewhat impaired my memory, and I cannot doubt the word of so honourable a gentleman. As you may, perhaps, be anxious to gain possession of these same jewels, if you will follow me to the head of the cave, you will find the casket on a little stone altar; there deposit the money, with any further trifling donation you, in your generosity, may be inclined to offer, take up the casket, and depart in peace. With the casket you will find a sealed packet, to whom directed I know not, never having been instructed in the profane art of reading a written hand; my breviary, and the lives of the saints, having occupied my whole attention. It was found within the casket; but being of no value to those who found it there, they honestly gave it to me, and I restore it to you. Follow me, my son.”

Having thus spoken, the hermit proceeded up the cave for several yards, when he suddenly stopped and placed the taper in a socket on the little altar he spoke of; but by the time Luis had reached the spot he had disappeared. Luis looked around in every direction, but it was impossible to pierce the surrounding gloom, the faint rays of the taper not extending to the sides of the cavern, by which he concluded it must have considerably increased in size; so that the holy man was yet watching him at no great distance, though himself invisible. The taper cast its light on the surface of the altar, and on a small stone cross, rudely carved, which surmounted it, a few rays alone throwing a faint gleam on the roof above, from which hung down long and transparent stalactites, the floor being here moist and slippery; indeed, a light murmuring sound gave notice that a spring ran through this part of the cavern. Two small steps conducted him to the altar, when he found that the hermit had not deceived him, for there were the casket and the packet. He opened the former, and letting the light of the candle fall on the interior, it displayed a glittering collection of various trinkets, such as were then worn by ladies; closing the case, he placed it securely about his person, and then examined the superscription on the packet. It was in a delicate female handwriting, and directed thus:—“To Gonçalo Christovaö.” Luis secured that also carefully in his bosom; and then, placing on the spot from which he had taken them three separate parcels of money,—two of the amount promised, and another of ten milreas intended for the hermit himself, the very great holiness of whose character he could not, however, help doubting,—he was about to take the taper from the altar, with the intention of finding his way to the month of the cave.—“Hold! impious man!” exclaimed the voice of the Hermit; though, from what quarter it came it was impossible to tell. “Take thy sacrilegious hands from off that candle, which must remain till I have counted thy gifts. Retire the way by which you came.”

Don Luis, though not particularly well pleased at this address, thought it would be of no avail either to answer or to disobey the order; and accordingly endeavoured so to direct his course as to reach the entrance of the cavern, hoping soon to see the light of day streaming in from the opening in the rock. Holding his sword in its scabbard before him, to prevent himself from running suddenly against the side of the cave, should he miss the right course, he slowly groped his way onward, but had not advanced far when he found the value of his precaution by its striking against the rock. He looked round, intending to take a fresh departure from the light, when he found that it had been extinguished, and that he was in utter darkness. He now felt convinced that some trick was being played off against him, at the bottom of which he strongly suspected was the holy Frè Diogo; though, had robbery been intended, it might have been committed at once, without delivering the casket or packet. It must be confessed that he was in a very disagreeable position; shut up in a dark cavern, and, for aught he could tell to the contrary, surrounded by robbers, or, at the best, in the power of some daring impostors. He was inclined, as well he might be, to be very angry; but he knew that losing his temper would not at all aid him to get out of the trap; besides, utter darkness, such as surrounded him, has generally a very soothing effect on the mind. The ground on which he stood was still hard and damp, so that he knew he could not yet have reached the passage by which he entered, and for some moments he could not resolve to proceed, fearful of becoming more confused, and of perhaps falling into some deep cavity, through which the water he heard must find its way. He determined, however, if violence was intended, not to be taken without a stroke for life; silently, therefore, drawing his sword, he grasped it firmly in his right hand, while with the scabbard he felt around on his left side. He fancied that he could hear the breathing of some one near him, but, as he swept his sword round, it met nought but the empty air. Now Luis was, as he had often proved, possessed of as much of that quality called courage as most men; but there are many who will face danger without shrinking in open daylight, and when they see and know the strength of their foe, who would feel very uncomfortable when shut up in the dark, and not at all knowing what to expect, which was exactly his case at present. His patience, also, was quickly worn out. “I beg, most holy hermit, that you will not consider me like a mole, with eyes to see, or claws to work my way out of this cave; but, as I am anxious to return home, that you will throw a light upon my path to enable me to do so,” he exclaimed, with some degree of anger in his tone.

“Turn, then, to the left as you face the rock, and you will soon see the bright light which shines on all men alike, the light of day;” said a voice at some little distance.

“If he does, he will plunge into the deep hole through which the stream flows; his feet are close to it already,” answered another voice.

“Then he is not where I thought he was,” said the first; “but let him turn to the right then, and he will be free.”

“I beg you will finish this mummery,” exclaimed Don Luis, “and show me the way out of this place.”

“Beware that you utter no blasphemy,” said the voice. “Now, look more earnestly, and you will behold the light before you.”

At that moment a small flame burst forth, towards which he immediately advanced, and found himself treading on the soft sand in the narrow passage. The light was again extinguished, but in its stead he saw, at some distance, the sunshine gleaming through the mouth of the cavern. Glad to escape from the place, he was hurrying towards it, when a loud noise resounded through the rocky vault, and he found himself again in complete darkness, and could distinctly hear a suppressed chuckle of laughter.

This was trying his patience too much. “Whether saint or devil,” he exclaimed, “let me go free from your abode.”

“Blaspheme not, my son,” answered the voice; “but your temper shall no longer be tried; only, remember in future to cast no reflections on the character of my esteemed friend, the holy Frè Diogo;” and a loud peal of laughter resounded through the vault, whose echoes had no sooner died away, than a door he had not before perceived was thrown open, and the sunshine again streamed in, when he saw, standing on one side, the venerable form of the hermit.

“Farewell, my son,” said the latter personage. “My devotions have been sadly disturbed by sounds of unwonted merriment, in which the spirits of darkness have indulged, even as they did in the hermitage of the most holy Saint Anthony. Ah! I see you were prepared to combat with the weapons of carnal warfare; but those avail not against the inhabitants of the infernal regions. ’Twas with his crosier and breviary, not to mention the pair of red-hot tongs, that the great saint put to flight the Prince of Darkness; and such are the weapons with which I fight. I will detain you no longer: again, farewell, my son. Your shortest way home is to mount the path by which you came here, and to descend on the other side of the hill. Above all things, do not speak ill of the holy Frè Diogo.”

“Farewell, most holy hermit,” answered Luis; “though, I suspect, if you allow such proceedings in your hermitage, its character for sanctity will be somewhat damaged.”

“No fear of that, my son,” said the venerable personage; “there is no character in the world so quickly gained, or so easily maintained, as that of sanctity, which is the reason so many people assume it who have lost all claim to any other. Remember that, my son, for I have full cause to know the truth of what I say. Now Heaven speed you, for you are a good youth!”

With these words, the hermit retired into the recesses of the cave, and Luis issued into the open air. As advised, he climbed up the hill by the steep path he had descended, which he found far less difficulty in doing; and crossing to the other side, he was happy to perceive his horse quietly grazing in a field below, somewhat impeded in the operation by the bit in his mouth, while the boy had gone to sleep by his side, wondering when the fidalgo would return.

Luis roused the boy, and gave him a piece of silver, probably a larger amount than he had ever before possessed, while he threw the reins over his horse’s neck and prepared to mount. The lad’s eyes glistened with delight, and in a moment he appeared to be brisk and intelligent enough. “A thousand thanks, for your charity to a poor lad, senhor,” he said; “and I have something to tell you. Some time after you were gone away, while I was lying down on the grass, thinking of going to sleep, some strange men came up to your horse, and, without saying a word, took your pistols out of the holsters, threw out the priming, and returned them quickly back again. They looked so fierce, that I was afraid to say anything; so I snored away, pretending to be fast asleep, and the men directly afterwards went away; but I forgot all about it till you gave me the piece of silver.”

Luis immediately examined his pistols, and found that they had been tampered with; then, carefully reloading them, and giving the boy another piece of money for his information, he mounted his horse, and regained the road, and had just done so when he saw a horseman galloping along to meet him, in whom he was by no means sorry to recognise his servant Pedro.

“Oh, senhor!” exclaimed the honest fellow, when he came up to him, “I am delighted to see you safe and sound; for my mind misgave me, ever since you told me you were going to meet an acquaintance of that rascally friar;—Heaven forgive me if I wrong him;—so at last I determined to take a horse and follow you; but now I have found you, it is all right, and I hope you will forgive me my fears for your safety.”

While Pedro was speaking, their path was leading them a little way round the base of the hill; and before his master had time to answer, several men sprung out from behind some large rocks, which lay scattered around, and seizing their bridles, attempted to drag them from their horses. Pedro, who was armed only with a thick stick, laid about him most manfully, keeping the robbers, for such they appeared to be, at bay; and Don Luis drew a pistol from his holster, threatening to shoot the man nearest him; but the fellow only laughed, daring him to fire, which he immediately did, and the man dropped. Upon this, the others, undaunted, rushed on him with loud cries of vengeance, and before he could draw his sword or use his other pistol, they grasped him by the arms, dragging him from his horse to the ground. Pedro fought on some time longer, proving that a good oak stick in the hand is better than a sword by the side, and had very nearly succeeded in rescuing his master, when the robbers, fearing that such would be the case, made a rush on him all together, and pinioned his arms behind him.

The report of Don Luis’s pistol had, at this juncture of affairs, called another actor on the scene, whom Pedro, at all events, did not expect to find in the character of a friend. This personage was no other than the worthy Frè Diogo, who was seen rushing down the hill, flourishing a cudgel very similar to the one he had used with such effect in their service at the inn, and shouting at the top of his voice, “Off, off you rascals! Is this the way you dare to treat my friends?”

He was quickly on the spot, dealing his blows with no gentle force on every side, soon emancipating Pedro from thraldom, and driving off those who held Don Luis. “How dare you, ye villains, attack a friend of mine, who came to visit me, with my word pledged for his security?” he cried. “I hope, senhor, you are not injured. Well, then, it does not matter, and I see you have punished one of them. Pick up that fellow, and away with you; for I see he’s more frightened than hurt.”

The men sulkily obeyed, raising their fallen comrade, who proved to be only stunned, the pistol ball having merely grazed his head.

So quickly had these incidents occurred, that Don Luis had scarcely time to speak before he found himself again at liberty; and when he turned to thank his deliverer, he could not help being amused at his appearance. The dark robes, the rim of carroty hair, and the red eyes were there; but above the eyes were a pair of thick, bushy, white eyebrows. “The venerable hermit!” he exclaimed.

“What, senhor, have you found me out?” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “Well, don’t betray me, or you will injure my character for sanctity, and ’tis the last thing I have now to depend on.”

“I should be ungrateful for the service you have just now afforded me,” answered Don Luis. “Though, for your own sake, my friend, I wish it were more justly established.”

“Oh! that is a trifle, senhor,—I mean, the service I have done you,” said the Friar. “What do you stand gaping there for, you rogues? Off with you,” he shouted to the robbers, who still stood at some little distance, while Luis and his servant mounted their horses.

“Come, Senhor Frade, pay us for our work, then,” answered one of the men. “We came to rob this young fidalgo by your orders, and we won’t, go back empty-handed.”

“Oh, you villains! you will ruin my character if you talk thus;—that was to be if the young fidalgo was not charitable; but he has won my heart; and remember, the man who injures him is my enemy. However, here is more than you deserve,” and he flung them the ten milreas Luis had left for the hermit, on which each of the men made him a low bow, and hurried away. Nothing abashed, he again turned to Don Luis. “You see, senhor, the truth of the saying exemplified, that charity brings its own reward. Now, if you had not been charitable, I confess the temptation to rob you was very great; but when I found the amount of your offering, I repented, and, as you see, came to rescue you. If you have a trifle about you, you can repay me at once;—well, never mind, if you have not; another time will do;—but don’t say a Capuchin is ungrateful, that’s all. Now, farewell, senhor; we shall meet again, I doubt not. You will not betray me, I know; and I am sure Senhor Pedro there will not, for he is an honest fellow; and if he does, I shall break his head some time or other. You had better make the best of your way home, and not encounter those men, as they have not the same feelings of honour that I have. Now, don’t answer;—I know what you would say, that I am a rogue in grain; but it cannot be helped... Adeos, senhor.”

Without waiting for an answer to this specimen of consummate impudence, which, indeed, Don Luis would have had some difficulty in making, he again began to mount the hill, indulging in a loud chuckle as he went. Don Luis and Pedro, however, followed his advice, though they could not admire his principles.

“That friar seems to be a very great rogue, senhor,” said Pedro, as they rode home.

“Not much greater, I suspect, than many others,” answered his master; “only he certainly does not take much pains to conceal it.”

We must apologise to our readers for occupying so much of their time with this rather unromantic adventure of Don Luis’s, and hope that his character will not have been injured in their estimation by it.

He remained some weeks longer under his father’s roof, without any very important event occurring to him; and, in the mean time, we must beg leave to fly back again to Lisbon.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

We find it chronicled in history, that, either on the 10th or 20th of October, for the figures are nearly obliterated in the manuscript before us, AD 1754, their Majesties of Portugal held a Beja Mao, or what is in England styled a drawing-room, at which all the first fidalgos and nobles of the land were expected to attend. The palace the royal family then inhabited was very different to the one in which their august successors now reside; not one stone of the former remaining upon another to mark the spot where that proud building stood, every vestige having been obliterated by that relentless and fell destroyer the earthquake, and by the devouring flames it caused. It was situated more in the centre of the city, in no way to be compared as a structure to the present edifice, which, were it but finished, would be remarkable for its grandeur and beauty; but, alas! it stands a monument of high aims and vast ideas, but of feeble and unenergetic execution. But we are talking of the old palace, which was, however, a considerable building of highly-wrought stone work, the interior being richly decorated with painted ceilings and walls, with gilt mouldings, costly hangings of crimson damask and brocade, tables of silver inlaid with jewels, besides tapestry and silks in profusion, and many other valuable articles too numerous to describe.

Although so late in the year, the heats of summer were not abated; and though for many weeks past the sun had constantly been obscured by dark and unaccountable vapours, it at times broke forth with even greater force than usual, as it did on the morning of which we speak, upon the heads of a vast throng collected in front of the palace, to witness the nobles alighting from their carriages of state. And, truly, the carriages of that day in Portugal were very remarkable vehicles, such as would most certainly collect a crowd, were they to make their reappearance in any country in Christendom. They were huge lumbering affairs, the arms of their noble owners being emblazoned on every part, painted in the brightest and most glaring colours; but, as nothing superior had ever been seen in the country, the people thought them very magnificent, and the more they were covered with paint and gold, the warmer were the praises bestowed upon them; indeed, it may strongly be suspected, that if a modern equipage, with its simple elegance and strength alone to recommend it, had appeared, it would have been scouted as not worthy of notice, so generally are true merit and beauty disregarded by the undiscriminating eye of the vulgar.

Those being the days when bag-wigs and swords were in general use, the courtiers did not afford so much amusement to the spectators as they do in front of St. James’s Palace; the Portuguese Court having, with more taste, changed according to the fashion of the times, not requiring all loyal subjects, who are anxious to pay their respects to their sovereign, to make themselves ridiculous, by appearing habited in the antiquated and ill-fashioned suits of their grandfathers. There would be some sense in masquerading, if every gentleman were obliged to dress in the rich and elegant costume of the age of Henry the Eighth, or Elizabeth; and it would also have the beneficial effect of keeping away a vast number of penniless plebeians, who, on the day of each drawing-room and levée, crowd the royal antechambers, to the great injury of the ladies’ dresses and the amusement of the nobles and officers. But we are describing Portugal, and ought not to be talking of England, and its many amusing follies and prejudices.

A guard of honour was drawn up in front of the palace; but their presence was scarcely required to keep the peace, for there was no shouting or disturbance of any sort. The young nobles were more reputably employed than usual, being decked in their gala attire, attending on their sovereigns,—the chief use for which they were created, though they seem to forget it; while the people, untaught by the patriotism of demagogues, to exhibit the liberty and independence of man on every public occasion, by causing annoyance to the other half of the community, as has been so successfully done in the present century, remained quiet spectators of the scene.

We must now proceed to the interior of the palace, which was crowded with the usual number of guards, pages, and attendants of various descriptions. Two of the ministers of the crown had already arrived, and paid their respects; the foreign ambassadors followed, taking their allotted places in the handsome saloon in which the Court was held, where also stood the different members of the royal family, arranged on each side of the sovereigns. The King had just attained his fortieth year, and was of good height, and that free carriage, which a consciousness of rank and power rarely fails to bestow; but his features were far from handsome, with no approach to intellectuality about them, though there was just that degree of acuteness and firmness which taught him to select and protect the only man in his realm capable of rescuing the country from complete destruction. The Queen had but few personal charms to boast of, being destitute also of those soft feminine graces which are so often found to make ample amends for the more evanescent quality of beauty. A haughty expression sat on her lips; her thin and erect figure was rather above the middle height, the inclination she made as her subjects passed before her being stiff and formal. Near the King stood the Infante Dom Pedro, silent, grave, and stern, his features dark and unprepossessing, a true index of his character, which was bigoted, fierce, irascible, and sanguinary. Though in no way attached to his sister-in-law, the Queen, he cordially joined with her in her hatred of the Minister Carvalho, against whom he never ceased his machinations; and though his plots were discovered and defeated by the vigilance of the latter, it was more owing to his brother’s clemency and goodness of heart, than to any forbearance on the part of his enemy, that he escaped the condign punishment he so well merited at their hands. Near the Queen stood the young Infanta Donna Maria, a princess equally prepossessing in appearance and manner, her eyes beaming with mildness and intelligence, and a sweet smile wreathing itself round lips which were never known to utter aught but words of gentleness. She truly dwelt in the hearts and affections of the people over whom she was destined to rule; and while to the rest of the royal family, lip-service, with the cold and formal bow, alone was paid, as the courtiers drew near her, the eye brightened, and the heart beat with those warm feelings of love and respect which are ever felt by the true and loyal subjects of her august descendant and namesake, of Portugal, and by all who surround the throne of the young and beloved Queen of Britain.

A drawing-room at the Portuguese Court, although formal and ceremonious, was not quite so tedious an affair as that to which the sovereign of England is obliged to submit; for none but nobles being admitted to that honour, fewer people were present. It was also the custom of the King and Queen to make some observations to those who came to pay their respects, a practice which would greatly relieve the monotony of the almost interminable line of bowing figures, who pass, like characters in a raree-show, before their Majesties of England.

The King was standing, as we have said, surrounded by the royal family, and the immediate attendants at the palace, the more public part of the ceremony not having yet commenced.

“Where is Senhor Carvalho?” he said, looking round; “he ought, methinks, to have been here before now; for it is not like him to exhibit any want of respect to our person. Can any one say why he comes not?”

“We have not seen him, please your Majesty,” said one of Carvalho’s colleagues in office; “though, doubtless, some affairs of your Majesty’s detain him, for no business of his own could make a loyal subject forget his duty to his King; yet ’tis said that Senhor Carvalho spends his leisure time in a way some might consider derogatory to the high office he holds,” he added, ever ready to throw a slur on the character of one he both hated and feared. Those words cost him dear.

“Ah! Senhor Carvalho is, doubtless, a most loyal subject, and devoted minister; but it is the interest of all political adventurers to appear so,” chimed in the Queen; “and if his zeal were to be judged by his own protestations, he would assuredly be a paragon of perfection. But methinks your Majesty might find, among the pure, high-born fidalgos, some equally as zealous and able as this low pretender.”

“No, no,” answered the King, hastily. “Sebastiaö Carvalho is no pretender, but has truly at heart the weal of my kingdom, with a mind to conceive, and a soul to execute, great purposes; and where is there a man in Portugal to be compared to him, either in mental or personal qualities.”

“In talents he is not deficient, as he has proved, by working himself into power, and of brute strength he possesses enough, certainly,” observed a noble lord in waiting, who was privileged to say what he chose; “for I well remember, in one of his drunken fits, some years ago (I would rather not say how many) he broke my head, and nearly let out life itself, by what he called a gentle tap with his sword. As for talents, they were not discernible at College, at all events, except by the quantity of wine he could drink, and the daring impudence of his bearing among his superiors.”

“Those are qualities in which plebeians most excel,” added another; “but in loyalty and devotion to a generous sovereign, who can equal the noble fidalgos of the land? It is the one sentiment in which all combine.”

“Perhaps he has first to pay his devotions at the shrine of his lady love,” observed the Queen, with a sneer; “yet we women might excuse him if his gallantry surpassed his loyalty.”

The King, never very ready with answers in conversation, found no words to defend his Minister, to whose powerful mind his own had already learned to yield, though he, as yet, neither loved him, nor put implicit trust in him: his power, therefore, was held but by a frail tenure, which the breath of malice might easily have destroyed. A few idle or bitter words frequently weaken that influence which it has been the toil of years in a statesman’s life to gain; and such an opportunity as this, the numerous enemies of the rising Minister who surrounded the throne, were certain not to lose.

The courtiers now began to assemble, but the Minister came not.

Having taken a glance at the interior of the palace, we must return again to the streets in the neighbourhood, now thronged with carriages pressing forward to the one centre of attraction.

Our friend, Antonio, the cobbler, had given himself a holiday: not that he was going to Court, though, as he observed, many a less honest man, with a finer coat, might be there; but he was anxious to learn the opinions of people on affairs in general, and he knew that he should be able to pick up a good deal of information in the crowd, among whom he walked, dressed in his gala suit, unrecognised by any as Antonio O Remendao.

He was proceeding along a narrow street, at a short distance from the palace, when he saw approaching, the proud Duke of Aveiro, in his coach, which monopolised the greater part of the way, and slowly proceeded, at a state pace, in accordance with his dignity. A carriage, driven rapidly along, was endeavouring to pass the duke’s conveyance; but his coachman, by swerving first on one side and then on the other, prevented it so doing.

“Make way there! make way for his Excellency Senhor Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho,” shouted the driver of the hindermost carriage; but the other heeded not his words. “Make way there! make way; my master is late to present himself at Court, where his duty calls him, in which he will be impeded by no one,” again cried the Minister’s coachman.

“Heed not the base-born churl,” exclaimed the Duke, from his carriage window. “Does he dare to insult me by presuming to pass my coach?”

The duke’s anger increased as the Minister’s coachman persisted in the attempt. “Keep in your proper station, wretch,” he cried, forgetful of his own dignity, “or by Heavens I will slay you on the spot.”

At that moment the carriages had reached a wider space in the street, where Antonio stood, so that the Minister’s carriage was enabled to pass the duke’s: as it did so, Carvalho looked from the window. “I wish not to insult you, my lord duke,” he said; “but the driver of my carriage has my orders to hasten towards the palace, nor will I be disobeyed; regardless of the rank of those I may pass, my duty to my sovereign is above all other considerations.” The last words were scarce heard as he drove by, while the the Duke shook his hand with fury.

The Cobbler laughed quietly to himself, as he beheld the scene. “What fools men are!” he muttered. “Now, that noble duke is enraged because a man who is in a hurry passes him while he is not; but he had better take care, and not enrage the Minister in return, or he will be like the man who put his head into the lion’s mouth, and forgot to take it out again.”

“Ah! does this bold plebeian dare to insult me to my very face?” exclaimed the Duke, as he watched the Minister’s carriage; “but, ere long, I will be revenged, and nought but his blood shall wipe out the remembrance of his audacity. He dreams not of the punishment that awaits him. Ah! he shall be the first victim when I attain to power.”

“Did your Excellency mark the look of proud derision he cast as he succeeded in passing your coach?” observed the sycophantish Captain Policarpio, who sat opposite to his master, and was ever ready to inflame his anger against those by whose downfall alone he had any hopes of succeeding in his ambitious projects.

“I marked it well, and shall not forget it till he mounts the scaffold,” returned the Duke, grinding his teeth with fury. “Boastful as he now is, he will then be humble enough.”

By the side of the Duke was his young nephew, to whom he had not ventured to breathe any of his aspiring hopes, well knowing, that neither by habits nor temper was he formed to aid in their accomplishment. The youth now looked up with an expression somewhat of surprise and pain on his countenance, and endeavoured to counteract the influence of Captain Policarpio’s observations. “Senhor Carvalho had doubtless good reason for hurrying on to present himself before his Majesty,” he said. “Methinks, too, Senhor Policarpio must be mistaken when he supposed that the Minister could have intentionally insulted my uncle.”

“There was no mistaking his proud glance, boy,” returned the Duke. “You know not the daring impudence of the man; his sole delight is to show his contempt of that rank to which he can never by right belong.”

“Yet the King, whom we are all bound to reverence, places confidence in him; and he has already shown good example of his abilities,” observed the young Viscount.

“The King is easily deceived by those who choose to flatter him,” answered the Duke; “but his flattery shall avail him but little. Ah! we are at the palace, and that daring plebeian has arrived before us. We shall see with what a sneering and bold glance he will front us in the presence chamber, if he escapes his weak master’s anger at his dilatory appearance. Let him gaze as he will, every glance shall be repaid by a drop of his life’s blood.”

While the Duke was thus venting his rage, the Minister, regardless of the anger he excited, drove rapidly on past all the other carriages, and descending at the gate of the palace, hastened to the audience chamber, to kiss the hand of the sovereign, to whose welfare he was devoted.

As he approached, the King’s ear was yet ringing with the tones of the insidious voices of those who had been striving to blast his reputation; but the eyes of his slanderers, as if conscious that he knew their vile intent, sank abashed before his steady and confident gaze.

“Senhor Carvalho is late in paying his respects to us,” began the King, as the Minister bent his knee before him.

“I trust that your Majesty will pardon me, your most faithful servant, when you learn that I was more deeply engaged in your Majesty’s affairs, and the welfare of the state, than those who would poison your gracious ears with lying tales against my credit;” and drawing up his commanding figure, which towered above the crowd of courtiers, his eagle glance ranged over the frowning countenances of those who stood around. “But I know that your Majesty is too wise and generous to believe them, while I can prove my devotion to your service. I have detected, and for the present counteracted, a conspiracy to deprive your Majesty of your sovereign rights, and to bring your mind under subjection of your most subtle foes, the Jesuits. While many, who would endeavour to injure me in your estimation are passing their nights in sleep or dissipation, I have been consuming the midnight oil in your service, snatching, at intervals, a few hours of hurried rest. The details of my researches I will lay before your Majesty at some future period, and, till then, I trust in your goodness not to condemn me.”

“We fully trust to your zeal, my friend, and know you to be a most loving and faithful servant,” answered the King, banishing, in a moment, all the dark suspicions which had arisen in his mind. “Say no more on the subject at present; but, when this ceremony is over, we will consult in private on the affair. See, numbers are pressing forward to pay their duty to us.”

“But not one whose heart beats with fonder devotion for your Majesty,” answered the Minister, again bending his knee, and kissing the hand of the King, held out to him, when he retired to his allotted station. The Queen and Dom Pedro looked angrily at him, but dared not utter their feelings; the courtiers glanced at each other, when they were not observed, and shrugged their shoulders, seeing that for the present it was in vain to attempt to injure him with the King; but vowing not to lose another opportunity of renewing their attacks against one whom they had just reason to fear. Carvalho spoke a few words, in whispers, to his colleagues, whose eyes sunk on the ground as he proceeded; and, indeed, no one of that assembly of the proudest and most noble in the land seemed as much at their ease as before he entered, except the King himself, who, on the contrary, uttered his expressions of courtesy to those who came to pay their respects, with greater ease and fluency. One of the first was the Marquis of Marialva, one of the most justly-esteemed nobles of the Court, who ever retained the affection of the King, though he did not escape the jealousy of the Minister, who was, however, never able to injure him. “Do what you will with the others,” the King used to say; “but let alone my marquis.” He now entered, with a free and graceful manner, for which he was remarkable, and affectionately kissed the hand of his royal friend.

“Ah, my good marquis, we missed you much from our hunting party yesterday,” said the King. “We much required your active arm to slay the beast, who gored one of our best dogs before he was slain.”

“I had sprained my left arm, and could not guide my horse, or I should not have missed the honour of accompanying your Majesty,” returned Marialva.

“We know; we heard of your accident, and are glad to find that you are so far recovered; and, as we have a favour to ask, let us know when you are perfectly strong. We wish to show the English Minister that we have some nobles of our Court—and of no mean rank either—who are fully equal to the feats of agility and strength of which his countrymen boast. Our father—to whose soul God be merciful!—sent to the English Court an ambassador, who was, we heard, the tallest among all the corps diplomatique, and not the least able, we suspect; so that we may vie with those islanders both in strength and size.”

The Marquis smiled, as he answered, “I will gladly obey your Majesty in anything you may command, and hope in a few days sufficiently to recover my strength to do so.”

A few persons of less note followed, when a disturbance, most unusual at Court, occurred, and a voice, as if in angry discussion, was heard, when the Duke of Aveiro was seen advancing in a hurried and disordered manner. A fierce fire burnt in his eye, and a frown deeply furrowed his brow, while his hand wandered unconsciously to the hilt of his sword; but, as he came close to the King, the presence of majesty restored him slightly to order; yet his carriage was far from having that respectful manner which he was bound to preserve: his step was irregular, and he yet snorted with rage, as, in a careless and indifferent way, he stooped to kiss the hand of his sovereign.

“What has caused my lord duke to be so angry this morning?” said the King. “He seems to forget that he is in the royal palace.”

“I forget not where I am, for I have too much to remind me of it,” answered the Duke, haughtily. “I have been insulted grossly—insulted by one of the ministers in whom your Majesty pleases to confide, in a way to which no noble can submit.”

“Who is the culprit, my lord duke? It seems you have taken a lesson from him,” said the King.

“He stands behind your Majesty, even now, I doubt not, plotting mischief in his fertile brain against your throne and the Church—Senhor Carvalho is the man!” answered the Duke.

The Minister cast a withering glance at him.

“The punishment due to my crime is not to be found mentioned in the laws of the realm,” he said. “I therefore submit myself to your Majesty’s clemency. The offence was in passing my lord duke, in my eagerness to show my respect to my sovereign.”

“Is that the whole of the offence, Senhor Duke?” said the King, half smiling. “It is at once pardoned, and we must request your Excellency to move out of the way in future, when any of our officers wish to pass you, in discharge of their duty;” and the King turned aside his head.

“The whole of the offence!” muttered the Duke of Aveiro, as he moved on one side. “For half such an one many a man has, ere now, died.”

The highest fidalgos, their ladies and daughters, now followed in rapid succession; among them came the Marquis and Marchioness of Tavora, who had lately been acting the part of viceroys in India, and were, perhaps, but little pleased at being obliged to take a secondary place on the present occasion. They presented their eldest son, shortly to be united to the lovely daughter of the Marquis d’Alorna. Both the sovereigns looked coldly on them as they passed, uttering merely the most common-place observations.

“We have not seen you at Court for some time, my lord marquis,” said the King; “but we hope, in future, your own private affairs will not keep you from us. We will not now detain you.”

It was observed, that when the young marquis bent to kiss the King’s hand, Joseph turned aside his head, with a frown, nor dared to meet the eye of the young man, who, after paying the same compliment to the Queen, moved on one side. His betrothed bride, to whom he was to be united in a few days, followed directly after, led forward by her father, till she reached the presence chamber, when, with a slight agitation in her manner, visible only to the eye of a keen observer, she advanced towards the King, and, as she knelt to kiss his hand, he whispered in her ear—“Fear not, dearest, this must be so; but our love alters not.” The unhappy girl blushed, and, as she rose, her eye caught that of the King, bent on her in admiration, when hers fell to the ground, nor did she dare to encounter the angry and fierce glances the Queen cast on her. Her father was received with marked attention, which, unsuspicious of harm, he took as due to his extraordinary merits. Next came the Count of Atouquia, a young noble of unprepossessing appearance, and his countess, a lady much admired by the King.

Trembling with alarm at a scene so strange and dazzling, the fair Donna Clara was now led forward by the aged Marchioness de Corcunda, who had repaired to Court expressly to introduce her. As the beautiful and delicate young being knelt before him, the King smiled with surprise and pleasure, and raising her, bade her take courage, inquiring her name of the old marchioness. “She is, indeed, a bright jewel to adorn our Court, where we hope constantly to see her; and we doubt not many of our gallant fidalgos will enter the lists to win her smiles.”

“Her hand is already sought by one of the first fidalgos, your Majesty; but the young lady has a strong desire to become the bride of our holy Church,” answered the Marchioness.

The King looked annoyed, and an expression in no way respectful to the Church was on his lips; but he checked his anger, contenting himself merely with saying—

“The Church shows great discernment in choosing so fair a bride; but it is putting too great a temptation in the way of sinners to commit sacrilege, by making them seek to rob it of its prize.”

Donna Clara heard these words of compliment, to which her ear was so unaccustomed, that it increased her blushes, adding to the lustre of her beauty, nor knew she which way to turn her eyes, till the marchioness having paid her respects to the Queen, took her arm, and led her through the admiring crowd. The Queen frowned on the lovely girl, and coldly returned her salutation; for she feared, in each new beauty, another rival in her lord’s affections. Gonçalo Christovaö followed directly after.

“We have much pleasure in seeing you at Lisbon, senhor,” said the King; “but we shall find fault with you, if you allow your daughter to quit the world. We hope you will cause her to alter her intention.”

“Your Majesty’s pleasure is my law,” said the fidalgo, bowing and moving on, fearful of trusting his tongue with further words.

Scarcely a person of any rank or note passed, to whom the King did not address some words; and nearly all had passed by, when a handsome cavalier approached, and, gracefully kneeling, kissed his hand.

“We do not remember to have seen your countenance before, young sir,” said the King, pleased with his appearance; “though we shall have much pleasure in seeing it in future. We did not catch your name.”

“Luis d’Almeida,” answered the young fidalgo. “I have but a short time ago returned from abroad, or I should earlier have paid my respects to your Majesty.”

“We are happy to see you, Don Luis,” answered the King. “Your father we have not seen for some time; we trust he is in health.”

“It is the want of it alone which prevents his paying his respects to your Majesty. Weighed down by years and heavy misfortunes, he scarcely hopes again to visit Lisbon.”

“He sends a worthy representative in his son,” answered the King, graciously; “and if you feel inclined to remain, we may give you some office in our Court.”

“Your Majesty’s kindness overpowers me; but my father’s state of health claims all my attention, nor could I be long absent from him; therefore, if your Majesty will permit me, I must decline your goodness with the deepest respect,” said Don Luis.

“In that please yourself, and give our regards to your father, when you return,” said the King, as Don Luis moved on to give place to those who were following him.

At length the tedious ceremony, one of the many penalties royalty is obliged to pay in return for the obeisance of the crowd, was over, and the courtiers, except those in immediate attendance on the sovereigns, were at liberty to go whither they willed. Don Luis, although amid a glittering crowd of the young and gay, felt sad and dispirited; and he had already reached one of the outer rooms on his way to quit the palace, when a page overtook him, and informed him, that Senhor Carvalho requested to see him; and begging him to follow, led the way through various rooms, to a small closet, next to the King’s private council chamber. Here he found the Minister, pacing up and down, with a bundle of papers in his hand, prepared to attend when the King should summon him: he stopped in his walk, as he saw Don Luis, and held out his hand kindly to him—

“Ah, my young friend,” he said, “I am glad to find that you followed my advice, and returned to Court as soon as you were able to leave your father; and now I hope it is from no want of affection to our sovereign, that you rejected his proffered kindness, as I spoke to him in your favour some time ago, and he promised to befriend you; for I would always distinguish those who have enlightened their understanding by foreign travel, from the ignorant and profligate young fidalgos, who are alike useless to themselves, and dangerous to a state.”

“Your Excellency is flattering me at the expense of the Fidalguia of Portugal,” answered Luis, his sense of the respect due to his class hurt by the Ministers expressions.

“I speak but the truth of them, young sir,” answered the Minister, “and am right in making you an exception; but in truth, I would, for another reason, be of service to any of your family, and regretted much, when the King made his gracious offer, that you did not accept it.”

“I have again to thank your Excellency for the interest you take in my welfare; but I should not even have returned to Lisbon so soon, were I not obliged to attend the marriage of my cousin, Donna Theresa d’Alorna, with the young Marquis of Tavora.”

“I forgot your connexion with that family; but beware of the Tavoras. They are haughty, ambitious, and proud; and though I fear them not myself, I would not trust those I regard with their friendship.”

A page now came to inform the Minister that the King was in readiness to receive him.

“Farewell, Don Luis, and remember my offers and advice,” he said, as he turned to follow the page to the presence of the King.

As Luis was leaving the palace, he felt his arm seized in no gentle grasp, and turning round, to his great satisfaction he found his friend Captain Pinto by his side.

“Ah, what! Don Luis turned courtier!” exclaimed the latter. “Well, it is one of the characters of life a gentleman ought to play, though I cannot say it is much to my taste. I cannot stand all the buckram and bowing a man has to go through, though I played my part pretty well to-day, and received all sorts of compliments for sinking the Rover; besides which, I expect to get something about as substantial, in the shape of a cross of some order or other, which, the chances are, I see the next day worn by the escudeiro of my Lord Marquis of Marialva or Tavora. But no matter! it will be intended as an honour, and I may boast how I won it, which few others can do: however, here have I been running on about my own affairs, and quite forgetting to ask you about yours. Tell me first, when did you come to Lisbon, for I have been inquiring for you, and heard that you were not even expected.”

“I arrived only yesterday, and remain but till my cousin Theresa’s marriage takes place.”

“Ah! a sore subject that, I fear; but if you are the man I take you for, you will soon recover from that trifling wound; but I will not talk about it. I was wishing to see you, to deliver a message from Senhor Mendez, who desires to have some conversation with you. He has not yet recovered from his injuries, and begs you will visit him.”

“I will gladly do so, if you tell me where I may find him,” said Luis.

“I will take you with me to-night, for I do not venture to visit him by day, for reasons I will explain some time to you,” answered Captain Pinto.

“I cannot go till late; for I have a visit to pay at the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, to deliver some jewels I recovered from some robbers in an extraordinary way to a young lady, who will be anxious to hear of their safety,” said Don Luis.

“What! another young lady in the case? I thought you had foresworn womankind for ever,” said Captain Pinto, laughing.

“I have seen Donna Clara but once, and am only performing an act of common courtesy,” said Don Luis.

“Is she very lovely?” asked his friend. “She is perfection,” answered Don Luis. “That fully accounts for it,” said the Captain. “I thought it would be so. Eternal wretchedness—no comfort but in the grave! Ha! ha!”

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

When Don Luis reached the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, where he had learned that Donna Clara and her father were residing, he saw light streaming from all the windows, and sounds of revelry met his ear. He paused for a moment, doubtful whether he should enter the scene of festivity; but, being still habited in his full dress of the morning, he felt that he was in a proper costume, having also a modest consciousness that he should not be unwelcome to the lady of the mansion, nor, he trusted, to Donna Clara. He therefore boldly approached the door, working his way through a crowd of lackeys, chairmen, and linkboys, and ascended a flight of steps leading to the habitable part of the mansion, following a gay and laughing party of the young and happy. The anterooms were already crowded with company, and in one of them a servant pointed out the marchioness standing ready to receive her guests. As he advanced towards her, people stared at him as one whom their eyes were not accustomed to meet; but none of the fair or young frowned, or seemed displeased at his appearance. Bowing gracefully, he mentioned his name, and expressed his anxiety to pay his respects to Gonçalo Christovaö and his daughter.

“Oh, I have heard of your exploit and gallantry, Senhor Don Luis,—and I know that Gonçalo Christovaö will be equally anxious again to thank you for the service you rendered his daughter. You will find him on the way to the ball-room,” said the old Marchioness, coldly.

“And Donna Clara?” said Luis, hesitating.

“Her father will inform you,” answered the Marchioness, in the same tone as before.

What these words could mean Luis could not tell, though they seemed to forebode that he would not be as welcome as he hoped; but he could not inquire further, as he had received a strong hint to proceed; bowing, therefore, to the old lady, he looked eagerly among the crowd for Gonçalo Christovaö, to have his doubts removed, but he could nowhere perceive him.

While stopped in his progress by the crowd, a voice, which had once sounded like the sweetest melody to his ear, arrested his attention, and sent a strange thrill, more of pain than pleasure, through his frame; when he beheld before him his cousin Theresa, leaning on the arm of a youth, whose eyes were bent on her as if enchanted with her beauty. He at once recognised the young Marquis of Tavora, whom he recollected in his boyhood; and though, at first, a pang of angry jealousy shot across his bosom, he at once banished the feeling as unworthy of himself, knowing that though, during his absence, the marquis had proved his successful rival, it was owing more to Donna Theresa’s ambition and vanity than to any unfair advantage he had taken. Notwithstanding all the affectionate attentions of her betrothed husband, Donna Theresa’s manner seemed cold and indifferent, and she returned but short replies to his observations; and when she smiled, to Don Luis her smile appeared forced and unnatural. He gazed at the young pair with grief at his heart.

“Alas!” he thought, “that I should have wasted my best feelings on one so incapable of those tender affections which form the chief jewels of the sex. Oh! woman, woman! lovely and angelic as thou appearest, if thy heart has become cold and callous by contact with the world, how valueless, how empty thou art! Unhappy youth!—she loves him not;—I see it in that forced smile, that cold eye,—and yet he seems not to have discovered it—I pity him!”

Such thoughts, very natural to a rejected lover, and very soothing to his vanity, passing through his mind, he was unwilling to address her, and would have passed unnoticed, when her eye caught his regarding her. For a single moment a blush passed across her features, but the next, holding out her hand, with a smile, she led the young marquis towards him; and, to avoid being guilty of marked rudeness, he was obliged to kiss the fair hand she offered.

“What! you seemed to have forgotten me, my good cousin,” she said, in a gay tone, “though I hear you intend honouring me by your presence at my marriage. Ah, you do not remember Don Luis of Tavora. Permit me to introduce my most loving cousin, who has travelled all over the world, I believe; or, at least, to England, and other barbarous countries, where the sun shines only once in the year, and then half the day is obscured by a thick fog, while for six months the ground is covered with snow. Oh, dreadful! I would get rid of such a country altogether: it makes me shiver to think of it, even in this warm room. You have no idea, senhor marquis, how my cousin blinked his eyes when he first came back to clear skies and sunshine, so accustomed had he been to live in the dark.”

While Donna Theresa was thus speaking, the gentlemen exchanged the usual compliments.

“Ah, I am glad to see he has not forgotten how to bow properly, or, I rather suspect, he has picked up the art since his return. I protest that, the first day he came back, he had no notion of bending his body, like the English, who, I hear, are either born with one joint only, and that is in their necks, or else they become stiffened from their forgetting to use them. Now, you are going to defend your friends, but don’t attempt it; I hate them, with their stiff pride and supercilious airs, thinking every people their inferiors who do not possess such good roads and fine horses as themselves. There was one man who came here, an English lord, I forget his dreadful name, but it pained my mouth to attempt to pronounce it, who compared everything he saw with his own country; and, because our habits and manners differed from those to which he was accustomed, he must needs consider ours far less civilised, and took no trouble to conceal his opinion.”

“Though at first rather distant in manner, I was received by many with great cordiality and kindness, and saw much to admire in their manners and institutions,” answered Luis, wishing to protect the character of his friends.

“I know nothing about their institutions,” exclaimed Donna Theresa, in a pettish tone, “but I know their impertinent superciliousness will make them enemies wherever they go—so talk no more about them. By-the-bye, I hear you have been vying in your exploits with that renowned hero Don Quixote, and rescuing distressed damsels from the power of brigands by the strength of your single arm, and with the aid of your faithful squire Pedro. Everybody in Lisbon is prepared to look upon you as a complete Knight Errant. I heard all about it from Donna Clara herself, who speaks warmly in praise of your gallantry, I assure you; and if she does not think you are perfection itself, she thinks you very near it. I believe if anything could make her angry, it would have been my abusing you to her, but, instead of that, it almost made her cry.”

“Where is Donna Clara?” exclaimed Luis, interrupting her eagerly: “I have a packet to deliver to her.”

“You will find her in the ball-room, the admired of all beholders, and of none more so than of the Conde San Vincente, of whose lynx-eyed jealousy beware; and now, as I see that you are anxious to deliver your message, I will not detain you. Farewell, Luis!” she spoke in a softer tone.

“I wronged her,” muttered Luis, as he hastened to the ball-room. “Her heart is not turned to stone. Such dwells not in the female breast.”

As his eye distinguished Donna Clara at the further end of the room, he endeavoured to regulate his pace as etiquette required; but his eagerness impelled him on till he had arrived close to her, when it occurred to him that in his hurry he had not considered how he should address her. She had, however, perceived him, when a richer hue mounted to her cheeks, and her eyes beamed with a brighter light, as she timidly held out her hand. Their eyes met, it was but for a moment; but they there read more than Plato, Aristotle, or all the ancient philosophers ever wrote—at all events what they prized far more. He took that delicate hand, and pressed it with ardour to his lips, and it seemed to inspire him with abundance to say, but yet she was the first to speak.

“Oh! Don Luis, I have been wishing to meet you, to thank you again for your bravery and goodness in rescuing my father and me from the robbers, and for protecting us on our way back. I have often thought of it since—” When Clara had got thus far, she stopped, and wished she had expressed herself differently; besides, she did not know to what it might lead.

Don Luis then thought it high time to speak, to relieve her embarrassment, expressing his happiness at again meeting her, with many inquiries respecting her health, to which she made suitable answers, when he continued—“I have been fortunate in recovering the casket of jewels, the loss of which so much concerned you, and I came hither this evening on purpose to deliver it, not expecting to find a ball going forward.”

“How kind, how thoughtful of you!” she exclaimed, repaying him with a sweet smile. “Do not deliver them now, but come to-morrow morning early, when I am sure my father will join with me in thanking you for all your attention to us, if you will take care of them a little longer.”

“I would not willingly part with aught belonging to Donna Clara;” and Luis bowed, as many other gentlemen were bowing to ladies near him. But there was a look which accompanied that bow, unseen by any but the lady to whom it was made, which caused her heart to beat quicker than usual. Now Luis, when he entered the room, had most certainly not intended to tell Clara that he loved her, nor had he yet done so, because he was not aware of it himself, but he quickly found it out in the course of their conversation, besides discovering that he was not indifferent to her; a circumstance adding considerably to his boldness in speaking.

It may seem extraordinary to some of our readers that Don Luis should have carried on so interesting a conversation with Clara, unheard by any persons who surrounded them; but such was the fact, for lovers quickly learn to lower their voices and restrain their actions, as we have always heard: indeed, a friend of ours, a miserable younger son, once made an arrangement with a young lady of fortune sufficient for them both, to elope with him, while her unconscious mamma was sitting on the other side of the room. The young lady was severely punished for her fault, by the just indignation of her friends, who refused to have any intercourse with her till, by the death of several relations of her husband’s, a coronet was placed on her brow, when their hearts relented towards her, and they thought she had acted very wisely. The moral of this anecdote is, that chaperones must not be too confident because they keep the young ladies near them.

Luis claimed Donna Clara’s hand, and led her forth to dance: they then wandered together through several rooms, where they fancied that they were unobserved. The temptation was very great, and he yielded to it. His words were few and low; but Clara’s ears were quick, and she heard every one of them; for they were such as she would not have lost for worlds. She longed to ask him to repeat them again, but as she could not do that, she told him they made her very happy; for, at that moment, poor girl, she forgot all but the present. She looked up, and beheld the dark eye of the Count glaring at her from among the crowd. In an instant her joy was turned to anguish; and like a thunderbolt, the recollection of her father’s stern decree, and of some dreadful words the friar had once spoken to her, rushed upon her mind.

Luis saw the sudden change in her countenance; but, knowing not the cause, supposed that an illness had seized her, when, forgetful of all his former caution, he exclaimed, “Speak, my beloved, are you ill?”

His agitation was marked by the Count, though his words reached no other ears but hers.

“Oh no, no! Leave me, in mercy,” she answered, her voice trembling with alarm: “I am not ill, but I have acted very wrong; I ought to have told you at once of the lot to which I am destined; but oh! believe me, I forgot it in the joy of seeing you. See, the fierce glance of the Count San Vincente is cast on me. Oh! pardon me, that I must now tell you so, I am condemned to wed that dark man, or to assume the veil.”

A chill weight pressed on Luis’s heart. “Was the bright fabric he had just raised up but a vain illusion?” he asked himself.

Donna Clara was the first to recover herself; she continued, speaking more calmly: “Go now, and confide in me. Yesterday I might have been compelled to accept the Count; but now no earthly power shall make me wed him. The confidence of your love will give me strength to resist all the temptations, and to despise all the threats which are held out to cause me to do that which I knew was wrong, and against which my heart revolted. Come to-morrow, for my father has ever been kind, and he may relent. Tell him openly of our love, and I will beseech him not to sacrifice me to the Count: to you, surely, he can have no objection, and, for very gratitude for what you have done for him, he cannot refuse you.”

The last few sentences were spoken while Luis was conducting her to her seat. Unperceived by either, the Count had followed them at a distance, where he stood watching them among the crowd. Clara looked up into her young lover’s face, and smiled. “Fear not, Luis, we may yet be happy,” she said; but scarcely had she uttered the words, when, as if by some fascination she could not resist, she again beheld from afar the basilisk eyes of the Count glaring on her; but though their glance did not wither her, it at once recalled all her fears and forebodings, and brought clearly to her remembrance her father’s words. Her gentle heart sank within her: she could not allow Luis to leave her with hopes which she felt too truly must inevitably be blighted. “Luis,” she said, “I cannot deceive myself, and I must not deceive you. My doom, I fear, is sealed. My father, I remember, told me, though I scarce noted his words, that his honour was pledged to the Count, that if I did not wed him, I should become the bride of Heaven, for that such was my mother’s dying wish. That I will not wed him, I have assured you, and I know you trust me; the rest is in the hands of Heaven, and in Heaven alone can I confide. Oh! Luis, once again I pray you to leave me. Farewell! for we ought not to meet again.”

Luis saw by her looks that his remaining would agitate and pain her more. “At your bidding, beloved one, I leave you now. I will see your father to-morrow, and urge my claim; he cannot be so cruel as thus barbarously to sacrifice you. Farewell!” Saying which, with grief in his tone and look, he tore himself from her side, and hastily threading his way through the crowd of guests, he rushed from the palace.

Clara remained unconscious of all that was passing around, till the Count and her brother approached her. “Who was the gentleman with whom you have been dancing?” said the latter. “He seemed an intimate acquaintance.”

The tones of her brother’s voice aroused her.

“Don Luis d’Almeida; to whom your gratitude is due for rescuing your father and sister from the power of brigands,” answered Clara, with greater firmness than she could have supposed herself to possess; but her womanly pride was roused at the tone of the question, and at the presence of the Count.

“He seemed to presume, then, too much on the service he was so fortunate to perform, for the Count tells me he was engaged in long and earnest conversation with you, which he does not approve, and would have interrupted, had not the etiquette of society prevented him.”

“The Count was employed in a truly noble occupation,” answered Clara, her gentle spirit excited beyond endurance at the unauthorised interference of the Count and her brother: “nor do I know by what right he claims the privilege of directing my conduct.”

“By that of being your affianced husband, my fair sister; and as his friend, I must guard his interests as well as yours,” said her brother. “He requests your hand for the next dance, and will then better urge his own claims.” Upon this the Count advanced, assuming the softest smile, and in the blandest voice made his request.

Clara shrunk from him, as she answered, “I can dance no more; and I beg the Conde San Vincente will not deceive himself by supposing that any claims he can urge will afford me otherwise than pain.”

“Is this, then, madam, the answer I may expect to-morrow—for which I have waited patiently a whole month?” exclaimed the Count, fiercely.

“Such is the only one I can ever be induced to give,” returned Clara, with firmness. “Though, had not the Conde San Vincente drawn the answer from me now, I should have preferred giving it through my father.”

The Count’s brow lowered, and again that ominous glance shot from his eyes. “I give you till to-morrow to alter your determination, madam,” he whispered, between his closed teeth; “for I was led to expect a very different answer; when, if I find that a rival has influenced it, as you have given me just cause to suspect, remember that his heart’s blood shall pay for his audacity. I will not lose so fair a prize without wreaking my vengeance on him who has ventured to deprive me of it.”

Clara turned pale at these words, which her brother could not hear; and though they increased her horror and hatred of the speaker, she smothered the feeling for the moment, for the sake of one who, from the contrast, was every instant becoming dearer to her. “Oh, no,” she answered, “you have no rival but the Church, which claims me, if I become not your bride; yet, as a man, a noble, and a Christian, do not urge your claim. I can never love you; but surely that is not a crime: and I will never wed where I cannot love, for that would indeed be crime. Then spare me, for my fate is in your power.”

The Count smiled darkly, as he spoke. “You know that I love you, lady, and my love is not a weak, puny passion, to be thrown aside at pleasure; nor will I yield it to any power but the Church, against which even I cannot strive; so do not persuade yourself, that I am, like a boy, to be gained over, by prayers or tears, to do what I should most assuredly repent of. For the present, I yield to your wishes, and leave you; but to-morrow I shall return, and claim the fulfilment of your father’s promise.” The Count, on this, bowed profoundly, and joined her brother, who was standing at some little distance, and to whom he expressed his conviction that he possessed a rival in his sister’s affections in the person of Don Luis d’Almeida, when they together left the palace.

Poor Clara watched their departure with anxiety. What fears does love conjure up in a woman’s breast! She knew her brother’s fiery temper, and dreaded the Count’s vindictive disposition. They might encounter Don Luis; they would quarrel, and he would fall a victim to their anger. She longed to be able to seek Don Luis, and to warn him of his danger; or to have some trusty messenger whom she could send to assist him; but she felt that she was helpless, and so completely did her agitation overcome her, that she was obliged to fly to her own chamber, to give way to her feelings in tears. The old marchioness was excessively angry when she found that the Count had quitted the party, and she could nowhere see Donna Clara. The fidalgo, who had been deeply engaged in a game of cards, knew nothing of his daughter; and when, at last, it was discovered that she had retired to her chamber, which no persuasions could induce her to leave, the old lady grew more sour than ever, and vowed she would never again be guilty of the folly and wickedness of giving a party to please any human beings, as other old ladies have often since done, when their soirées have not gone off as well as they expected. Balls in those days, in Portugal, were very solemn affairs, the stately and sedate cotillon being the only dance allowed, people endeavouring, by outward gravity and decorum, to make amends for universal license and depravity of morals; hoops, bag-wigs, and swords, not increasing any inclination for saltatory amusements. How far better is the graceful and animating waltz, the inspiriting galop, and the conversational quadrille, of the present day, with the really correct behaviour so general in society.

Now, we dare say, some of our readers will accuse us of having again fallen into the errors of romance writers, in describing Donna Clara’s hasty acknowledgment of her love for Don Luis; and, in our defence, we affirm, in the first place, that such was the fact—which ought to be sufficient. And that none may deem her unmaidenly, it must be remembered that she had naturally thought of him every day since they first met, that she had contrasted him with the Count, for whom she had from the first felt a dislike, and that Don Luis proved he had thought of her and her wishes, by recovering her mother’s jewels; besides, he was a very handsome, noble person, and her equal in birth; but, above all, he told her he loved her, and she believed him. Why should she not? More than a month had passed since they first met; and though they had not since personally encountered each other, they had, every day and hour, in spirit; for their love was of that pure essence which neither time nor space can divide, which, born in heaven, outlives decay, and against which neither the powers of the earth, nor the spirits of darkness, can prevail; that heavenly spark which, in an instant kindled, burns brightly for eternity! Love at first sight! We pity the heart-withered worldlings who deem this impossible; who, because the furnace of society has seared and hardened their feelings, laugh and sneer at all the refined and tender sentiments which gentle nature implanted in the bosom of man; though such they truly cannot experience, yet the young and innocent may, and we know, are often thus blessed. We say blessed, for a few moments of such pure ecstasy are of incomparably far greater value than a whole life of apathetic indifference. Those who require confirmation of the truth of our history, we must remind, that Lisbon is considerably to the south of the latitude of Verona, for we firmly believe that a certain William Shakespeare never drew a character not true to life. Now, he tells how, in Verona, the young and ardent Romeo and Juliet loved, and loved so truly, that they died for love; and yet their love in one instant sprung to life, and flourished bright and lovely to the end. Before concluding, we may quote some words spoken by Juliet on their second meeting, and then we think Clara will not be accused of precipitancy:—

Juliet.

“Three

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

How bright and fair are the hopes of youth, like the early flowers of spring; but how soon, alas! do they, too, wither and decay, beneath the first scorching blast of summer. Poor Donna Clara awoke, the morning after the events we have described in the previous chapter, with a weight at her young heart such as she had never before experienced. A short month ago, the world promised naught but happiness, and now every feeling of joy lay crushed and blighted. Old Gertrudes attended her loved mistress with looks of sorrow, while the business of the toilette was proceeding; and no sooner had she dismissed her Abigails, than she urged her to confide to her bosom all the causes of her grief. She was in no way restrained in her abuse of the Count, describing his character very much in its true light; but her observations, far from relieving Clara’s mind, only increased her fears for the safety of Don Luis.

When the old lady heard that her fate was to be settled that very day, her tears flowed fast, as she embraced her affectionately: “I will not have my child torn from me to be shut up in a convent, where I cannot attend on her,” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe my mistress, your lady mother, who has gone to heaven, ever wished you to go into one at all. I never heard her say so, and there’s nobody but the Senhor Confessor who ever did; so I see no reason why you should be forced to do what you do not like. If you were to marry some young fidalgo whom you loved, it would be very different, and all natural; because I might then accompany and take care of you; but this I am determined shall not be, let that stern friar say and do what he will. I don’t care for him; for I know more about him than he is aware of, clever as he thinks himself.”

The old lady had got thus far in her tirade, when a knocking was heard at the door, and the deep voice of Father Alfonzo demanded admittance, which Clara could not refuse. He entered with a slow step, and a solemn look; and after seating himself by the side of the fair girl, ordered Senhor a Gertrudes to withdraw. She looked as if she would very much like to disobey; but there was no help for it. “I have matter of importance to communicate to my young penitent, which no ears but hers must hear;” so the old nurse, casting a warning glance towards Donna Clara, quitted the room.

“My daughter,” began the Friar, “this day you are to make your selection, either to wed the Count or to assume the veil. Now, I would not bias your choice; but I consider it my duty to inform you of certain things which have come to my knowledge, which will have great effect on your future happiness,—but on one condition, that you reveal them to no one; this swear to me, and I will speak them.”

Clara took the oath as the Friar directed; for why should she refuse to do that which her confessor asked?

“Know, then, my daughter, that the man whom your father and brother desire you towed is a dark and blood-stained murderer!” and the friar poured into the ear of the gentle girl a tale of horror, which made her cheek grow pale, and her frame tremble with fear. “But remember,” he continued, “that you have sworn to reveal this tale to no one, not even to your parent, or dearest friend.”

“I will not forget my oath; for my lips could not even utter the dreadful tale,” cried the agitated girl.

“’Tis well, then: you renounce all intention of wedding this Count?” said the Friar.

“Oh yes, yes, I would die sooner!” returned Clara.

“You have a far happier alternative in store for you, my daughter,” said the Friar: “a life of sanctity and devotion; in which you will be free from the cares and troubles of the world; and in the daily communion of pious and humble women, whose every action is guided by religious and learned priests, you will soon forget all the frivolities and vanities of the society you quit.”

“I will submit to the will of Heaven,” answered the gentle Clara, in a faint voice.

“Such a temper is highly commendable, my daughter,” returned the Friar. “You must prepare to enter, in a few days, the holy retreat selected for you, while, in the mean time, I will make arrangements with the Lady Abbess for your reception. I now go to seek your father, to communicate your pious determination.”

“Oh no, let me speak to my father,” cried Clara, eagerly. “I would rather that he should hear from my lips that I cannot wed the Count: he may—” and she hesitated, recollecting herself.

“As you will,” said the Friar, looking at her suspiciously; “but remember your oath, and dread the punishment of Heaven.”

A dreadful doubt crossed her mind: had the Friar any sinister motive for deceiving her?

The Friar rose without again addressing her, and quitted her chamber. He sought the fidalgo, and, notwithstanding Clara’s request, he informed him of her determination. “Your daughter seems bent on disobeying your wishes, senhor,” he said. “Though I have exerted my humble endeavours to persuade her to follow them, and have placed the character of the young Count in as favourable a point of view as possible, she has a foolish and invincible repugnance to him; however, perhaps a father’s persuasions may have more effect than mine; but should you not succeed, be firm, and remember your oath, or dread the vengeance of Heaven!” and the Friar turned aside his head, to hide the dark smile which lighted up his features.

The fidalgo parted from his confessor, and hastened to his daughter’s chamber. Clara had sunk on her knees before the little altar and crucifix on one side of her room, to seek aid from Heaven to support that misery which it seemed cruel man had conspired to cause. She rose as she heard her father’s footsteps approaching: she had not wept, her grief was too bitter, too hopeless, for tears to give relief; and with apparent calmness she met him as he entered. But already had the blight fallen on that fair brow; the soft lustre of her eyes had been extinguished; the rose had fled her cheeks, and no more did the accustomed smile dwell on those sweet lips. The fidalgo could not fail to see the change; but he made no remark: his thoughts were busy with the arrangement on which he had determined. He loved his daughter much, but his pride was dearer to him than aught else, and for that must every consideration be sacrificed: all peace on earth, all hopes of heaven, must bow before that cursed, blood-stained idol of his soul!

“Clara,” he said, as he led her to a seat, “this day the Count will come to receive the answer to his suit. He loves you, my child, for he has often assured me of it. He appears, in every way, such a husband as I should desire for you; and I feel perfectly satisfied with the selection I have made: you will, therefore, I trust, offer no further opposition to my wishes, though Father Alfonzo tells me you have yet some maidenly scruples about accepting one whom you fancy you cannot love.”

“I must not for a moment longer allow you to remain in uncertainty, my father,” cried Donna Clara. “I cannot wed the Count. I dreaded him at first, though, by your desire, I sought to conquer my repugnance; but now—oh! spare me, my father, spare me! retract your stern decree—I never can be his!”

“Is such your firm resolve, Clara?” asked her father. “Remember the alternative.”

“It is, my father; for you know him not!” she exclaimed, as she cast herself kneeling at his feet, while she clasped his hand and gazed into his countenance. “But you will not be so cruel, so unlike yourself, as to compel me to embrace a life for which I have no calling. Father, oh hear me! I love another, fondly, devotedly,—one whom you cannot disapprove,—one who merits your esteem and gratitude. I knew it not before, or I would have told you; I knew not that he loved me; but now that I feel assured of his love, I would not wed another to gain the crown of Portugal! Frown not thus on your child, my father; I have not loved unworthily; he is noble, brave, and good,—he will himself come to urge his suit.”

“Who is the person who has dared to win my daughter’s affections without my permission?” exclaimed the Fidalgo, interrupting her. “Speak, child!”

“Don Luis d’Almeida,” answered Clara, firmly.

“Clara, you have deceived me,” said her father. “Has this conduct been worthy of a high-born maiden, to receive the addresses of one, whoever he may be, without your father’s permission? But the crime will bring its own punishment. Yet how can it be so? You could have seen him but once, and how know you that he loves you?”

“I saw him again, here, on the evening when he came to tell me that he had recovered the casket with my mother’s jewels; and he promised to return this morning to deliver them,” said Clara.

“I will receive him, and thank him for his courtesy,” returned the Fidalgo, coldly. “I have nothing for which to blame him; and, under other circumstances, I might have consented to his suit, though his poverty is an objection. But it is now too late; my honour is pledged to the Count, and I must fulfil my contract, provided he is worthy of you; nor has he given me any cause to suppose to the contrary.”

A gleam of hope shot across the bosom of his daughter, as she exclaimed, “Oh! my father, he is,”—but, like the dark thunder cloud, the remembrance of her oath again rushed on her mind, and obscured the feeling.

At that moment one of her attendants entered, to announce that the Count was waiting below.

“Once more, Clara, I ask you, will you receive the Count?” demanded the Fidalgo, sternly.

“Father, I cannot!” gasped forth his unhappy child. “At least, spare me the horror of meeting him. In everything else I will obey you, but in this I cannot. I will sacrifice all my hopes in life to save your honour; I will give up the world, and the happiness I thought to find in it. I will quit life itself, and oh, gladly! but I cannot wed the Count.”

“Clara, you have chosen your lot,” exclaimed the Fidalgo, raising her, and placing her on a seat, when he moved towards the door. “I will dismiss the Count at your desire, but I have one only course to pursue, which you have already consented to follow. Prepare to quit me for ever!”

With these words the proud fidalgo left his gentle daughter.

The Conde San Vincente was furious when he heard from Gonçalo Christovaö that his suit was finally rejected, and he demanded that the fidalgo should fulfil his promise in consigning his daughter to a convent, rather than that any other should gain the prize which was not to be his. He concealed, however, the fierce rage which burnt within his bosom at the disappointment of his wishes, and with a show of haughty courtesy took his leave of the fidalgo.

Clara anxiously waited all day, in the hopes of hearing that Don Luis had called, and of receiving the casket he had promised to bring. She knew it was wrong to wish it; but she trusted that Gertrudes would contrive to enable her to meet him; but the day passed away, and she heard not of him, nor could her nurse gain her any information.

We cannot dwell on her grief and wretchedness. Poor girl! she was but one of the many victims to pride, bigotry, and designing hypocrisy. Several days passed away, the friar visiting her constantly, and dwelling strongly on her mother’s dying vow, when she had devoted her to the Church; so that, heart-broken and despairing, she agreed to obey her father’s commands.

Yet, young and innocent as she was, and free from all sort of guile herself, there was something in the manner and the conversation of the friar which raised horrid doubts in her mind as to the purity of his motives. He did not shock her ear by a word which could be repeated to his discredit; he did not propose aught unbecoming her maiden modesty to listen to, but he insinuated that a conventual life was not of that ascetic nature she had supposed; that pleasures, of which custom forbade the enjoyment in society, might be tasted within the precincts of those seemingly gloomy walls; and that the fair brides of Heaven were not entirely secluded from all intercourse with lovers of a more earthly mould.

Though she could not understand his discourse, for a virtuous and youthful mind cannot comprehend the extent of villainy of which man is capable, yet how gladly would she have escaped from the life to which she was doomed! But she had promised her father to enter it, and he insisted on her fulfilling that promise; for he believed the Count upright and honourable; yet a word from her would convince him of the contrary—would show him that he had been vilely imposed on; and, by his own acknowledgment, he would yield to her wishes, and she might be happy with the man she loved: but that word her oath forbade her to pronounce. She knew the Count to be a murderer and a dark ruffian, but she could not breathe this knowledge into mortal ear, though her own happiness or life depended on it: hers was indeed a cruel fate.

Her father kept much aloof from her; for he could not bear to meet the eye of his child. He, too, looked pale and wretched; for there was a worm at his heart gnawing at his more tender affections, which his pride endeavoured in vain to crush. Her brother never came near her; he chose to be offended at her rejection of his friend, and when the old marchioness saw her, she scolded her half the time for refusing the Count, and the rest she spent in praising the holiness and pure joys of a conventual existence. Poor Gertrudes was most completely at fault: she had trusted too much to her sagacity and acuteness, and had been foiled at every point; so she spent the day and the greater part of the night in weeping by the side of her young mistress.

At length the day arrived on which Clara was to quit her father’s care, and to take up her abode within the walls of the convent.

The convent selected for her was that of Santa Clara, her patron saint, the abbess of which was a relative of Father Alfonzo, a woman of noble family, and many connexions among the high dignitaries of the Church, by whose exertions she had been raised to her present dignity, more than by any peculiar claims to sanctity which she could boast of. In early youth she had been very beautiful; indeed she yet retained many of her former attractions, still having a right to claim the privilege of being considered young. She had assumed the veil from conviction certainly, but it was from the conviction that it would free her from the restraint and formality of a home governed by an austere father, and a bigoted, tyrannical mother; it was also a sure way to save a fame against which the breath of scandal had dared to whisper. Nor was she disappointed in the liberty she expected to enjoy; a devoted admirer she possessed before she entered, having no occasion to die of grief at her loss.

Such was the Mother superior to whose spiritual direction a young and innocent girl was to be confided. Accompanied by the father confessor and the old marchioness, Clara was driven to the convent. On one side of the building stood the church, an edifice of magnificent proportions, elegant architecture, and richly ornamented. The convent itself formed the corner of a square; the high walls of the garden belonging to it making up the remainder.

In front of the great entrance was a courtyard, into which the carriage drove; when, the gates being thrown open, the almost fainting girl was led within her prison walls, and conducted to the community room, where the Mother superior and several of the professed nuns were waiting to receive their new sister, of whose coming they had been forewarned. They received the old marchioness and her young charge with every sign of respect, conducting them to seats, and placing themselves in a row before them, while Father Alfonzo carried on a rapid conversation with the sisters, answering a variety of questions regarding the events which were occurring in the city; any fresh piece of scandal, or witty story, affording great amusement to the assembled party.

At length, the more immediate object of the visit was referred to. “I fear me that our new sister and namesake of our holy patroness is alarmed at finding herself among so many strangers,” said the Abbess; “but we will soon teach her to forget the vanities of the world she is about to quit, in the contemplation of the sacred mysteries of our religion.” A faint smile crossed the features of the Abbess as she spoke.

Poor Clara was too full of grief to answer, her struggling tears choking her utterance; but she felt that she was sacrificing herself at the shrine of filial obedience, and she endeavoured to find composure in the thought. She had recovered sufficiently to bid farewell with tolerable propriety to the old marchioness, who, after some further conversation, retired, accompanied by the friar, and she was left alone with those who were destined to be her future companions while life lasted, a period which she prayed and felt might be short. The sisters crowded round her, and assured her that she would be very happy, endeavouring by every means in their power to cheer her drooping spirits; but their efforts were ineffectual, for there was that sickness at her heart which death alone could end. They led her unresistingly over the building, showing her their cells, which were fitted up with more taste and luxury than could have been expected; then to the novices’ apartments, where she was to take up her residence, till, at the end of the year, her profession was made, and she had assumed the black veil, the sign of her irrevocable vow. As they approached that part of the building, ringing peals of laughter broke on her ear, and she was welcomed by a crowd of young and smiling faces, who seemed little oppressed by gloom or despondency. After being introduced to them, she was conducted through the chapel and choir, and from thence to partake of some refreshment in the refectory; but she turned aside her head with loathing at the very thought of food; and the sisters, seeing that their endeavours to amuse her were vain, showed her the apartment allotted to her as a postulant of the order, and left her to her own reflections.

With her, religion was more of the spirit and principle, than of doctrine, or from education; and she ever flew to her Creator, to offer up thanksgivings for blessings, and for strength to bear afflictions, though till now she had scarce known them.

The evening sun was streaming through the open casement, throwing a bright refulgence around her seraphic countenance, as, with her hands clasped, she knelt before the altar which adorned her chamber, pouring out her soul in prayer, and beseeching forgiveness for her transgressions.

According to the custom of the order, it was some weeks before the new postulant was required to keep strictly the rules of the noviciate; during which time she was expected to become familiarised to the routine of the day, the different forms to be observed, and the duties of the choir; but everything was carefully avoided that could in any way annoy the young novice, or give her cause to be disgusted with her future life. The character of the innocent Clara was at once read by the Lady Abbess; indeed, Father Alfonzo had described it to her as he understood it, so that the secrets of the prison-house were with vigilant care excluded from her view.

Now Heaven forgive us, if we have the slightest thought of easting unjust odium on institutions now happily banished from the greater part of Europe, nor can we do aught but praise that admirable society of the Soeurs de Charité, founded on those great principles which the impersonification of Love and Charity taught to mankind,—a society worthy to have been planned in the gentle breast of woman, the very essence of all that is lovely and tender in human nature,—like an angel of light to a spirit of darkness, when contrasted with the foul and terrible Inquisition,—and blessed must they be who belong to it.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

We have just discovered that we have been committing a very grave error during the previous part of this work, in writing very long chapters, but it is one which we have resolved forthwith to avoid, and can fortunately do so far more easily than most others into which we are apt to fall. We always ourselves object to long chapters, because subjects and events are too much confused by being run together in them, and as we suspect that most of our fair readers dislike them, we would not willingly tire out their patience.

When Don Luis quitted the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, he hastened homeward, his heart throbbing with deeper and more ardent love than he had ever felt for Donna Theresa, but far more full, also, of anxious doubts and fears.

On entering the house, he found Captain Pinto awaiting his return. His friend gazed at him for a moment, and then broke forth into a fit of laughter. Now, Captain Pinto was a very amiable, kind-hearted man; but, as Burke observes, that as we constantly dwell on the misfortunes and miseries of our fellow-creatures, we must consequently take a pleasure in contemplating them, so he seemed to find much amusement in the forlorn appearance of the young fidalgo.

“What! has another fair lady been unkind? have Cupid’s shafts again struck the wrong object?” he exclaimed, as Luis threw himself into a seat. “Come, rouse up, my friend; ’tis the fortune of war we are all exposed to, so you must try once more, and the third will be the successful shot, depend on it. I dare say this fair Dulcinea del Toboso, whom your lance so gallantly rescued from the power of the brigands, was, after all, not worthy of your devoted affections. You saw her but once, I think; and I will answer for it no woman has power in that time to cause a man a moment’s uneasiness, if he will but think of her calmly and dispassionately.”

“In mercy cease your bantering, my good friend,” exclaimed Luis; “you mistake altogether the case. I love, and, I am proud to say, am beloved in return by the most charming of her sex; but she has been betrothed, against her will, to another, or the alternative is offered her of entering a convent; and I fear her father is a man of that inflexible temper, that nothing will make him alter his determination.”

“What! the thrice-told tale again?” said the Captain, still smiling: “it sounds badly. If she is to marry somebody else, ’tis plain you cannot have her; and if she is to be shut up in a convent, she is equally lost to a man of your honour.”

“But I cannot, I will not allow her to be sacrificed,” exclaimed Luis, vehemently. “Can you not advise me, my friend?”

“I never even heard of the lady till to-day,” answered Captain Pinto, “so I cannot pretend to say; but, from my knowledge of women in general, dear charming creatures as they are, I should advise you to fall in love with somebody else, and I dare say the lady will soon recover also from her fit: they generally do.”

“You know not what love is, when you speak thus,” cried Luis. “I see that you are in no humour to enter into my feelings, so I will not trouble you with them. I must wait till to-morrow to see her father, and beseech him to favour my suit.”

“The wisest plan you can pursue; and if your fortune is larger than your rival’s, the chances are that you are successful; if not, I can give you but small hopes. He, of course, is an affectionate father, and considers his daughter’s happiness—of which he must be a better judge than she can possibly be—depends upon the settlement each candidate has to offer. However, in the mean time, come with me to pay our promised visit to Senhor Mendez, as he will be expecting us.”

In those days people met in society at a very early hour, considerably before the present dinner-time in England, so that the night was not far advanced when Luis and his friend again left the house, having, fortunately, taken the precaution of ordering Pedro to accompany them with a torch, and well armed in case of being attacked. Just as the door was carefully closed behind them by old Lucas, Luis observed some dark figures, wrapped in cloaks, standing on the opposite side of the street; but, supposing them to be casual passers by, he took no further notice of them, nor did they make any advance towards his party. We have before described the disordered state of the streets in Lisbon; for, though there were some military police, they committed more robberies than they prevented, stopping every single passenger to beg of him, and, if they were refused, they seldom failed to take what they required by force. Our friends, however, promised, by their appearance, to make too strong a resistance, to tempt either their attacks, or those of the professional marauders who were abroad; though had they encountered any party of the young nobles who delighted to perambulate the streets in search of adventures, they might have been insulted, to draw them into a conflict; their chief danger, therefore, was from the unsavoury showers which fell, at very frequent intervals, from the windows of the houses, and from the troops of fierce gaunt dogs who howled at them, as, in passing, they disturbed them from their loathsome repast. Rats, also, of enormous size, would constantly cross their path, seemingly in good fellowship with the dogs, and perfectly fearless of the human beings: woe to the unfortunate wretch who should fall, faint or wounded, on the ground!—he would instantly fall a prey to these savage vermin.

The way to the house where they expected to find Senhor Mendez was long, and, as may, from the above description, be supposed, by no means agreeable; nor were they able to hold much conversation, from the necessity both of picking their path, and of keeping on the watch against any sudden attack either from man or beast.

“I must warn you,” said Captain Pinto, as they approached the house, “that our friend is still suffering from illness: his wounds were more severe than we suspected, and I much fear his days on earth are numbered.”

There were many questions, much unbarring and drawing of bolts, before the people inside the house would open the door to Captain Pinto’s summons; for the Portuguese will allow a person to run the chance of being murdered, or to stand shivering in a shower of rain, till they can assure themselves of his name and quality, as we have found to our cost. At length an old lady appeared, with a maid-servant behind her, holding a candle, and, after they had entered, again carefully closed the door. She shook her head, in answer to the captain’s inquiries for her guest. “He is very bad, very bad, indeed,” she said. “I fear he must soon be sacramentado, or he will depart without the consolations of religion.”

When a person is given over by the doctors, a priest is summoned from the nearest church, who comes bearing the holy sacrament under a canopy, accompanied by choristers, and a person ringing a bell, who loudly chant at the door of the room in which the person is dying, or supposed to be so; the very noise and ceremony, however, frequently contributing to extinguish the flickering spark of life. The old lady, desiring Pedro to sit down in the passage to chew the cud of reflection till her return, in which he seemed much inclined to draw her young attendant to aid him, led the captain and Luis upstairs, and, opening a door, announced their arrival to her invalid guest.

Senhor Mendez raised himself from his couch, and gazed anxiously at Luis, as he entered. “This is kind of you, though what I expected you would do, my young friend,” he said, faintly, “when you were told of my illness. Words of thanks to you, Captain Pinto, are valueless, when compared to what I owe you.”

Don Luis expressed his sincere regret at finding him yet so far from recovered. He smiled faintly as he answered, “I fear it is the nearest approach I shall make to recovery in this world, yet the great hope of reviving in a far purer existence sustains my oft drooping spirits; but I fain would tarry longer here, for I have much to do which I would not willingly leave undone. Captain Pinto is my executor, it may, perchance, be but of a pauper’s fortune, and at present I owe everything to him. He, like the good Samaritan whom the priests tell us of, has sheltered and fed the houseless and poverty-stricken wanderer. Remember my words, Don Luis, for they are not spoken idly. Truly does he follow the first great rule of charity; and, though it has become a principle of his existence, I am not the less thankful to him.”

“Do not speak thus of me, my friend,” interrupted the generous sailor. “I am but acting towards you as you would have done by me.”

Luis, with much hesitation, begged to be allowed to afford his aid, if possible.

“I feel confident that you would,” returned Senhor Mendez. “But Captain Pinto acts the part of a brother towards me, and what is of nearer kindred? so that I cannot deprive him of the privilege he claims.”

Their conversation was long and interesting. The sick man made minute inquiries respecting the Count d’Almeida, and seemed grieved on hearing that he would not return to Lisbon. He advised Luis to cultivate the friendship of the Minister, and spoke with a tone of satisfaction, on hearing that he had offered to befriend him. He warned him not to fall into the vices of the fidalgos, and to shun their bigotry, and overbearing, illiberal conduct. Indeed, he showed himself to be a person far in advance of the generality of his countrymen with regard to his opinions. He informed Luis, also, that he was in daily expectation of receiving accounts from England of the safety of the fortune he had transmitted there from India. The conversation seemed to have revived him; and when Luis, having promised again to call on him, quitted him with the captain, they both felt stronger hopes of his recovery than when they first entered.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

We must now follow the Count San Vincente, and his gay and thoughtless friend, whom the former hurried away from the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda.

“This conduct of your sister’s will drive me mad, Gonçalo!” exclaimed the Count, as soon as they were in the street. “Her coldness I could have borne; but to see her receiving, with satisfaction, the addresses of another, is unbearable; but I will punish the youth who has had the temerity to rival me. Let us follow him; he is, probably, alone; and, armed but with his dress-sword, we can make short work of the affair.”

“I do not understand you. I cannot seek a quarrel with Don Luis; for he has been of infinite service to my father and sister.”

“Boyish scruples!” interrupted the Count, fiercely. “Let us set upon him at once, as men, and punish him for his audacity, in addressing your sister without your permission.”

“Can a friend of mine make such a proposition to me?” exclaimed Gonçalo. “We must have mistaken each other strangely. I have been wild and careless, but I have not become a midnight assassin.”

“Your pardon,—I was but joking,” said the Count. “I thought we might fall in with this Don Luis, and enjoy a little small-sword play; for I confess I have a longing to pink him; but you may stand aloof, and see fair play.”

“I have already said, I feel no inclination to force into a quarrel one who has never offended me: if he seeks it, I shall be ready for him. I must, therefore, decline accompanying you.”

“Well, well, I will give up my point. He is not likely to be successful with your sister; so it little matters; though at first I felt annoyed, I confess, at his presumption. Come along with me, for I expect some friends at supper, who will help us to pass the night gaily; and we may then sally forth in search of adventures.”

They were now near the count’s palace; and Gonçalo making no opposition to his proposal, the former led him in, where they found a large party of dissipated young men awaiting their arrival. The count excusing himself for a few minutes, left his friend among them, while he repaired to his own chamber; there casting off the gayer part of his costume, he threw a cloak over his person, and selected a stouter sword than the one he laid aside, which he concealed beneath it. He then again issued into the street; and, walking rapidly along a narrow lane, he knocked at the door of a low, shabby house, but a short distance from his own princely palace.

“Who is there?” said a voice. “’Tis late, and all honest people ought to be in bed.”

The Count gave a cant watchword in reply. “’Tis I.”

A laugh was the answer; and, the door being unbolted, the dark figure of the bravo we described at the inn on the road to Coimbra presented itself.

“You are welcome, Senhor Conde,” said the ruffian, as the count entered, and he bolted the door behind him. “’Tis long since I have had the honour of seeing your Excellency. Have you any work for me?”

This was said in a low, miserable room, into which the count descended, by two or three steps, directly from the street. The floor was of clay, beaten hard; the walls unplastered, and the roof seeming as if inclined to fall in from above. There was a recess, with a wretched pallet-bed in it, and another of the same sort was outside. In one corner, an old woman was seated on a low stool, cooking some mess, odoriferous of garlic, over a small clay stove, lighted with charcoal; but she rose not, nor gave any sign of intelligence at the appearance of a stranger. The count looked towards her, without answering the question.

“Do not fear her,” said the man, observing his doubt; “she is only my mother, and she is so deaf that she cannot hear a word, and so foolish that she could not understand it if she did. Do you require anything of me, senhor?” he again asked.

“I should not seek you without a cause,” said the Count. “Do you know Don Luis d’Almeida?—though why do I ask?—you ought to know every gentleman, in case your services are required against them, or by them.”

The man looked at him, as much as to say, “My services may be required against you some day; and I would as willingly plunge my dagger into your bosom, but that I should lose an employer. Know him?” he exclaimed. “Curses on him! I know him well, and would—”

Then, recollecting that by showing any personal interest, he might lower the value of the service he well knew he was expected to perform, he added, “Yes, senhor, I know his person, I believe. What do you wish to have done respecting him? Remember, the times are bad; for the Minister has apprehended and hung some of my friends lately; so the price of any such work as you fidalgos require of us poor men is rising.”

“This is work which will give you little trouble, but it must be done quickly,” said the Count. “Go, take two or three of your companions; select whom you please; but my name must not be known. Watch the palace of the Conde d’Almeida, and you will meet Don Luis, either entering or coming out; for I just now parted from him. Strike him the moment you see him; and take care your dagger does not fail in its work. Inform me when your work is done, and I promise you thirty crowns for yourself, and ten for each of your companions. Will that satisfy you?”

“It is but little, your Excellency, considering the danger I run; for all the work falls upon my shoulders.”

“Well, I will add ten more, provided it is done to-night,” said the Count. “I can no longer delay. Beware you fail me not!”

With these words the count took his departure, perfectly satisfied with the arrangement he had made, and joined his companions at their revels, though, during the feast, he waited, with an anxious look, to hear tidings of the deed having been performed. The young Gonçalo, unsuspicious of the dark vengeance his friend meditated against Luis, and which he would have been the first to prevent, was the gayest of the party, rallying the master of the feast on his gloom and taciturnity, ascribing it entirely to the ill-success with which his advances had been received by his sister.

After leaving the abode of Senhor Mendez, Luis and his friend, who had promised to remain with him, accompanied by Pedro, as their body-guard, made the best of their way towards home, running the gauntlet of the many dangers to be encountered, without suffering from any of them. As they were within sight of the palace, Luis again observed several figures in the same position as before; and this time he pointed them out to Captain Pinto.

“We will keep out of their way,” said his friend, “and we can then give them no cause to insult us; for, depend upon it, they are there for no good purpose, probably on the watch to rob or murder some unfortunate wretch. I am very happy to fight at times, but have no fancy for these night brawls.”

As he spoke, the group moved towards them, and a figure, emerging from among them, advanced close to them, evidently endeavouring to distinguish their features.

“Don Luis d’Almeida, a friend wishes to speak with you,” said the person.

“You must seek him elsewhere, my friend,” answered the Captain, preventing Luis from speaking. “Pardon us, we are in a hurry, and would pass on.”

The man appeared satisfied, and rejoined his companions, who were about to move away, when they observed our friends stop at the door of the palace, where the captain gave a loud summons. The strangers held a moment’s consultation together, and were about again to advance towards them, when the captain, drawing his sword, ordered them to keep their distance; and while they hesitated, old Lucas, more agile than usual, had opened the door, allowing his master and his companions to enter, when the robbers, for such they appeared, retired.

The incident gave a subject of conversation to the friends before they retired to their beds, and the captain was the first to discover the real clue to the proceedings of the strangers. “You say the Conde San Vincente is a suitor of Donna Clara’s, and that he observed you speaking to her at the palace of the Marchioness de Corcunda this evening; then, depend upon it, he was either among those gentlemen, or had deputed them to attack you, which they would most undoubtedly have done, had you been alone. I have heard of some of his deeds, and his character is better known than he is aware of.”

“Now you give me the idea,” said Luis, “I feel confident that I have before heard the voice of that man who spoke to us;—yes, he is one of the brigands who robbed Gonçalo Christovaö in the forest, and afterwards attacked me at the inn, when he swore to avenge the loss of a brother, of whose just death I was the instrument.”

“Then I must most earnestly entreat you not to venture out alone, or you are certain to fall a victim either to his revenge, or to that of the count, who has, very probably, employed him to murder you. Do not think that it will exhibit want of courage to take every precaution, for so daring have these ruffians become, that scarcely a night passes without some dreadful murder, and I should deeply grieve to find you among the number of sufferers; therefore, as an old friend, I must make you promise to run no greater risk than you can possibly avoid.”

Luis promised faithfully to follow the gallant sailor’s advice; and it was fortunate for him that he did so, for in vain did the assassin, Rodrigo, watch night after night to find him alone. The following morning, he repaired, at an early hour, to call on Gonçalo Christovaö, his heart beating with doubts and fears as to the success of his petition. He carried the casket of jewels to restore to Donna Clara, but, on searching for the letter to her father, he could nowhere discover it. After turning over every article of his baggage, aided by Pedro, he was at last obliged to set forward without it, trusting, however, to have frequent opportunities of delivering it. The fidalgo received him with stately politeness, pouring forth torrents of expressions of gratitude for the service he had afforded him; but when Luis mentioned the chief object of his visit, he at first looked confounded with astonishment, assuring him that he had never before heard of a young noble venturing to win a young lady’s affections without having first applied to the father for leave to do so; such conduct was excusable only in low-born plebeians, whose marriages were of no importance; that he had, however, no objections to him, except from his want of fortune, which was an insurmountable one; that his daughter could never wed without his leave, and that she was engaged to another gentleman.

This answer, though very polite, was a most discouraging one, as most of our readers will agree; but, at the same time, there was that buoyant nature in the composition of Luis, which made him hope where others would have despaired, though he certainly could not see very clearly on what grounds to found those hopes; indeed, he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that they arose far more from the feelings, than from the judgment.

The fidalgo made a great many more very polite speeches, assuring him that his house, and everything he possessed, was at his service, except his daughter; that he would forgive his falling in love with her, provided he made no further attempts to see her, and that the trouble he had taken to recover the casket, raised him, if possible, even higher in his opinion than before; indeed, there was nobody he more admired in the world; but that he must banish all thoughts of Clara from his mind. We only quote a part of the substance of the harangue, which was very long, and filled with the most courteous and elegant flourishes; indeed, it is extraordinary how very polite people are when they feel confident that they are saying the most disagreeable things in the world.

Luis listened in silence, and answered only by bows, evading carefully every promise the fidalgo endeavoured to draw from him, not to see Clara again, determining to win her, if he possibly could; for the feelings of what is now, in ridicule, called romantic chivalry, which animated him, rebelled against the thoughts of her being compelled to marry a man she hated; and he was persuaded that every principle of honour and duty called on him to prevent the sacrifice, at every risk to himself, and even in direct opposition to the unjust commands of her proud father.

The fidalgo positively refused the earnest request of Luis, to be permitted to see Clara, even to take a last farewell; nor would he undertake to bear any message to her: indeed, as our readers already know, she was led to suppose that he had not called, nor did even Senhora Gertrudes discover the truth.

At length he was obliged to rise to take his departure, when the fidalgo redoubled his politeness, again thanking him for the casket of jewels, bowing him out, not only out of the room, but down stairs, through the hall, and into the very street, so that he had no opportunity of sending to inform Senhora Gertrudes that he was there, which he had some thoughts of doing.

Don Luis made many endeavours to see Donna Clara, or to communicate with her, but they were all alike fruitless, the fidalgo, the marchioness, and the priest, keeping so very strict a watch; though, had it not been for the latter, he would probably have been successful. At length he wrote a letter, which he had every hope would reach her, couched in the most respectful terms, but every line breathing the tenderest and most devoted affection. Day after day he waited for an answer, but it came not; the priest had been too vigilant: his was the only eye which saw the letter, and it served him as a copy for the next he had occasion to write.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

More than a week passed away; it was now within three days of the end of October, when Luis had repaired to a neighbouring church, to hear morning mass, and was kneeling on one side of the aisle, attending to the ceremonies going forward; he heard his name pronounced close to him, by a female, in the attitude of devotion, shrouded in the black mantelha, or hooded cloak, then worn by even the very highest classes, at mass. The female turned her head as he looked round, when he recognised the features of Senhora Gertrudes, which gave him more satisfaction than if they had been those of the fairest lady in the land, her young mistress excepted. The old lady sidled up to him, when she whispered, looking, we cannot help acknowledging, as if she was deeply engaged in her devotions all the time—

“Oh, Senhor Don Luis, I am so glad to see you! for I have been trying everywhere to meet you, without success; for that horrid Padre Alfonzo kept so strict a watch on me, that I could not venture to your house. Oh, senhor! they have stolen away my dear child, and they have carried her to a convent, where they have shut her up, and will never let her out again; the cruel, wicked wretches! All the world has conspired against us; and even my old master, whom, till now, I always looked upon as an angel, has grown as bad as the rest, and now I have only got you to depend on. There is my young lady breaking her heart about you, and no one whom she cares about to comfort her.”

This news electrified Don Luis. “To what convent has Donna Clara been conveyed?” he exclaimed, eagerly. “’Twill be a consolation to know where she is.”

“To that of Santa Clara, senhor,” answered Senhora Gertrudes; “and if you will write a short little note to her, I know it will be a consolation to her. There can be no harm in a little note, I’m sure; and I will take care that she receives it.”

Luis agreed with her that there could be no possible impropriety in his writing, and promised to do so.

“There is to be mass again here to-morrow, when I will meet you, senhor, and I will carry your note, for I shall be able to gain permission, I hope, to visit my dear young mistress. She will not be obliged to take her first vows for some time to come, and after that there will be a whole year before she can profess; so that, in the mean time, something may happen to release her; so do not be cast down, senhor, as I told her, sweet child, to comfort her, though Heaven alone knows what chance she has of happiness.”

The service being concluded, Luis and the old nurse parted, he hastening home to employ himself in composing an epistle to Clara, which, instead of being the very little note the good Gertrudes recommended, swelled by degrees into several sheets, as the thoughts crowded on his mind, though, after all, they resolved themselves into two or three points,—his devotion, his wretchedness, and his hopes; for it was not his nature to despair; besides, he felt assured that his love was returned, and, with that proud consciousness, how could he cease to cherish hope?

We deem that man unworthy of a woman’s affection whom the consciousness of possessing it does not raise above all fears, and give hopes of ultimately conquering all difficulties in his path. Such was the effect on the mind of Luis, and he determined that nothing should dispirit him till the fatal veil had, like the dark tomb, separated her from him for ever; then he felt that to him death would indeed be welcome.

He had just concluded his letter, forgetful of how the hours had flown by; his dinner had remained almost untasted; the grateful siesta was not thought of, and the shades of evening had already closed in the day, when Captain Pinto entered his room to remind him that they had on that night agreed to visit Senhor Mendez.

It must be recollected that those were not the days (at all events, in Portugal) of double hot-pressed glossy Bath paper, over which the pen glides with the rapidity of the skate on the virgin ice, which will account for the time he occupied in the employment; besides, he felt a pleasure in prolonging it to the utmost; yet, he was as delighted on completing it as we shall be when we write finis to this compilation, though he was not perfectly satisfied with it, and thought he could have written a better, as will probably be our feeling also.

As before, they were accompanied by Pedro with a torch, and were happy at finding their friend slightly recovered, though still unable to quit his couch. Senhor Mendez turned the conversation on points in which he considered that he could offer advice to Luis. He warned him particularly to beware of the Jesuits, whom he designated as crafty and deceitful men, ambitious alone of increasing the power of their order at the expense of their fellow-creatures, whom, in furtherance of this aim, they kept bound in the chains of ignorance and superstition; and that they were, so far, more dangerous than the other monastic orders, from their very superiority of education and intellect, and from their freedom from those gross vices which stained the character of the rest.

The advice, perhaps, might have been of service to Luis, for he had purposed, on the following day, to pay a visit to his cousin Father Jacinto, whom he had not seen since his return to Lisbon. Senhor Mendez then drew him to speak of himself, and of his love for Donna Clara, his eye flashing with indignation, when he heard of the chief reasons her father had deigned to advance for rejecting his offer.

“O pride and ambition!” he cried, “what banes are they to social intercourse! So this haughty patrician would rather consign his child to splendid misery in the arms of a man she abhors, leading her too probably to vice and disgrace, or would immure her within the profane walls of a convent, than see her wedded to one she loves, because his fortune does not equal what he, in his vanity, considers necessary to support her in grandeur equal to her rank. Mark me,” he continued, “do not for a moment suppose that I would advocate unequal alliances, where the family on one side would despise the other, such can seldom fail of bringing misery to both; but I do say, where Heaven has joined two hearts in one, parents draw an awful responsibility on their own heads in venturing to separate them.”

We must not longer delay, by giving the further observations Senhor Mendez made, as we have subjects to relate which will afford far more interest to our readers; and we might also run the risk of having our book banished from the library as a work full of pestiferous and dangerous tenets, which would cause us infinite pain, conscious, as we feel ourselves, of the rectitude of our intentions in transcribing what we find before us.

The course Luis and his friend took homeward led them near the residence of the Conde San Vincente, in which neighbourhood they were, Pedro being in advance with the torch, when they encountered a party who woke the night air with their bacchanalian songs, and seemed little inclined either to move out of their way, or to allow them to pass. The torch was immediately knocked out of the grasp of Pedro, who forthwith dealt the perpetrator of the act a severe blow with a cudgel he carried.

“Wretched villain!” exclaimed a young man, by the tone of his voice evidently suffering from the effects of wine, “how dare you to lift your hand against a fidalgo? you shall die the death for your audacity,” and, drawing his sword, he was about to run Pedro through the body, had not the captain and Luis, unsheathing their weapons, also sprung forward to rescue him.

“A skirmish, a skirmish!” cried several voices, and the whole of the opposite party rushed forward to attack them.

“Nought but the blood of my foe can wash out the insult I have received,” exclaimed the young man, who had been the cause of the fray, setting furiously on Luis, in the blindness of intoxication, not observing to whom he was opposed.

“Ah, you have a sword, too, as well as a stick; then, I conclude you are a gentleman, and fit to engage with—no matter—here’s at you!” He, however, was a good swordsman, nor could Luis disarm him, as he wished to do, seeing his state, pressed closely, as he was also by his companions, the Captain and Pedro being abundantly occupied in keeping the rest at bay.

The young man, as we have said, rushed upon Luis, utterly regardless of his own person, becoming, every pass in which he was foiled, more and more daring; and still firmly retaining his sword. At length, Luis grew weary of his attacks, and, perhaps, less cautious not to injure him, when the young man, endeavouring to rush in on him, the former could not draw back in time, his sword passing through his side, and, with a sharp cry, he fell to the ground. The rage of his companions seemed increased by the accident, when Captain Pinto, seeing what had occurred, shouted out—“Beware, cavaliers, this may afford amusement to you, but I am a peaceable man, and do not like fighting, so take warning from the fate of your companion, and draw off, or by heavens, I will run two or three of you through the body, to heighten your pleasure.”

This warning, uttered in a determined voice, seemed to have some effect on the obfuscated intellects of the party of debauchees, particularly as the speaker had disarmed two of them, who fell back for support among their companions, by whom, in mistake, they were very nearly run through the body. A few slight scratches had been received by the assailants, which appeared to satisfy them with fighting, and they were retreating, forgetful of their wounded friend, when Luis sprung forward to aid him. What was his horror, when, on Pedro recovering his torch, which had remained burning on the ground, and bringing it to the spot, he beheld in the features of his fallen antagonist those of the young Gonçalo, the brother of Clara.

He was senseless, Luis trusted, more from the fall, or from intoxication, than from the effects of his wound; for he still breathed heavily, although blood flowed freely from his side. As he was about to raise him, some of his companions appeared to have recollected his disaster; and returning, without apparently noticing Luis and his friends, they lifted him amongst them from the ground, and, with staggering steps, bore him along, not uttering a word during the time, till they were nearly out of sight.

Luis was in doubts whether he ought not to follow, to see that more attention was paid to the wounded man, than his friends were likely to be able, in their present state, to afford; but the captain recommended him not to interfere, observing, that as they had sense enough left to carry him out of the road, they would send for the nearest barber to bind up his side, which was all that a clean sword wound required.

“Oh, but he is the brother of my Clara, and may die from the wound he has received,” exclaimed Luis.

“That alters the case,” said the Captain, and they set forward to overtake the bearers of the wounded man; but though they walked quickly along, by the time they came up with the party whom they fancied were carrying him, he was not to be seen among them. To their inquiries, the people assured them that they must be mistaken, as they had themselves but just turned down from another street, and had heard no sounds of the fray. They then followed another group, whose voices they heard a little in advance; but with like want of success, the people holding silence directly they approached.

“He has, perhaps, been conveyed to the palace of the Conde San Vincente,” exclaimed Luis; so they hurried down the street towards it; for it was, as we have said, close at hand; but no one appeared in the neighbourhood, and when, at length, they knocked at the door, after a long time it was opened, and a surly porter declared that no one had been there all that evening, nor had his master left his home since the morning, and had now been in bed for some hours. This might, or might not, have been true; but Luis had no other resource than to return with his friend homeward, dispirited, and full of regret at the accident, wishing that he rather had been the victim; for, should Gonçalo die, he would be looked upon as his murderer, and another barrier, far more insuperable than the former, would be placed against any prospect of his union with Clara. The best consolation the kind-hearted sailor could offer, was, in endeavouring to persuade him, that the wound the young fidalgo had received was probably slight, and that he would recover in a few days; that Luis was in no way to blame, the encounter on his side being perfectly unsought, and that the sufferer and his friends must view it in the same light; indeed, he used every argument that most people would have done in a like case, to soothe the mind of his young friend, though they were of little avail; and it was almost daylight when Luis fell asleep, with his hopes at a lower ebb than he had ever before found them.

With increased anxiety, he repaired, on the following morning, to the church where he was to meet Senhora Gertrudes; and, true to her appointment, he found her kneeling at the same spot, where he had encountered her on the previous day. Notwithstanding the recent unfortunate occurrence, he had resolved to send the letter he had written to Clara; for when his hand had penned it, that was yet unstained with her brother’s blood, as his heart was still guiltless of any intention of shedding it.

The old nurse, however, was unconscious of anything that had occurred. “Oh, senhor,” she said, “I am so glad that you have not been prevented from coming; for I have got leave to visit my young mistress this very morning, and though she loves me dearly, I am sure that I shall be a more welcome visitor if I carry your little note. Where is it, senhor? Stay,—that nobody may see you deliver it, have the kindness to return me my pocket-handkerchief, which I will drop.” Upon which, she adroitly drew the article she mentioned from her pocket, and let it fall by the side of Don Luis, who, stooping down, restored it to her with the letter, which he had conveyed under it.

As she felt the size of the packet, she whispered, “I am afraid, senhor, this is much larger than the little note I promised to carry; but, never mind, I dare say that you have a great deal to say to my young lady, which she will like to hear; and I don’t think a long note can do more harm than a short one, so be assured she shall have it. Poor dear, I would do anything to please her.”

Luis was longing, all the time the old lady was speaking, to put in a word to inquire for the young Gonçalo. To his question, she answered, that the young master’s habits were so very irregular, that no one remarked upon his remaining away for a night; that she had not seen him that morning, nor did she think that he had returned home on the previous evening; but that, just as she was leaving the palace, she was surprised to meet, at that unusually early hour, his friend the Conde San Vincente, (whom she took the opportunity to abuse,) just entering the hall; that she thought he might have come to speak to the younger Gonçalo, or, perhaps, to his father.

Luis then told her, under the promise of the strictest secrecy, that he had unintentionally, and, indeed, against his utmost endeavours, wounded the young fidalgo on the previous evening; that he had been carried off by his party, and he knew not where he had been conveyed. Luis then assured her that his heart was wrung with anguish at what he had done, and besought her, if her mistress heard of the accident, to place his conduct in its proper light, as he had no doubt that occasion would be taken to vilify him, if possible, in her opinion; particularly if, as he suspected, the Conde San Vincente was engaged in the affair.

“Ah, senhor, I am sure it was entirely Gonçalo’s fault, who is led into all sorts of mischief by that horrid count,” said Gertrudes. “I knew he would some day or other suffer for his folly; and I will take care my young lady does not believe anything to your disparagement.”

“In mercy do, my good senhora, or she will be taught to look upon me with horror instead of love,” said Luis. “You know not the pangs, the wretchedness, I have suffered, at the thoughts of this fresh misfortune.”

“Oh yes, senhor, I can feel for you, I assure you,” whispered the old Nurse. “You forget I too was once young and pretty, and had my admirers also, particularly one who was handsome, and constant, and loving; so I married him at last, and some happy years I spent, till he went to sea, and I never heard of him more; but I have ever since felt a kindred feeling for young lovers, and doubly so when my sweet mistress is one of the parties.”

Luis felt his heart much relieved by her promises, and just then bethought him of a present he had prepared for her, so requesting her again to drop her handkerchief, he begged her to accept what he offered her, which, considering it was a pair of handsome filigree gold earrings, he had not much hesitation in doing, and seemed mightily pleased at the attention.

While the greater part of the above conversation was going forward, they had risen from their knees, and were standing hid from general view behind one of the pillars of the church, the loud chanting of the service preventing the tones of their voices being heard by any but themselves. The same scene we have described is constantly practised for far more doubtful purposes.

Senhora Gertrudes promising to bring Luis either a verbal or written answer to his letter within a few days, they separated, little dreaming of the accumulated horrors those days were to bring forth. Though his conversation with the old nurse had somewhat restored peace to his mind, by affording him yet a gleam of hope, Luis felt his spirits, like the air, heavy and gloomy. As he walked slowly homeward, the unaccountable and unusual gloom, which, like a funereal pall, had for many preceding days hung over the city, seemed increased in density.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

On the morning of the 1st of November, 1755, the murky gloom, which had for so long hung over the city, appeared to have settled down in a dense fog, a phenomenon so unusual, that many turned to their neighbours, and asked if something dreadful was not about to occur, until the sun broke forth, bright and beautiful, dispelling the darkness, and banishing their fears: not a breath of wind disturbed the soft atmosphere, which had more the genial warmth of summer than that late period of the year usually afforded; not a cloud dimmed the pure serenity of the sky; and everybody rejoiced that, at length, the ill-omened clouds had vanished. It was the day of a festival, dedicated in the Romish Calendar to all the Saints; and numerous parties of citizens and mechanics, released from their usual occupations, might be seen hastening through all parts of the city, dressed in their holiday suits, twanging their light guitars, to enjoy themselves in the free air of the country. Happy were they who thus early quitted that doomed city.

It was the day Donna Theresa d’Alorna had fixed on for her marriage, why, none could tell; but so she willed it; and the ceremony was to take place at an unusually early hour, in the chapel belonging to her father’s palace, the high dignitary of the Church who officiated on the important occasion being required to perform some other indispensable duty at a later hour. Captain Pinto had been spending some days with Luis, and, early in the morning, parted from him to visit Senhor Mendez, whom, on the previous evening, he had left with an increase in his indisposition. Soon afterwards, Luis, ordering Pedro to attend him, rode forward to the palace of the Count d’Alorna, to be in readiness to attend the ceremony about to be performed. It was one he would willingly have avoided; for, though he retained no love for his beautiful cousin, he could not help feeling many regrets that one on whom he had once set his affections, should be given away to a person for whom he knew she could feel scarce the slightest regard. The count received him with cordiality, introducing him to the numerous members of the Tavora family, who were there assembled to do honour to the marriage of the heir to the rank and dignities of the head of their haughty house.

The marchioness, Donna Leonora, we have already mentioned, a lady yet retaining many marks of her past beauty. She was of a proud and imperious temper, dividing her thoughts between aims for the yet further aggrandisement of her family, and what she considered her religious duties; indeed, by her active and intriguing disposition, she was calculated to succeed in undertakings which others of her sex would have considered impracticable; obstacles only serving with her to increase the ardour of her pursuit.

The marquis, her husband, was a man of dignified and noble carriage, but very different from her in disposition, being of an amiable and gentle temper, yielding his opinion, alas! too much to her guidance. Their second son, Don Jozé, a youth yet scarcely nineteen, was celebrated as much for the beauty of his person, as for the elegance of his manner, and for his honourable and noble disposition; and he at once gained the good opinion of Luis, which afterwards ripened into sincere friendship.

We do not intend to describe the ceremony, which, in the Romish Church, is of short duration. Not a tear was shed by the bride as her father gave her away, but there was a tremulous motion on her lips, and her eye bore a distracted and pained impression, which it wrung Luis’s heart to see; and no sooner had he performed the duties required of him, than, without waiting for the feast prepared for the guests, he hastened from the palace, and mounting his horse, desired Pedro to return home, while he endeavoured to dissipate his melancholy feelings by exercise.

He was, at first, doubtful which way to turn his horse’s head; but there was an attraction he could not resist, to wander beneath the walls which confined her on whom all his affections had centred; though she might be concealed from his view, yet he remembered a long line of grated windows, through which he had, at times, seen many a young and lovely face gazing on the bright world without, like a bird from its cage, as if longing for liberty; and some latent hope there was in his breast that Clara, too, might be tempted by the beauty of the morning to endeavour to inhale the free air of heaven from her prison windows, the nearest approach to liberty she was doomed to enjoy.

The moment this idea occurred to him, he urged on his steed as fast as he could venture to proceed over the ill-paved and rugged streets, till he arrived near the Convent of Santa Clara; he then, slackening his pace, rode under its lofty walls, gazing up anxiously at each window as he passed, but she whom he sought appeared not. Twice had he passed, and he began to despair of seeing her, fearful also that his remaining there might attract observation and suspicion on himself, when, like a bright light in the black obscurity of the midnight sky, at one of the hitherto dark windows, towards which his eyes were turned, appeared a female form.

A lover’s sight was not to be deceived: his heart beat with rapture, as he beheld his beloved Clara; nor was she slow, as her glance fell on the street beneath, in recognising him who had not been absent from her thoughts since they parted. She dared not speak, even could her voice have been heard; but her gaze convinced him that his presence caused her no displeasure. Neither could tear themselves away from the spot they occupied; yet, alas! it was the nearest interview they could hope to enjoy. For some minutes they remained regarding each other with looks of fond affection, when, on a sudden, the docile animal Luis rode snorted and neighed loudly, and then trembled violently. A deep low noise was heard, like carriage wheels passing at a distance; it increased, as if a thousand chariots were rushing by, shaking the earth by their impetuous course. Clara uttered a shriek of terror; for she beheld her lover’s steed dash furiously onward, to escape from the dreaded approach of impending ruin. The ill-omened sounds increased. His rider in vain checked him with the rein—the animal uttered a cry of agony, and rearing high in the air, as if struck by a shot in the chest, fell backward with him to the ground. Luis, now in front of the principal entrance to the convent, was uninjured; and, disengaging himself, from his fallen steed, which, rising, galloped madly away, he turned towards the gateway of the building. Again that dread-inspiring convulsion wrenched the solid ground. Shrieks and cries of terror rose on every side. The great gates were thrown open, and crowds of nuns were seen issuing forth, in the wildest confusion and despair, flying they knew not whither, the hopes of self-preservation urging them onward, thoughtless of all they left behind; and from the door of the adjacent church, a like panic-struck mass were rushing forward—men, women, and children—the wealthy and the poor—the noble and the beggar—ladies in their silken robes, and priests in their sacerdotal vestments, in one confused concourse, all trying to pass each other; the aged and the feeble overthrown and trampled on by the young and vigorous. But the implacable spirit of destruction made no distinction between age or sex, strength or weakness; none could withstand the vast masses of masonry which came hurtling on their heads; some few escaped unscathed amid the tremendous shower, but every moment fresh hundreds lay crushed beneath the superincumbent ruins. But Luis, where was he amid the wild uproar and confusion? One only object, one thought filled his imagination. Clara, his own beloved, was within those tottering walls! Could he save her? Not an instant’s idea of self-preservation crossed his mind. He flew, as he rose from the ground, towards the gate. His eye ranged over the affrighted countenances of the recluses, but she was not among them. It was impossible she could have reached the entrance in time. He endeavoured to urge his way among them, to enter the house of destruction, but none stayed him to ask whither he went. He cried forth Clara’s name, but no one could understand or answer him. A fair girl came flying past him, shrieking with fear: a vast stone fell from the gateway, and, in an instant, that lovely form lay, crushed beneath it, a shapeless mass. He stayed not in his course; but, as he rushed on, “Oh God!” he cried, “such might be Clara’s fate!” His bosom seemed bursting with his dreadful feelings: he shrieked, but his voice appeared choked, and without strength. The Father Confessor passed, followed by the Lady Abbess, for whom he stayed not, though, with cries, she implored him to aid her; yet both escaped, and thanked Heaven their righteousness had saved them, while two innocent girls shared the destiny of the former. Luis looked not behind him at their fate; far more terrible dangers were before him, and she whom he sought was in the midst of them! Words cannot paint the horrors which surrounded him; and with far greater rapidity did he rush onward than the time we must take to describe his progress. He, at length, broke his way past the affrighted females, and terror-stricken monks, who impeded his course; but the strength with which his eagerness to proceed inspired him, was even greater than that which their fear gave to the latter; and, triumphing over all obstacles, he reached a large quadrangle, on the right of which appeared a broad staircase, which he knew must lead in the direction where Clara had been. Was she there now? He stayed not to reckon chances. Love gave him the instinct of the Indian to traverse the trackless desert: he hesitated not a moment to consider the path he was to take; for all his thoughts and energies were concentrated on one point, to discover the spot where Clara was to be found. He flew up the stone steps, which yet stood firm, though broad fissures appeared in the walls on each side; he traversed, with the speed of the frighted deer, a long corridor, leaping over many a chasm already formed in the floor, the ceiling, at every step, falling in on him from above; the ends of the stout beams bending down, threatening instant destruction, as their supports, giving way, were leaning towards the street. His breathing was nearly stopped by the exertion, and by the clouds of dust which surrounded him, and which also obscured his sight; yet on he rushed, when, in an instant, his energies were paralysed; the blood forsook his heart; a female form lay before him—oh, Heavens! was it Clara? He stooped down. No, no, that mangled shape could not be hers. A deep wound was in the temple, the fair hair was clotted with blood—he dared not give another glance. No, no, it could not have been her—those, surely, were the robes of a nun. He fled onward; he felt confident that he must have reached the neighbourhood of the window beneath which he had remained gazing at her. Another corridor led him to the right; a door stood open—he rushed in—the roof had given way, but he leaped over the intervening rubbish. Within a deep recess of solid masonry was a window, but he saw no one there. It could not be his judgment which guided him; for, at that awful time, ’twere vain to suppose human judgment could be exercised, or could avail aught. Yet some power drew him on—that inscrutable, that magnetic influence which attracts two souls together—that all-pervading instinct of love!

He paused not till he reached the window. His hopes had not deceived him. Sunk on the ground, her fair head resting against the stone window-seat, he beheld the beloved object of his search. He raised her up—he clasped her in his arms. “Oh, Luis! is he safe?” she whispered, as her head sunk on his shoulder, unconscious of all that had occurred—of the fearful destruction which was going forward. Her last thought had been of him, as she saw him borne away by his maddened steed;—she heard not the wild cries which rose from below, or the shrieks which echoed through the building, or the voice of a friend, calling on her to fly. Her love had preserved her; and they were together, as yet unharmed; and Luis felt (if thought or feeling could be possible at such a moment) that no power could divide them. The same fate awaited them both, but instant destruction seemed to threaten them. If the walls stood, within the recess they might be safe; but already were those shaken to their foundations—another shock, and they must inevitably fall. Such was his rapid idea, as he was raising Clara. Again he turned to fly with her to seek for safety; but where was safety to be found, when the earth itself was lifted, like the ocean’s billows, from its level? Still there was happiness and confidence at his heart. Though so many examples were before his eyes, he imagined not the fate which might be theirs. Onward he bore her, by the way he had come, along the broad corridor. For some time his course was unimpeded, till, at length, a vast chasm yawned before him: the whole wall had fallen down, crushing all beneath it. Once more he turned, with his precious burden, still unconscious, in his arms: more than human strength and energy seemed afforded him. Another corridor presented itself, the floor yet affording a passage, though crowded with fragments of the roof. As he flew along it, he observed a stair on one side: that might lead to some egress. He descended rapidly, though scarce a gleam of light was there to guide his steps. When he reached the bottom, he found a passage, narrow and vaulted, leading off on each side. He took that to the left, where the light appeared; but, as he approached it, a strongly-barred window was seen. Near him, a door was left open, at the top of a second narrow and winding stair. Whither that would lead there was no time to consider; but retreat was hopeless by the way he had come, and his only hope of saving the life of the dear being he bore was in onward progress. He descended the steps: to what secret chambers had they conducted him? Another door was before him—it gave way to his touch, and he found that they had reached a low, narrow, and vaulted passage. That it led to the open air he felt assured, from the greater degree of light before him; but the dust prevented his seeing many feet beyond where they were. He hastened on, when again a terrific sound was heard, like the loud echoes of cannon in a mountain gorge—the earth shook beneath his feet—a stunning crash was more felt than heard, as if the globe had been hurled in contact with another body—the strong walls on each side seemed giving way—huge masses of the building, falling on all sides, blocked up all egress in front,—behind, all was darkness! Nature could endure no more: his legs refused to support him, and he sank with his precious burden to the ground; yet consciousness did not forsake him, and he preserved her from injury, bending over her yet inanimate form, that he might shield her to the last, and that his head should be the first to receive the blow which he felt assured must fall. The second violent shock was over, yet crash after crash continued to be heard, as each massive wall and lofty tower, which man in his pride had fancied would last for ever, were overturned like pasteboard fabrics raised by childhood’s hands. A third time was the loud thunder beneath the earth heard—the ground shook, and the few remaining walls of the convent were cast down, and that vast fabric, which, a few minutes before, had stood firm and entire, was now one shapeless mass of ruins, with hundreds of human beings buried beneath it. The anguish of death came over Luis: Clara—his own Clara, lay, without breathing, in his arms. Her pulse had ceased to beat, animation had fled, and he welcomed destruction as a boon from Heaven. Each instant the end of all things seemed about to arrive; the shrieks of despair, which had before wrung on his ears, were hushed; the thundering crashes of the falling buildings were no longer heard; and the more terror-inspiring muttered roar beneath the earth had ceased; but foul exhalations arose, and poisoned the air, already filled with suffocating dust; and darkness, impenetrable and oppressive, surrounded the lovers.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Were we to indulge, while describing scenes like the present, in the light jest, or stroke of satire, we should deem ourselves equally capable of laughing at the anguish and wretchedness to which, in our course through life, we have too frequently been witness; our readers must, therefore, pardon us, if, on this occasion, contrary to their wish, we lay aside that inclination we have hitherto experienced, to satirise the follies and wickedness of our fellow-men. It will be our duty to revert to the events which occurred to the principal personages mentioned in this history.

We left the bridal party at the palace of the Marquis d’Alorna. They were assembled in a handsome saloon, which looked towards the street, while all were paying their compliments to the lovely Donna Theresa, and their congratulations to the young marquis, on his happiness at possessing so fair a bride, when a train of carriages was heard passing.

“It is the King and the royal family, on their road to Belem,” said the Conde d’Atouquia. “They were to go there this morning.”

“I would they were never to return!” muttered the Duke of Aveiro. “It would be no great loss to us.”

“Hush! duke,” said the Count, who had just sufficient sense to know that silence will often stand in the place of wisdom. “All here know not their own interests. ’Twill be better not to speak on that subject awhile.”

When the lovely bride heard the King mentioned, a pallor overspread her countenance.

“Are you ill, my Theresa,” inquired her young husband, affectionately.

“Oh no, ’twas a sudden pain, but I am well again,” she answered, recovering, and endeavouring to smile. She could not say it was the dreadful struggle between conscience and inclination which agitated her.

The guests had just taken their seats at a sumptuous breakfast, prepared for the occasion, the bridegroom being placed at the head of the table, when that strange sound of chariot-wheels was heard.

“’Tis the King, for some cause, returning home again,” exclaimed one. (“’Tis the King of Terrors, riding on the whirlwind of destruction,” he might, more properly, have said.)

“No, ’tis a sudden blast, or the roaring of the breakers against the rocks of St. Julian,” answered another.

“Mother of Heaven! see, the glasses tremble!” cried several.

At that moment the noise increased. “An earthquake! an earthquake!” shrieked the guests, rushing from their seats towards the window.

The building shook, but scarce a stone fell. “’Twill be over soon,” exclaimed the Marquis of Tavora, preserving his presence of mind. “There is more danger in the street than here.”

The wildest dismay was visible in the countenances of all, yet none sought to fly, but rushed together towards the recesses of the windows, fancying that numbers might cause security.

“Fear not, my friends,” said the Marquis d’Alorna, “this palace is strong, and has resisted many an earthquake. It will alone affect the fragile houses of the plebeians. See! numbers are already in ruins; what clouds of dust rise from them! The shock has passed, and we are safe!”

Scarcely had he uttered the words, when again that sullen roaring beneath the earth was heard. There was no time for flight, they stood paralysed with horror. Donna Theresa showed the fewest signs of fear, as she gazed forth on the city, great part of which lay spread at their feet: she sought not for support, while the other ladies present clung to the arms of those nearest them, except the elder Marchioness of Tavora, who, drawing forth a crucifix from her bosom, called on all around her to pray to the holy Virgin for safety; but, during those moments, the only words any could utter were, “Misericordia! misericordia!”

The wildest cries of agony and fear arose from below, where row beyond row of the thickly crowded streets swayed backwards and forwards, like the agitated waves of the ocean, when the first blast of the hurricane is felt; while the thick clouds of dust which ascended from the falling masses seemed like the foam flying before the tempest.

A strong wind now blew with terrific violence, and, as here and there a view could be obtained of the city, one scene of havoc and destruction presented itself: not a church, or convent, scarce a house, was standing below them, except in the immediate neighbourhood, on the side of the hill; and many of the houses even there were tottering to their base, the people hurrying through the streets, they knew not whither, seeking for safety, and often hurrying to destruction. Numbers had fled to a broad quay, newly built of solid marble, where they deemed themselves in perfect safety; when, as if by magic, it suddenly sank, the water rushing into the vast chasm it had formed, drawing within its vortex, like a whirlpool, numbers of boats and small vessels, crowded with unfortunate wretches, who fancied that it was from the earth alone they had cause to fear. Directly after this dreadful catastrophe had occurred, a vast wave was seen rising on the river, hitherto so calm and shining, and rushing with impetuous force towards the devoted city. The vessels were torn from their moorings, and hurled one against the other. On came the mountain-billow, breaking over the lower part of the city, and sweeping off thousands who had fled to the remaining quays for safety, returning once more to throw back its prey of mangled corpses, amid broken planks and rafters of the ruined houses.

In silent dismay, the festal party stood yet free themselves from harm, though they beheld some of the domestics, who, being on the ground-floor, had rushed from the palace down the street in front, crushed beneath the houses, which fell as they attempted to proceed. The Marquis d’Alorna urged his friends to remain, for several had determined to attempt to escape from the city, the whole of which they expected every instant to behold overwhelmed, when, seeing the fate of their servants, they yielded to his persuasions. Scarcely had they returned to the window, when, with the same dreadful omens, a third shock was felt, though by them but slightly; and, as if struck by a magician’s wand, every remaining wall and tower in the vast arena below, which had before escaped, was thrown prostrate, the waves again returning, and rushing high over the ruins, quickly flowing back to their proper boundaries; but not a minute intervened before another mighty billow followed, and another, and another, until every one felt persuaded the city must be submerged.

The mighty throes of nature appeared at length calmed—the roaring noise had ceased; but the wailing of the bereaved inhabitants, and the shrieks and groans of the dying, filled the air. Two elements had already conspired to the destruction of that once opulent and crowded city; but even yet the spirit of destruction was not satisfied, and scarcely had the survivors begun to recover from their first unnerving panic, when a new foe appeared, and flames rose from every fallen shrine and monastery, and from many of the houses yet standing. So paralysed had become the energies of all, that no one attempted to stop the rapid progress of the devouring element. It at first commenced in different spots, like so many watch-fires lighted by an army encamped on the plain, but, by degrees, it extended on every side, till the greater part of the city was enveloped in one vast conflagration.

“Whither can we fly for safety?” cried several of the party, gazing at each other with horror on their countenances. “At all events, let us quit this devoted city,” all exclaimed. “But is there a road yet left free?” asked some.

“We must not remain here to be burned alive, having escaped the other dangers,” said the young Marquis of Tavora. “My Theresa, I swear to bear you safe, or die with you.” The bride hesitated, but her husband insisted on supporting her. “Now, senhores, I will set the example, if you will follow; and we may find some of our country-houses uninjured.” His opinion was considered the best to follow by the majority.

“I will order my horses and carriage from my palace,” said the Duke of Aveiro; but, when he looked towards his palace, he beheld it one heap of ruins: the proud residence of the Tavoras had shared the same fate, as had those of many other persons present.

The palace of the King, which he and all the royal family had, a few minutes before, so providentially quitted, was overwhelmed in the common destruction; and the Opera-house, a solid and magnificent building, a short time before only finished, had shared the same fate, the side walls remaining alone standing. But this was no time for vain regrets: self-preservation was the first thought of all. The advice of the young marquis was followed, and each of the gentlemen aiding in supporting the ladies, they issued forth from the palace, already deserted by the greater number of the servants, the remainder following them, without leaving one to protect the rich and costly furniture, or even thinking of closing the doors behind them.

The party proceeded onward, keeping as much as possible the higher ground, which had escaped the convulsions which shook the valleys, expecting every moment some fresh outbreak. They had not gone far, when they encountered a fierce-looking band of the vilest rabble of the city, who eyed the rich dresses and the glittering jewels of the ladies, as if longing to possess themselves of them, and stopping, attempted to surround the party, with threatening gestures; but the fidalgos, drawing their swords, cleared a passage through them, receiving only loud jeers and curses as they passed onward. In one place they were obliged to descend the hill for some short distance, where the road was blocked up by the fallen houses, which, as the only course left to them, they must surmount. The scenes which met the eye, it were scarcely possible for ordinary language to describe; men, women, and children, lay, dead or dying, crushed and mangled in every way it were possible to conceive; some of the latter yet crying out, but in vain, for assistance:—their lot might be that of all the party, if they stayed. The only one of the proud fidalgos who really felt for their sufferings, was the young Jozé da Tavora, and he vowed to return and aid them, if possible, when he had conducted his sisters and the rest of his family to a place of safety.

After great labour, they escaped clear of the ruins, and reached some of the highest ground, from whence they could look back on the hapless city. Far as the eye could reach on each side, extending along the banks of the river, was one universal scene of destruction. The greater number of the superb and beautiful churches, the richly endowed monasteries, the public buildings, the palaces, and the dwelling-houses, had, in the course of a few minutes, been either levelled with the ground, or their skeleton walls alone left standing, burying beneath their ruins, as was afterwards ascertained, twenty thousand of the inhabitants. In every direction, also, bright flames arose, wreathing themselves round many buildings which had withstood the shocks; thick clouds of smoke, like twisting pillars, ascending to support the dark canopy which overhung the fatal spot. The river itself presented an almost equally forlorn spectacle; ships were driven wildly in all directions, some dashing against each other, and their crews unable to separate them; others had been dashed to pieces on the opposite shore; some had sunk, some had been carried far up the banks, and were now left dry among the ruined buildings, while the water was covered with wrecks of vessels, beams of timber, and floating bodies. Boats, too, of all shapes and sizes, were floating about, many having been turned keel uppermost by the vast waves. A large concourse of the houseless wretches, whom the catastrophe had driven forth, were now collected on the brow of the hill, bewailing, with groans and tears, their wretched fate: their whole property destroyed, many half clothed, and without a farthing left to purchase the necessaries of life, even if they were to be found; but where was food to be procured for that multitude? Thousands must perish of starvation before it could be distributed.

As the bridal party, after resting from their fatigues on the brow of the hill, were about to proceed to the Quinta belonging to one of their number, where they purposed erecting tents in the open ground, several horsemen were seen approaching. The crowd made way for them; for among the foremost rode the King, and by his side was the towering form of his Minister, Carvalho. No sooner did the former behold Donna Theresa, than his eye lighted up with satisfaction, and, for the moment, forgetful of his city destroyed, and the wretchedness of his people, he threw himself from his horse, which an attendant held, and advanced towards her. While he congratulated her, and those around, on having escaped from destruction, and her husband on his happiness, the Minister, who had also dismounted, stood impatiently by. At last the King recollected himself, and advanced to the brow of the hill. He started back at the view he beheld: he wrung his hands with despair.

“Alas, alas!” he cried, “my beautiful Lisbon! where art thou? It is hopeless to attempt restoring it. Alas! what shall I do?”

“Bury the dead, and take care of the living,” answered the Minister, promptly. “’Tis all that can be done.”

“Carvalho, you are truly fit to govern my people,” exclaimed the King, embracing him.

“Will your Majesty give me full powers to act as I judge fit, without let or hindrance of any sort, and I will undertake to restore order, to supply food, and to rebuild the city.”

“Do all that you will; I place implicit confidence in your judgment, and promise to sanction all the measures you pursue.”

“It is all I ask,” said Carvalho. “I beg your Majesty will return to Belem, to rest after the fatigues you have undergone, and be assured I will not fail in my duty.”

The King, taking his Minister’s advice, rode back to Belem, while Carvalho, throwing himself into his carriage, which had driven up, immediately commenced issuing orders for the regulation of the inhabitants who had been driven from their homes, and, sending messengers in all directions, to desire the farmers at a distance to bring food to the neighbourhood of the city for their use. Every one obeyed him with alacrity; for, on a great emergency, the mob are ever ready to be ruled by any one who can exhibit confidence in himself. But we are forestalling events, and must return to follow the adventures on that dreadful day of several friends in whom we are deeply interested.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

We left our good friend Captain Pinto, having just parted from Luis, hurrying off on a visit of charity to the stranger Senhor Mendez. He found him, contrary to his expectations, considerably recovered; the slight attack he had suffered on the previous night, which had alarmed his attendant, having passed off, though he was still unable to leave his couch. Seating himself by his side, the gallant sailor detailed to him various circumstances which had happened in the world since he had last seen him, when their conversation turned upon matters of yet greater interest, and so engrossed were they in their subject, that they did not attend to the first dread signals of approaching confusion. Soon again, the noise grew louder, the house shook, and the upper story, with a loud crash, fell in, destroying several unfortunate beings who were residing there.

“’Tis an earthquake!” exclaimed Captain Pinto. “I thought something was about to happen, though it passed my power of calculation to tell what.”

“Then fly, my friend, and save yourself,” cried Senhor Mendez; “for the whole house must inevitably fall, and will crush you in the ruins.”

“I will see what chance there is first of carrying you on my back,” answered the sailor, coolly walking to the window, and looking into the street, from whence the most piercing shrieks proceeded. “’Twill be wiser to stay where we are; for ’tis raining rather large stones from the house-tops, and numbers of poor wretches, who have fled thither, he crushed beneath them.”

“’Tis a great hazard, but much greater is incurred by remaining here; so, I beseech you, fly, and leave me,” reiterated Senhor Mendez.

“This is no time for jesting,” said the Captain, “or I might suppose you were inclined to be merry. What! do you ask me to leave a brother in danger, when I might save him? No, my friend, I will perish with you, if such is to be our lot,—we are neither of us children to fear death,—or I will preserve your life.”

Saying which, the captain returned to the side of his friend’s couch, and drew the head of it within an alcove formed in the wall. “We shall here be far safer than in the street; for the greater part of the house may fall around without injuring us.”

In vain Senhor Mendez urged his friend to fly: he persisted in remaining by his side, till he found that words were of no avail. “I will go with you, then,” he said. “I have yet strength sufficient to walk to some open space, where the danger will be less.” But the captain was resolute; for he well knew that the sick man could not hurry along at the speed which was requisite, nor climb over the impediments they were certain to encounter.

Three or four minutes passed away in a state of dreadful uncertainty, the gallant sailor sitting calmly down, firmly resolved to await the result. Then came the second and most violent shock: the back part of the house was heard to fall, the shrieks and cries were redoubled, crash after crash succeeded; but still the friends were safe, and the captain firmly kept his post. The third shock, which followed some minutes afterwards, was less violent, though a greater number of buildings, shaken by the former ones, were overturned by it.

The front wall of the house was seen to bulge outward. “Farewell, my friend,” ejaculated Senhor Mendez, seeing what was about to occur. Down fell the wall into the street, while clouds of dust obscured their sight; but the upper rafters of the ceiling still bound the sides of the building together. Both the friends expected instant destruction; minute after minute passed away, but the wall beneath which they were stood firm; till at length, the air becoming more clear, and the shocks scarcely perceptible, they had the satisfaction of wringing each other’s hands as a mark of joy at their mutual preservation, and returning thanks to the great Being who had saved them.

It was in the same way the elegant and beautiful wife of the Minister, the Countess Daun, was preserved. She had not yet risen from her bed when the first shock was felt; but, springing up, she rushed to where her youngest child was sleeping, and with admirable presence of mind and resolution, stood the whole time that the work of destruction was proceeding, within a broad doorway, the front wall of the house being precipitated outward, and the roof falling in and crushing the bed on which she had been sleeping. The rest of the building stood, and she had the happiness, when the convulsions had subsided, of finding her other children unharmed, though she knew not the fate of their father, who had, at an early hour, left his home.

But to return to Captain Pinto. After remaining for a considerable time with his friend in their perilous situation, and perceiving no further shocks, he determined to endeavour to carry him to a place of greater safety. Wrapping him up, therefore, in some clothes which had fortunately escaped, he bore him to the door, standing open, and from thence down the broken steps, and over heaps of ruins, by the back of the house, (for the front was completely blocked up,) and across a small courtyard, where he was obliged to set him down to rest. The wall had been thrown down, exhibiting a street, in a less ruinous state, leading up a steep hill, at the top of which was an open space, surrounded by buildings, which, being only of one story, had resisted the shocks. Thither the captain now led his friend, who insisted on walking, which, with some difficulty, he was able to do, although he sunk down exhausted when he reached the place, where were now assembled a vast concourse of affrighted wretches, with tears and cries mourning the loss of relations and friends,—mothers in tones of misery inquiring for their children, husbands for their wives, sons for their parents and sisters. Here all ranks and conditions were indiscriminately mingled; the proud noble and the loathsome beggar; high dignitaries of the Church in their purple robes; priests who had fled from the altars in their sacerdotal vestments, while celebrating mass; officers and soldiers with their arms thrown aside; nuns and friars in their monastic habits; ladies half-dressed, many without even shoes to protect their feet. Some were rushing to the square, others were flying away, in hopes of finding greater security elsewhere. The greater number were on their knees, offering up broken prayers and cries to Heaven, beating their breasts, with terror in their countenances, and ejaculating, “Mercy! mercy!” Some held clasped in their hands before them crucifixes and images of the saints, which they ever and anon kissed with the most fervent devotion. Some had crawled thither with their limbs broken and their bodies bruised, and were lying, writhing with pain, on the ground, crying out in vain for a drop of water to quench their thirst, many only half clothed, their only consolation, when some of the pious would bring them a cross or an image to kiss, which, with their last gasp, they would press to their lips.

An aged priest was moving among the crowd, with crucifix in hand, exhorting the people to repentance, and endeavouring to offer them every consolation in his power. “Repent, my children; for the wrath of Heaven has descended on you for your sins!” he cried, with tears in his eyes. “You have given yourselves up to every description of wickedness and folly, when you thought none from heaven could see you, and now behold the consequence! Repent, ere it is too late; repent, ere complete destruction comes on you, and your name is erased from the face of the earth! Call loudly on the blessed Virgin; beseech her to intercede for you, and she will hear you; for she loves you as her own children; her heart is tender and compassionate, and she, with sighs and tears, will petition her Son to spare you.”

The people flocked around the venerable man, earnestly entreating his benediction; and happy did those deem themselves who could touch even the hem of his garment.

While Captain Pinto was kneeling by the side of his friend, and supporting his head, a person dripping with water rushed by, gazing anxiously into the faces of all he passed. He turned again, and seeing the captain, came up to him. “Oh, senhor, I am wretched and miserable; for I can nowhere find my young master, and know not what has become of him,” exclaimed Pedro, for he was the speaker. “I have been hurrying all over the city in search of him, and fear much he must have been destroyed. Alas, alas! I am the only one saved out of the house, which has fallen to the ground. Poor Anna and Lucas are both gone. When we rushed out together, I was a little before them, when the front wall fell and crushed them both—alas, alas!”

“Stay for me,” said the Captain. “Assist me to support Senhor Mendez to some place of security, and I will then accompany you to search for your master.”

“Care not for me, my friend; but go at once, and search for the youth,” said Senhor Mendez. “Perhaps even now he is yet alive, beneath some stone, and you may be in time to save him.”

“I will not quit you till you are placed in safety,” answered Captain Pinto; and with the aid of Pedro supporting his friend, they conveyed him through the less ruinous parts of the city towards the house of an acquaintance who possessed a large garden in the outskirts. Their road was beset with danger, from the blocks of stone which continued falling every instant from the tottering walls of the buildings; sometimes they were obliged to climb over the ruins, from whence they could hear the groans of the dying and mangled beings who lay buried beneath, but whom it was impossible to attempt to rescue; here, among the masses of stone, limbs were seen protruding,—there the lower part of the body crushed, while the person was yet alive, hopelessly striving to extricate himself; others, more happy, already lay dead, with huge stones on their breasts: but wherever they passed, cries, and shrieks, and groans assailed their ears.

As they proceeded, Pedro gave an account of his adventures. “Oh, senhor, I thought the end of the world was come,” he said, “and I never expected to see anybody I knew again when first this dreadful earthquake came on. I scarcely know what happened till I found myself in the Square of Saint Paul’s, and the church, and all the buildings round, tumbling about in all directions, and many of the stones almost touching me as they fell; so, not liking that situation, I clambered over the ruins of the church, which had just fallen, crushing hundreds of people beneath it, and reached the broad quay by the river’s side, where I thought I should be safer that anywhere else; but I had not been there more than two minutes when a second shock came on, and I was thrown with my face flat on the ground, and had just risen again, when I heard a general cry that the sea was coming in on us. I looked towards the river, and though there was no wind blowing, I beheld an immense wave, rising like a mountain, of its own accord, come foaming and roaring towards the shore. I cast not another look at it, but ran for my life, regardless of the falling stones in the streets; but the water came faster than I could fly, and had I not caught hold of a beam of timber projecting from some ruins, I should have been swept away, as many other unfortunate people were; for the river immediately returned again to its proper level. Thinking there was as much danger from the sea as from the land, I returned back, by the way I came, to the Square of Saint Paul’s; but, when I had remained there a minute or so, another shock cast down a great number of buildings which had escaped, and the water rushed even there, so I gave up all hopes of being saved. The water, however, again retired, when I bethought me of my master; for, I confess, before that, my only idea was of taking care of myself. I had been running about in every direction, but could meet nobody even who knew him, till I found you on the top of the hill, where I hoped he too might have gone.”

By the time Pedro had concluded his narration, they reached the house of the friend of whom the captain had spoken; and though that had not fallen, the family had deserted it, and were assembled in an open space in the garden, with numerous friends, who had hastened there for safety. They charitably received Senhor Mendez among them, promising to do their best to assist him, when Captain Pinto, without even waiting to take any refreshment, hurried back, followed by Pedro, in search of Luis.

On their way, through the captain’s forethought, they procured two iron bars, to aid them in digging among the ruins, should they, by any chance, discover a clue to where he was last seen, though they entertained but slight hopes of discovering him, either dead or alive, had he not escaped uninjured. The horrors and destruction which they witnessed on their way have never been surpassed, if even equalled, during the annals of the world. In many places, also, the buildings had caught fire, and were blazing up furiously on all sides, so that they were obliged to make wide circuits to avoid them. The only clue which Pedro could afford, was that, when his master had parted from him, he had taken a direction by which he must pass by the Convent of Santa Clara, and the captain being in the secret of his friend’s feelings, concluded that he might very possibly have remained in the neighbourhood, in the faint hopes of seeing his mistress. Though the chance of discovering him was truly desperate, they determined to persevere; and, not being aware of the entire destruction of that convent, they thought that they might possibly hear something of him from some persons in the neighbourhood, as he would be remarked from being on horseback. After great labour they approached the place; but they looked in vain for the convent—not a wall was standing. As they were crossing a street which led to the square in which it had stood, Pedro’s eye was attracted by a dark object beneath the fallen wall of a house; he hastened towards it, and, to his horror, recognised the horse his master had ridden. He wrung his hands in despair, as Captain Pinto came up, pointing to the dead steed, whose head lay crushed by a stone. The captain understood the sign, and joined Pedro in endeavouring to turn over the masses of masonry which thickly covered the ground; the latter, narrowly examining the saddle, to assure himself that he not been mistaken regarding the horse, shook his head mournfully when he found that his fears were too correct. For a long time they plied their task in silence, except when the captain gave some necessary order, expecting every moment to discover the crushed remains of him they sought; for they could scarce indulge a hope that he could by any miracle have escaped. With great labour, and at imminent risk, they cleared away the stones in every direction round the dead horse, the yet standing walls threatening every instant to destroy them, large blocks continually falling with loud crashes near them; but their toil was in vain; and at length, overcome with fatigue, they were compelled, in despair, to desist. Selecting a safe spot, at a distance from the tottering walls, they seated themselves on a mound of ruins, to consult on the next measure to be taken, while they recovered strength to proceed.

They had scarcely been seated there a minute, watching the groups who stood gazing in mute despair, or rushed about with frantic gestures deploring their loss, among the former being a few of the late inmates of the convent, when a person rushed by, his head, sprinkled with white hairs, being uncovered, his dress disordered, with hands outstretched, and eyes wildly gazing on every side. “My child, my child!” he cried, in piercing accents; “has any one beheld my child? I have been deprived of my son, and if now my daughter is torn from me, I am childless!” No one heeded him, for hundreds were uttering the same cries. At a short distance, a woman followed him, with loud shrieks. “My mistress, my young mistress! has any one seen her? Where have they hid her? where, where?” she was exclaiming, and then gave way again to screams and tears.

Pedro regarded them earnestly. “That is the fidalgo Gonçalo Christovaö. I know him, the father of Donna Clara; and that old woman is her nurse. Depend upon it, senhor, they are in search of the young lady. Alas, alas! I fear that it will be as hopeless as that for my master; but, with your leave, senhor, we will follow them; for I know that if Don Luis was alive, he would be searching for her also.”

The captain agreed to the proposal, and hastened after the fidalgo, who no sooner perceived the group of nuns, than he rushed up to them, wildly inquiring among them for his beloved daughter. The captain and Pedro came up with him at the same time: not one of the nuns would venture to speak. With tears he besought them to answer him; explaining, with broken exclamations, that he was the father of a lady belonging to their convent. At length one of the sisterhood, pointing to the ruins, exclaimed, “Alas, senhor, we are the only survivors of the two hundred inhabitants of the convent; the rest lie buried beneath yon shattered walls!”

The hapless father heard no more. Had he not forced his daughter to enter that retreat, she might have been safe; and with a loud cry he fell backwards, and would have sunk to the ground, had not Captain Pinto and Pedro been at hand to support him.

Poor Senhora Gertrudes redoubled her cries, and wrung her hands in despair, as she seated herself on the ground near her master. Regardless of whatever else might happen, and calling on all the saints to restore her young mistress, she would, every now and then, seeing that the fidalgo was unable to comprehend her, reproach him for being the cause of her unhappiness; then she would abuse the convent for falling, and the nuns for leaving her lady behind. Captain Pinto was in a dilemma how to act; he was anxious to search for his friend, at the same time that he was unwilling to leave the fidalgo in his present state, and not a drop of water was to be found to assist in recovering him.

The unhappy father giving no signs of returning animation, the captain grew weary of watching one with whom he was not even acquainted, when his aid was so much more required by others: placing him, therefore, in a situation as far removed as possible from danger, he at length brought the old nurse sufficiently to reason, to induce her to watch by the side of her master, while he, and Pedro, continued their search for Luis. His purpose was first to visit, if possible, the palace of the Conde d’Almeida, in case Luis should have thought of returning homeward, and not hearing of him in that neighbourhood, to work his way to the outskirts of the city, and to make inquiries for him at every place where he found people collected, among whom he could discover any of his acquaintance, intending either to return himself, or to despatch some one with assistance to Gonçalo Christovaö.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

It would be impossible to describe, and difficult even to conceive, a scene in which a greater assemblage of crime, wretchedness, and filth was to be found, than that which, at the time we write of, was offered by the prison of Lisbon.

In a courtyard, where the prisoners were allowed to take whatever fresh air descended within the precincts of that abode of wretchedness, were now collected a number of unfortunate beings, on the countenance of every one of whom might be traced the marks of fierce ungovernable passions, sullen and vindictive humours, a low cunning which had overreached itself, and was longing again for freedom to indemnify itself for its fault. Some were endeavouring to warm themselves in the narrow strip of sunshine which found its way into the courtyard; others were staking all they possessed, a few coppers, perhaps, at games of dice, their eagerness as great as that of the man who is hazarding his thousands; some were carrying on a silent game at cards, the loser, by the motion of his hand towards the place where his dagger used to be, proving the use he would have made of it had he been armed. There were also various other games going forward; but by far the greater number of the inmates of the prison were sitting down, staring with apathetic looks on the ground, and thinking of past, or planning fresh, deeds of wickedness; and though there was every variety of cast of features, and, apparently, many different nations—blacks, mulattos, and Europeans, the same expression and squalor universally prevailed.

On one side of the yard, next the street, was a large hall, with vaulted roof, and strongly-barred windows, at which were posted as many as could clamber up, of men, women, and even children, imploring compassion of the passers by, and fishing up whatever, in their charity, they bestowed, in small baskets, or old hats, at the end of a string fastened to a stick. Here no distinction of age or sex was preserved; men hardened in crime, and young children cast in with their wretched mothers; beardless youths, and girls scarce verging on womanhood; murderers who boasted of their deeds of blood, and miserable beings whom poverty and hunger had tempted to steal a loaf, were thrown together, and scarcely supplied with food sufficient to sustain life: execrations, laughter, screams, and wild songs of desperation, mingling in horrid discord throughout this den of abomination.

In one corner of the yard were seated two men, whose dress had once been superior to that of their surrounding companions, but was now torn, disordered, and dirty in the extreme; their looks betokening them, at a glance, to be villains hardened in crime, exhibiting every mark of the common ruffian.

“I am growing weary of this cursed confinement, and am determined to submit to it no longer,” said one.

“Very likely, so am I,” returned his companion; “for though we have plenty of good company, and meet many old friends, I like to be master of my own conduct. But how do you purpose escaping, Miguel? Count on me as a staunch supporter; for I shall be happy to get out also, if I knew but the way.”

“I have means which will not fail, though I have waited lingering in prison till now, in hopes that others would exert themselves in my favour to procure my liberation; but I see there’s no use trusting further to them,” returned the other. “I shall send to the count, and let him know, if he does not get me set free before many days are over, I shall give a history of some of our transactions, which will go a good way to blast his character, proud as he is, and secure as he deems himself.”

“It’s very well talking about it, but do not suppose that any of the haughty nobles would care what such poor wretches as we said against one of their number, even though they might guess we told the truth,” responded the other.

“I would soon take means to make him care; and if not, I would give him a lesson with that dagger he has so often paid me to use against others,” exclaimed Miguel, grinding his teeth with rage at the thought of having been treacherously treated. “If we can once get out, we will join some of our old friends, and we shall soon be able to lift up our heads in the world again.”

“Since this Minister, Carvalho, has taken it into his head to interfere in the affairs of the city, it is easier to get into a prison than to get out of it again,” observed the other.

“Fear not, we will manage to escape in spite of him,” said Miguel.

Scarcely had he uttered those words, when the dogs beneath the prison walls set up a piteous howl, which was followed by a low, rumbling noise—the walls of the prison shook. All started on their feet, consternation and dismay depicted on every countenance;—a thundering crash was heard, as the side of the vaulted chamber was seen to fall outward, carrying with it the unfortunate wretches who were assembled in the windows.

Regardless of their cries, the remainder of the prisoners made a rush over the fallen ruins; “Hurra for the earthquake! liberty, liberty!” they shouted, some, with wanton barbarity, seizing the muskets of the guards stationed in front of the prison, and dashing out their brains, before they had time to defend themselves.

With wild cries and imprecations, the savage band hurried on, regardless of the dreadful convulsions of nature, attacking, in their blind fury, the affrighted inhabitants, who were flying from their falling houses. They halted not in their mad career till they reached an open space, from whence they could look back on their late abode; and as the second shock came on, when they beheld the prison hurled prostrate to the ground, they uttered wild yells of delight, pointing with gestures of derision towards the spot; in the intoxication of liberty, dancing and singing like a troop of demons.

What was it to them, that every instant thousands were suffering the most agonising deaths?—what cared they that a flourishing city was being destroyed?—they had gained their liberty! “Viva, viva to the earthquake! the loss of others is our gain. Viva to havoc and confusion! all is now our prey.—The rich man’s wealth is left unprotected,—Death has parted the miser from his gold,—all is now ours!” and on they rushed. Some of their number were killed by the falling ruins, but what cared they for their loss? it was soon supplied by crowds of accursed wretches like themselves, hardened by years of crime, and excited by thoughts of indiscriminate plunder. They met a man flying with bags of gold. “What ho! Dare you to take our property, fool?” and he was hurled lifeless to the ground. The third shock came—but while others were falling on their knees, with prayers for mercy, they shouted and blasphemed; the wilder the havoc, the greater would be their booty;—what cared they for aught else? Away they rushed through the streets—none dared oppose them. They seized upon arms, which some soldiers had thrown aside. “Hurra, hurra! the city is ours! who is lord now?” they cried.

Hapless were those whom they encountered flying with their wealth; but such paltry booty would not satisfy them. “The shrines of the churches are unguarded; for the earthquake has spared some for us.” The candles burnt on the altars, rich gems decorated the figure of the Virgin,—they tore away the glittering jewels,—they seized upon the golden cups and salvers of the Holy Sacrament. An aged priest had knelt in prayer, during the awful visitation, happy to die in the sanctuary of his God. With horror he beheld the sacrilegious deed, and cursed the impious wretches in the name of Him he served. “What, old dotard, darest thou interfere with our pursuits? Knowest thou not that all now is ours?” And, on the steps of the altar, where he stood, they dashed out the old man’s brains, and laughed, that no one could bear witness of the deed. They entered the palace of a wealthy noble; for the doors were open—no one was there to guard his property. They wandered through the sumptuous chambers; they found jewels in the chamber of his countess; in another room, a box of gold lay open. The foremost seized on the spoil; the others fought to obtain it—knives were drawn, and blood was spilt; but the wounded scarce stopped to staunch their wounds, so eager were they to grasp the rich plate, which lay scattered about. Nothing could satisfy them: their avarice was excited, and they thought of nought else but gaining wealth.

“To the Mint, to the Mint!” they cried,—“that will be unguarded.” Away they hurried, each eager to outstrip the other; but when they arrived there, they found the building entire, and the doors closed; though the soldiers who had been stationed there had fled from their posts. They attempted to force the gates; but though his men had quitted him, their officer, a gallant youth, the son of a distinguished noble, had disdained to fly. Fearless of the savage band, he appeared at a window, and ordered them to depart. They still persisted in attempting to force an entrance, when, collecting the loaded muskets of his men, he, with admirable coolness, successively discharged them, killing several of the foremost ruffians. The rest were disheartened.

“There is abundance of booty to be found elsewhere, without fighting for it,” shouted some, and immediately took to flight; others followed, and the bravery of one man, scarce numbering eighteen summers, preserved the building from pillage. His name we know not. Throughout the awful scene he had stood undaunted, every instant expecting the building to fall and crush him, or the earth to open and swallow him up, with the sea breaking from its confines, and rushing towards him on one side, yet refused to quit his post. Surely the sentinels at the gates of Pompeii, when the fiery shower fell on them, were not a greater example of heroic courage and military discipline.

Onward hurried the band of marauders. The house of a wealthy banker was before them. Here they might revel amid his chests of gold. They loaded themselves with plunder, till they could carry no more; but their depredations would be discovered. The earthquake had not committed sufficient ravages to satisfy them; they must increase the destruction and confusion. Some houses were already in flames; they seized on torches, and, like the intoxicated Macedonians in Persepolis of old, they rushed through the city, setting fire to every mansion they plundered in their course.

They passed the royal palace. “The King it was who imprisoned us,” they cried; “we will be revenged on him.” A great part of the edifice had already fallen; but that did not satisfy them; they ransacked the remainder, though, at the risk of their lives, throwing away what they had before collected, for the sake of what they now found; and then applying their torches in every direction, quitted it exultingly, as they beheld the flames burst forth with relentless fury. Away they sped again, to commit further havoc. No one thought of offering any resistance; so paralysed were the energies of all men, that while their houses and property were being consumed, they looked on, without attempting to interfere. At length the savage horde appeared satiated with plunder, and other yet more brutal passions excited them to fresh deeds of violence. Hapless, alas! were the unfortunate beings who fell into their power: they laughed at the tears and prayers of their victims—wealth could not bribe them; the whole of the city was at their disposal—fear could not intimidate them; they thought not of the morrow, and that day they were lords of all. High rank, youth or beauty, were but greater incentives to their fury—many a grey-haired sire, and gallant husband or brother, fell beneath their blood-stained knives, in striving to protect those they held dearest to them on earth. Not greater atrocities were ever committed in a town taken by assault, and given up to the indiscriminate license of an infuriated soldiery, than did those vile monsters of humanity perpetrate during that and the following days.

At length, having loaded themselves with spoil, four of the ruffians separated from their companions, and slunk away together: they had been the most active and choice in seizing on the booty, leaving to others the work of spilling blood to gratify their savage dispositions. Two of them were the wretches we introduced in the commencement of this chapter, the others had joined them during the day, in their course through the city, and with one of them also we have already as intimate an acquaintance as we could wish.

“Hist, Miguel, hist!” said one, fearful that their companions should hear them. “Where dost purpose to hide thy wealth? It will never do to place it where others may come and seize it.”

“Fear not for that, man, there are plenty of places where none will think of hunting; the earthquake has stood our friend in this case, as in many others,” said Miguel.

“Say then, Miguel, where wouldest advise to hide it—under the ruins of some church or other?”

“No, fool, no; the churches were too full of gold, and numbers will soon go to dig for it,” answered his companion. “That would never do. Hark thee, Baltar! There are plenty of vaults under the monasteries and convents, where no one will think of going. Who will take the trouble to dig out the lazy monks or nuns? So come along; we have no time to lose, and then we may set to work and gain more.”

Away they hurried, the other two men following. They examined several places, but none seemed to satisfy them. They saw that they were observed, and, drawing their knives, they waited till the others came up.

“What! think you to rob us of our property?” they exclaimed, with dreadful curses, flying at them with the fury of savage beasts. They plunged their knives into the breast of the foremost, who, with a shriek, sunk dead among the ruins; but the other was prepared for them, and, instead of flying, he stood on the defensive.

“This is folly, to kill each other, when we have so much better employment for our time,” exclaimed the man who was the assassin employed by Count San Vincente, and he held out his hand towards those who had just slaughtered his friend.

They laughed. “You are a brave fellow,” said Miguel; “so come along. We will hide our booty together.”

They examined several other spots, without finding one sufficiently secure for their purpose; at last they reached a vast heap of ruins: not a wall was standing of what had once been an extensive building.

“Ah! this will suit us; and there is no one to observe us!” they exclaimed.

They looked cautiously around, and then, clambering over the remains of a garden-wall, they wandered among beautiful shrubs and flowering plants, which hid from their view the scene of havoc which surrounded them. Those had stood while the proud fabrics raised by the hands of men had fallen. In the centre were round tanks, which had in the morning thrown up glittering jets to cool the air; but the water had deserted them, and the gold and silver fish lay dead at the bottom. A little farther on, the plants were crushed by the fallen stones; and here and there might be seen some female form, killed by the same terrific shower, in a vain endeavour to escape; or, perhaps, at the moment of the shock, employed in tending those very plants which now bloomed sweetly near her. From others the breath had scarcely departed; and the ruffians even fancied that they heard faint sighs proceeding from some; but, uttering brutal jests, they passed on among the ruins. They looked about in every direction, to discover some place convenient for their purpose; and, after climbing over some of the ruins which had fallen the furthest outward, Miguel, who was in advance, came to a spot where, descending a short distance among the vast piles of masonry, he observed the top of a small arched door. He endeavoured to open it, but his single strength was not sufficient.

“Here is the very place to suit us!” he exclaimed, calling his friends to his assistance. “None will ever think of looking here. Now remember, comrades, we swear by the holy Virgin never to reveal the spot to any one, or to rob each other.”

“Agreed, agreed!” said the other two.

“Now let us see into what place this door opens; for if we stay talking about it, the city will be half burnt down before we have time to collect our share of the booty which Providence has bestowed.”

The three ruffians having come to this resolution, set to work with energy to clear away the stones and mortar which blocked up the entrance to the vault,—a task which, after some labour, and considerable risk of being crushed by the crumbling walls, they at length accomplished. But they had now a new difficulty to overcome; for it was discovered that the door opened against them, having evidently led into an outer chamber, in which they were standing. They, in despair of opening the door, which resisted all their efforts, were about to relinquish the attempt, when an iron bar, which had fallen from some window, caught Miguel’s eye, and, searching about, they discovered several others. Thus armed, they renewed their attacks; and, although the door was strong, it could not resist their joint efforts, when once they had managed to insinuate the ends of the bars within a crevice in the wall. On entering beneath the arch, they found themselves in a low, vaulted passage, which appeared to lead off in two different directions; but, after proceeding a short distance in the dark, the foremost stumbled over a heap of stones, which had, probably, fallen from above; and, having no light to guide them, nor means at hand for procuring one, they were fearful of going further. Returning, therefore, to the mouth of the vault, they examined it narrowly on every side, and succeeded in discovering a place in which they considered their treasure would be secure, and could be removed without labour at any time. This was a small recess in the wall,—for what purpose formed, it was difficult to say, unless it could be one of those living tombs in which common report affirms the unhappy victims of monastic tyranny who had broken their vows, or divulged any of the secrets of their order, were at times immured. Having convinced themselves that they could not fix on a better place, they deposited all their treasure within it, in three separate parcels, piling up stones in front, so as completely to conceal the entrance; and then, closing the door, and throwing rubbish in front of it, to secure it further, they hurried off in search of fresh booty.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

It is a very common saying, that there is honour among thieves; in which, from the information we have collected on the subject, we perfectly agree, provided they are convinced it is their interest to maintain it; but, at the same time, they will ever be very unwilling to place more confidence in each other than they know is absolutely necessary. So thought Senhor Rodrigo, the most noted villain and professional bravo of Lisbon, and so think we, perhaps, of a certain portion of mankind, who are not professional cut-throats, and would be furious if they were not considered men of perfect honour. As soon, therefore, as the bravo saw his two companions busily engaged in plundering, and after he had contrived to fill his own pockets with gold, and had secured as much plate as he could conceal about his person, he hastily returned to the place of concealment they had selected, from whence he intended taking out his own share of the booty, and hiding it with what he had last acquired, in a spot known only to himself. He had cleared away the stones in front of the door, and was about to open it, when he heard his own name called from above, and, looking up, he saw Miguel and Baltar descending towards him with threatening gestures.

“What, Senhor Rodrigo, is this the faith you swore to keep with us? But we are even with you, you see.”

“I came but to hide this further booty I have collected; so banish your fears, my friends,” he answered.

While he was speaking, having advanced a little way towards them, the door was suddenly forced open, and a man appeared before them, bearing in his arms a female form. The robbers started, as if they had beheld an apparition from the grave; for the gloomy appearance of the spot was increased by being contrasted with the bright glare which the burning houses and churches in the neighbourhood cast on the surrounding ruins. It was some seconds before their courage returned; for, daring and savage as they were, anything which they fancied supernatural had greater power over their minds than either fear of the wrath of Heaven or of their fellow-men.

“Thank Heaven, loved one, we are at length freed from that dreadful vault. Speak, my Clara—speak, to assure me that you have truly recovered!” exclaimed Don Luis; for he it was who, with Donna Clara, had thus, by the unintentional agency of the robbers, been restored to liberty.

When the robbers entered the vault for the first time, he had been remaining for some hours in a state of stupor, hanging over Clara, who was in one of those deep swoons which, in some instances, have been prolonged for several days. The first rush of fresh air completely restored his senses, as it aided to revive her; but his dismay may be conceived, when, unperceived by them,—for the ruffians passed close to him,—he discovered, by their conversation, their desperate characters. Summoning all his presence of mind to his aid, he remained perfectly quiet, trusting that the men would quickly retire, and allow him to escape with his precious burden in safety. He felt her pulse: it already beat more strongly, and he prayed Heaven to restore her completely. Anxiously he waited till the robbers had secured their treasure, when, what was his horror to hear them close the door behind them! He trusted, however, to be able to force open the door, towards which, bearing Clara in his arms, he groped his way, aided by glimmering streams of light, which found an entrance through various crevices in the door, affording to his eyes, so long accustomed to darkness, sufficient assistance to enable him to reach it. He was driven then to the most maddening despair, when he found that all his strength was not sufficient to open it. He called loudly for assistance; but no one heard him, till at length, in hopeless agony, he seated himself on the ground, with Clara in his arms, under the dreadful anticipation of a lingering and painful death;—though it was not for himself he felt, it was for the loved being he supported; and it was more with regret than joy that he found her gradually reviving. After some time, she uttered a few incoherent words, as one just awaking from sleep; but she was again silent, evidently with the impression that she was labouring under some dreadful dream; and Luis felt that it would be cruelty to assure her of the truth: he was fearful of making even the slightest movement, lest it should recall her to consciousness; and he now mourned that she had not rather died at the first shock of the earthquake, than suffered the tortures she must now too probably undergo.

The return of Rodrigo, and alone, gave him renewed hopes of escape, which were quickly disappointed, when he found that the robber had desisted from opening the door, and was, besides, joined by his companions. During the dispute of the ruffians, Luis, finding that the door yielded to his pressure, forced it open; and, trusting that they would be too eagerly occupied in their own quarrel to pay attention to him, with tottering steps he bore Clara from the vault. The fresh air revived his strength; he looked with horrified amazement at the scene of destruction around him, lit up, as we have said, by the blazing houses; but this was no time for thinking; so, without further delay, he commenced climbing the ruins on the opposite side to that where the ruffians stood. He had already reached the summit of the mound, and was able to look on every side, to decide in which direction he should attempt to escape, when the robbers recovered from their surprise.

“What ho! a spy on our secrets!” exclaimed Rodrigo, climbing after him. “Know that no one passes through this city without paying tribute to us, so deliver up the burden you carry, fair sir.”

On hearing these alarming demands, Luis, removing Clara to his left side, and supporting her with his arm, drew his sword, prepared to defend her to the last. As he stood thus on the summit of the pile of ruins, a few shattered walls of the neighbouring church still remaining at a little distance, the red glare of the burning houses casting a bright reflection on one side of his figure, he offered a fine subject for the painter.

As Rodrigo approached him, now that every feature of his countenance was so clearly visible, he recognised in him the Count San Vincente’s enemy, whom he had been hired to murder, and the fidalgo who had slain his brother in the forest, and deprived him of his booty.

“Ah! senhor, we at length meet again, where there are none to interfere and save you,” he exclaimed, attempting to reach the spot where Luis stood; but the latter kept him at bay with his sword, and the ruffian having no other arms than his knife, was afraid of closing with him till his companions came to his assistance.

Luis saw that to speak to them would be useless, and that he must depend entirely upon his own courage and firmness, and had he had but one assailant to contend with, he might have been successful in defending himself, and the being dearer to him than life; but while Rodrigo was attacking him in front, the other two robbers, climbing up the ruins, suddenly seized him from behind, and the dagger of the former had almost reached his bosom, when the ruffian’s arm was arrested by a person who had sprung up to the spot without being perceived by any of the party.

“What, ye villains! were ye about to murder my friend, Don Luis, while he was protecting a lady, too?” exclaimed a loud voice; and Rodrigo, turning fiercely on the new comer, beheld Frè Lopez.

“What demon brings you here, when you are not wanted?” cried the robber, turning on him fiercely, while his companions still held Luis, who in vain endeavoured to break from them.

“Don Luis’s good demon, I suppose,” answered the Friar. “You forget that your figures can be clearly seen from the street; so, as I chanced to be passing, and observed some fighting going forward, I came to see what it was about. Ah! as I live, that is the very lady who gave us so much trouble in the forest! Hark you, Rodrigo—” Saying which, the Friar drew the robber aside. Their conference was but of short duration, yet it seemed perfectly satisfactory to both; when the Friar addressed Luis, who still remained completely in the power of the other two: “I regret to say, senhor, that though I have been the means of saving your life, I can do nothing further for you; and you must consent to this gentleman’s terms, though you may think them rather hard.”

“Gladly. Any sum he fixes on I will endeavour to pay,” answered Luis; “and you, senhor, who have already done me so great a service, will, I trust, aid me in conveying this lady to a place of safety.”

“You are mistaken, senhor,” interrupted the miscreant, with a laugh of derision. “I give the Padre your life; but I am to have the lady for my share; so yield her up without further delay.”

“Never! I will die first!” exclaimed Luis; but, at that instant, by a signal from Rodrigo, one of the men who held him threw a handkerchief over his head, and dragged him backwards, while the principal ruffian forced Clara from his arms. She was by this time sufficiently recovered to comprehend fully all the horrors of her situation; but the wretch heeded not her cries for mercy as he bore her away, while Luis exerted all his energies to free himself from the others; but they, throwing themselves on him, held him down securely, though with considerable difficulty. His struggles exhausted their patience.

“Give him a taste of the steel!” muttered Miguel; “that will keep him quiet enough.”

“Hold!” said the Friar, who stood by, a quiet spectator, without attempting to interfere; “Rodrigo will soon be at a sufficient distance, and then you may set the young fidalgo at liberty. In the mean time, senhor,” he added, turning to Luis, “I would advise you to be quiet; your exertions only fatigue, without benefitting yourself in the slightest degree.”

“Either destroy me at once, or let me fly to save that lady,” exclaimed Luis, in a tone of agony.

“It is not wise to seek death before your time,” returned the Friar; “and as for saving the lady, who is already a long way from this, I have not the power to do it. Had I not arrived at the moment I did, the lady would have been in the same condition she now is, and you would have been dead; so you, at all events, have to thank me for your life.”

Luis scarcely heard what was said; indeed, so intense were his feelings, that they deprived him of utterance and power of thought, except the all-engrossing one of Clara’s fate. Had he been aware of the lawless license practising in the city, his agony would, if possible, have been yet more intense.

“When are we to let this young fidalgo go?” muttered Miguel; “I cannot stay here all night watching him; and I must have some security that he does not betray to any one a spot where we have hid a few trifles we found scattered about the streets.”

“I will answer for his honour,” returned the Friar; “but stay a little, stay a little, you are in too great a hurry, man.”

Though Luis had recognised in his preserver his quondam acquaintance, Frè Lopez, by his tone of voice and his expressions, he certainly could not have done so by his outward appearance; for he had now laid aside all pretensions to a holy character in his costume. On his head he wore a three-cornered hat, and a full wig, with side curls and pigtail; his waistcoat, of flowered silk, was of great length; and his coat and breeches of large proportions, the pockets being now filled, almost to bursting, with a variety of little articles, such as trinkets and gold pieces, which he also, probably, had picked up about the streets; a sword by his side, completed his very unclerical costume. He had seated himself near Luis and his captors, and amused himself for some time in addressing, now one, and now the other; though, from the former, he could seldom elicit an answer.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

We fear that our readers will begin to suppose that we are romancing, when we describe so many hair-breadth escapes and unexpected interferences, which preserved the lives of the principal characters mentioned in this work; but we can assure them, that some equally wonderful befall us every day of our lives, though we are not aware of the circumstance at the time. The simple case of a man meeting a friend in the street who twitches his button off while he is inquiring after his wife and family, may be equally providential with our examples, though not so romantic; for, had he gone on, he would have been crushed by the falling chimney, or drowned when the bridge gave way. Of course, when we are writing the adventures of people who are continually getting into danger, it must be expected that they will escape somehow or other; and we suspect that most of our readers would find great fault if we allowed them to do so in a common-place, every day sort of way; we shall therefore, as we have before declared it our intention, adhere strictly to what we find in the documents before us.

We left the unfortunate fidalgo in front of the ruins of the Convent of Santa Clara, lying in a swoon, caused by the supposition of his daughter’s death, and watched by her nurse, who continued sobbing and wringing her hands in the bitterest grief.

Night came on, though it was scarcely perceptible on account of the bright fires which blazed in every part of the city, and still they continued in the same position; nor did Captain Pinto, according to his promise, return.

“Oh, Santa Maria Jozé! my sweet mistress!” cried poor Gertrudes; “you are torn from us for ever, in your youth and beauty! alas! alas! and here am I, a worthless old woman, alive and well, mourning for your loss!” and again she wrung her hands in despair.

On a sudden her master sat upright, and looked wildly around, unable, at first, to comprehend what had happened; but the sights which met his view soon convinced him of the dreadful reality. His heart was indeed bowed with grief, his pride fallen—his only son was slain, his fair daughter lost to him for ever! Yet, though convinced of her fate, he could not tear himself from the spot—and whither could he go? It was impossible for him to venture through the ruined streets, amid burning houses and falling walls. He had just arrived at a complete perception of his misfortunes, when a shriek struck his ear. A father’s senses were not to be deceived—it was his daughter’s voice! He rose to his feet as a man rushed by, bearing a female form in his arms. There was no deception—that cry for aid was Clara’s—that shape was hers. He in vain endeavoured to arrest the man in his flight—he attempted to pursue—but his strength failed him. He called on him, in accents of despair, to restore his child; but the ruffian heeded him not, and the fidalgo sank exhausted on the ground. Old Gertrudes, also, had striven to follow; but, weak from fatigue and long fasting, she had not taken many steps before her strength failed her; and, uttering cries for assistance, she fell near her master.

Though the group of homeless and helpless nuns still remained where they had first collected, they were in too apathetic a state to offer any assistance. No one thought of impeding the vile ravisher in his course, for, alas! such scenes had already become but too common, and the whole city was now filled with shrieks and piteous cries for mercy, unheeded by the savage miscreants who had become the undisputed lords of all.

Captain Pinto’s search for his friend proved, of course, as unsuccessful as at first, till at length he recollected the state in which he had left the bereaved father of his friend’s mistress, when, with great difficulty procuring some food, notwithstanding all the dangers to be encountered, he set forward to carry him assistance, accompanied by Pedro and another man, whom he engaged for the purpose.

The ruins of the convent being on the outskirts of the conflagration, he was able, by making a long circuit, to approach it with less risk than he had before encountered; but, when he arrived there, it was some time before he could discover the object of his search, now utterly unable to assist himself. The two servants, therefore, supporting the fidalgo between them, and the old nurse being somewhat revived by some of the food the Captain had brought, which she contrived to eat between her sobs and exclamations of grief, he led the way towards the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, which was in the uninjured part of the city. As the party were leaving the fatal spot, a man, with a drawn sword in his hand, rushed up to them with frantic gestures, and the noble sailor’s satisfaction may be conceived when he discovered his friend Luis. Pedro, in his joy and hurry to embrace his master, almost let the fidalgo fall to the ground; although Luis offered, it must be confessed, but a poor subject for congratulation. From the broken exclamations of Senhora Gertrudes, the Captain had understood that she fancied she had seen her young mistress, but he was unprepared for the excited vehemence of Luis.

“Fly with me to overtake the monster!” he exclaimed, without waiting to receive his friend’s congratulations on his safety. “Which way did he bear her? Have none of you seen her? speak!”

“Of whom do you speak, my friend?” asked Captain Pinto; “for I have but just arrived here.”

“Of Clara, of my own Clara!” ejaculated the unhappy lover; “she has been torn from me in the moment of preservation, and conveyed I know not whither; but, as you love me, aid me to recover her. Does no one know which way she was carried?”

The old nurse now recognised Luis. “Does the senhor ask for my young mistress?” she exclaimed. “I knew it was her, I knew it was her, and a savage has carried her away.”

“Speak, woman, speak!” exclaimed Luis, with agitation. “Which way did he go?”

“Alack! senhor, I scarcely know; we have moved since then—but let me see: yes, it was there—that was the way;” and she pointed in the direction of a street, on each side of which the houses were burning furiously, the walls every instant falling with loud crashes, and throwing showers of sparks into the air.

As old Gertrudes pointed to the street, Luis, heedless of the dangers, was about to break away from his friends towards it, but the Captain held him back. “It is impossible that she could have been carried amid that fiery strait, or that you could enter it without instant destruction. Hear reason, my friend; it is now some time since she could have passed here, and since then she must have been conveyed to a considerable distance, where it will be utterly impossible, unaided, to discover her. I know her danger is great, but I cannot believe there breathes the hellish monster who would injure her. It is far more probable that she has been carried off by some designing ruffians, for the sake of receiving a reward for restoring her; or, if not, be assured that Heaven will, by some unexpected means, protect her innocence. I cannot believe it possible that any harm can happen to her. Assist me now in conveying her father to a place of safety; you see his helpless state, and you will be performing an act gratifying to her. To-morrow we will collect some friends and attendants, and having procured authority from the Minister, we will search for her in every direction, examining every one we meet, and I trust that success will crown our efforts.”

With such like persuasions Captain Pinto strove to calm his friend’s mind, although he well knew how fallacious the hopes he endeavoured to excite would too probably prove; but he felt that any deceit was excusable to prevent him risking his life in a search which he knew must be futile; and also, not being in love himself, his judgment was cool, and he was very unwilling to accompany him, from the conviction of the uselessness of the attempt. Pedro, also, though a very brave fellow, and very much attached to his master, was not quite a hero, and, as he had already seen horrors enough to make him wish to avoid further danger, he joined in attempting to dissuade him from pursuing his search on that night, when, at length, the Captain cut the matter short by seizing his arm and attempting to drag him along. “Come, my friend,” he said, “you have frequently been guided by my advice; be so now, and accompany me whither I will conduct you.”

“What! and leave my mistress to her fate? Never! I go alone, if no one will accompany me!” exclaimed Luis; and breaking suddenly from Captain Pinto, he rushed in the direction Gertrudes indicated that the ruffian who bore away Clara had taken. Pedro, who was supporting the fidalgo, was compelled to place his burden on the ground before he could pursue his master; nor could the Captain even attempt to overtake him with any hope of success. Don Luis had already disappeared down a street, the houses rocking and burning on each side, when Pedro reached the commencement. At that instant, a lofty building, not fifty yards before him, fell with a loud crash, completely blocking up the street, and sending up showers of sparks and flame, like the bursting forth of a volcano.

Pedro stood aghast, trembling at his own narrow escape, and at the too probable fate of his master, with whom all communication was now hopelessly cut off. The Captain now coming up, said, in an agitated voice, as he led him back to where the fidalgo had been left,—“We can be of more service to the living than to the dead. We will see this old man in safety, and then return to search for your master.”

This was, indeed, the only thing now to be done, and after many difficulties and much labour they reached the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda. The door was open, and the mansion deserted, though it appeared not to have been pillaged, and after searching in every direction, it was discovered that the inmates had taken refuge in the garden, where they were collected beneath some orange trees; still uttering lamentations for what had occurred, which were increased when they heard the account Gertrudes detailed to them of the loss of Clara, and on seeing the state the fidalgo was in. The ladies were collected together in the centre, and their female attendants and men servants around them, all wringing their hands and sobbing, not one of them thinking of raising any covering to shelter themselves, or bringing out benches or chairs to sleep on. The Captain, however, with a sailor’s activity, set to work to make such arrangements as were practicable, for the comfort of the ladies and of the unfortunate fidalgo, who, as yet, gave few signs of being conscious of what was going forward. The servants worked but slowly, and were afraid of entering the house, although they did not hesitate to obey the Captain, who, it must be remembered, was a perfect stranger among them; but, on occasions of danger and difficulty, the man of courage and talent will always command obedience. Overcome with fatigue, the gallant Captain and the faithful Pedro, after snatching a short rest, again set out in search of Don Luis.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Twice had the sun risen over the city of desolation since the dreadful catastrophe of the 1st of November; and the flames yet raged in every part. Nearly twenty thousand persons, it was supposed, had been destroyed by the earthquake; and the greater number of the remaining citizens had quitted the fatal spot, and were encamped in the open fields in the neighbourhood; some with scarcely clothes to cover them, and without food to supply the cravings of hunger. Here all classes and orders of people were promiscuously mingled; respectable citizens reduced to abject poverty by the entire destruction of their property; the hapless virgins dedicated to the service of Heaven, driven from their sanctuaries among the most lawless and abandoned of mankind. Servants and their former masters; ladies, accustomed to gentle nurture, among mechanics, soldiers and porters; the virtuous and the profligate, the rich and the poor, the noble and the beggar, in the same wretched condition. The whole fabric of society was completely disorganised; murders, robberies, and all species of crimes were committed with the most flagrant daring; and naught was heard but groans and cries of distress. Slight shocks still continued to be felt at intervals of every half-hour; famine also had visited them; and, to add to their disasters, the effluvia arising from the vast number of dead bodies which choked up the streets, threatened them with a pestilence; so that hundreds of those who were able had already taken their departure to other towns; and the city would have been completely deserted, had not Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho, now created Prime Minister, exerted his utmost power to prevent so unfortunate an event to the kingdom.

It was now that he exhibited, in the greatest degree, that energetic character, and those extraordinary abilities which distinguished him among his countrymen. Having received full powers from the King to act as he judged expedient, both day and night he drove from place to place in his carriage, to observe what was most necessary to be done,—it serving him for his bureau, his couch, and his parlour; the only food he took on the first day being a basin of broth, which the Countess Daun, his wife, brought him with her own hands. His first care was to cut off all communication between the burning part of the city and that which remained entire; for to extinguish the conflagration was beyond his power, or the means of man to accomplish; his next was to despatch messengers into all the surrounding districts, to collect provisions for the houseless inhabitants; and his third was to send round to all the parochial clergy and heads of yet existing convents, to urge them to impress on their congregations and inferiors, as a duty both grateful to Heaven, and called for by man, to bury the dead without delay.

This last order had at first, owing to the paralysation of their energies, with which terror and misery had affected all men, been but negligently obeyed; and the streets were yet, in some places, actually blocked up with the dead, particularly in front of the churches, where they lay piled in heaps, mangled in every shocking way; some burned to cinders or scorched by the flames, and others torn almost to pieces by the savage dogs and vermin. Such sights were, indeed, dreadful to behold, but the eyes of those who had ventured into this arena of devastation and confusion had already become familiarised with them. Some of the noblest in the land had, with philanthropic boldness, wandered amid the ruins, to bear succour to those who might yet providentially remain alive beneath them; and among the first of those charitable persons, who set so bright an example to their fellow-men, was Don John of Bragança, a cousin of the King’s, and brother of the Duke of Lafoens, well-known about that time, in France and England, as the Duke of Bragança. It was reported that, in his presence, a young damsel was dug out of a cellar, in perfect health, on the sixth day, and it was fully believed by the pious that she was, as she affirmed, saved from destruction by clasping a figure of Saint Anthony, which was found in her embrace.

But to return to the day we first spoke of. From all the yet existing churches, mournful processions issued, headed by priests or friars, and accompanied by parties of seculars carrying biers, who perambulated the streets, and bore the bodies of the wretched victims, either to the water’s edge, from whence they were conveyed to the centre of the Tagus, and sunk with weights; or else to large receptacles prepared in the neighbourhood of the city, when quick-lime was thrown in on them. But, though these toiled all day, little progress appeared yet to have been made in the sad work, so great was the number of the dead.

They were not the only people seen among the ruins; for the ruffian banditti continued their depredations, unawed by the summary punishment of two or three of their number, who had been seized in the fact, and hung, by the Minister’s orders, without further trial. But there was one who belonged to neither of those classes, who had been seen, night and day, constantly wandering in every direction, gazing at every female corpse he passed, and eagerly eyeing every person he encountered, fearless of danger from the burning edifices, and disregarding the menaces of the vile wretches he often interrupted in their lawless pursuits. His countenance was worn and haggard, and his dress disordered and soiled, though, from his air and general appearance, he evidently belonged to the Fidalguia. He was closely followed by another person, who, although pale and wearied, did not exhibit the same signs of mental prostration and wretchedness, and was, from his costume and manner, apparently the servant of the first. The day was nearly spent, but still he wandered on, uncertain which way to direct his steps. He stopped to question each person he met; but all considered him as one whose brain had been turned by the horrors of the times, and, disregarding him, hurried by. On he wandered, his search proving, too clearly, as fruitless as at first, till he observed a naval officer, followed by a party of men in uniform, at a little distance: he hurried towards them.

“Have you discovered any traces of her?—have you any chance of finding her?” he eagerly exclaimed, addressing the officer.

“Alas! my dear Luis, no,” answered Captain Pinto. “I have as yet been unsuccessful; but the Minister, to whom I recounted your sad tale, has sent for a person who will to-morrow accompany you in your search, and will be of more aid than all the soldiers of the kingdom. He declares that, if these atrocities, which have disgraced humanity since the fatal day, do not cease, he will inflict such severe chastisement on all malefactors as will effectually terrify others from continuing the like excesses. In the mean time, come and take some rest, or you will to no purpose wear out both body and mind with fatigue.”

“I cannot rest until I have recovered her; or, if she is lost to me for ever, death will bring me the only tranquillity I can hope for,” answered Luis, in a tone of deep melancholy.

Pedro, who had soon discovered and followed his master through all dangers with constant faithfulness, heard this declaration with dismay, and joined the Captain in endeavouring to persuade him to quit his hopeless search for a time, to recruit his strength; but it was not till darkness came on, the first that had shrouded the city for the last three days, for the flames were now subsiding, that he consented to return to the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, to snatch a few hours’ troubled rest.

Captain Pinto was obliged to leave him, to perform certain duties he had undertaken by the Minister’s desire, in watching the banks of the river, to prevent the escape of robbers with their booty in that direction.

On the following morning, the carriage of the Minister was beset by numerous persons complaining of the fresh and atrocious outrages which had been committed during the past night.

On hearing the cases, he directly wrote the following decree, in the name of the King:—

“It having been represented to me, that, in the city of Lisbon and its neighbourhood, since the first of the month, many atrocious and sacrilegious robberies have been committed,—churches have been profaned, houses have been broken open, and people, even when endeavouring to save themselves from the falling edifices, have been assaulted with violence in the streets, to the great scandal, not only of Christian piety, but even of humanity,—and considering that like crimes, by their turpitude, make the perpetrators unworthy of the advantage of the usual process of trial, and indispensably require a prompt and severe chastisement, which may put an end to so horrible a scandal,—I decree, that all persons who have been, or shall be, apprehended for the above-said crimes, shall be tried by the simple verbal process by which the deed may be proved, and that those who are found guilty of those crimes, shall be forthwith forwarded, with the said verbal processes, to the Chief Regidor of the House of Punishment, who shall name, without delay, those Judges whom he is accustomed to name in like cases, that they may, without loss of time, also pass judgment on all the aforesaid processes verbal, so that those judgments passed by them shall be put into execution on the very day on which they are passed, and all without embargo of any laws, decrees, edicts, and ordinances whatever to the contrary, because these are passed for this particular purpose, they still retaining their vigour. The same Chief Regidor having thus understood, let him carry it into execution.—Belem, 4th November, 1755.”

Then the Minister despatched orders to the magistrates of every barrier of the city, to erect as lofty gibbets as they possibly could; another decree ordering that the condemned should be immediately hung up, and there left to rot in the sun; and before many days had passed, two hundred persons graced the gibbets; and though probably a few innocent ones may have been among them, the greater number were doubtless a good riddance from society; and, as the Minister observed, violent diseases require violent remedies. This proved the truth of the saying; for the atrocities were at length put a stop to for a time. One man in chains may inspire a youthful Turpins romantic ardour; but we suspect two hundred ghastly corpses would have sickened even Jack Sheppard of his lofty ambition.

We find ourselves anticipating the course of events. As soon as the Minister had ordered the erection of the gibbets, he bethought him it might be as well to assemble some troops to guard them, lest, as the rogues and vagabonds were pretty numerous, they should take it into their heads to hang thereon the honest men instead. Soldiers were, therefore, marched from all directions, so as to form a complete cordon round Lisbon, allowing none to enter or go out without a pass from the chief of police.

It was next thought advisable, since the aforesaid rogues and vagabonds could scarcely be expected to be so convinced of the enormities of their crimes, as to come and offer themselves voluntarily for punishment; and that as they could not possibly be hung without being first caught, any more than a hare can be cooked when still ranging her native fields, that bodies of police should be selected, under fit and proper officers, to apprehend the villains. Some were chosen among the military; but, as the soldiers, it was suspected, might be too apt rather to imitate than suppress the excesses, the greater number were respectable citizens, who were glad to volunteer under good leaders, among whom our friend Captain Pinto was the first chosen.

Even before the morning broke, Luis had again commenced his search for Clara, which proved fruitless as before. On meeting his friend, however, he accompanied him to visit the Minister, to whom he was about to make some reports.

“I have not forgotten you, my young friend,” said Carvalho, as soon as he saw Luis. “Though all require my care, yours is a peculiar case, and here is one who will be of more assistance to you than any other I can afford;” and he called a man to his side, to whom he gave some directions, and motioned towards Luis, when he added, “Farewell, and may success attend you!” and again turned to the public business in which he was engaged. That with Captain Pinto was soon despatched, when, accompanied by Luis and the person the Minister had introduced to him, he returned to the city.

Not to keep our readers in suspense as to who this personage was, we may as well intimate that he was our acquaintance, the ci-devant cobbler, Antonio; though at present he bore none of the signs of his trade about him, but rather had the appearance of a quiet notary, or sedate shopkeeper.

“I will do my best to serve you, senhor,” he said; “but I fear much we shall not discover the young lady. In ordinary times I might have been successful; but now I cannot set about the work in the way I would have done.”

Luis, at Antonio’s desire, gave him an exact description of Clara, (though perhaps he painted her with the pencil and colours lovers are apt to use,) and then of the ruffian who had carried her off, and of whom, for the same reason, it may be supposed, he did not speak in the most flattering terms; but his hearer, who seemed inclined to smile at the narration, made due allowances for both; and by the time the party had reached the ruined part of the city, he had made himself fully master of all the circumstances of the case. He then, turning to Captain Pinto, begged him to separate from them for a time, appointing to meet him at a certain hour, if he was successful in the first steps he intended to pursue.

Accompanied by Luis and Pedro, who would not leave him, he then plunged into the most intricate and narrow lanes of the city, climbing over ruins, among which were seen the mangled and burnt bodies of the wretched inhabitants, scaring, as they proceeded, the gorged dogs from their horrid feast. Now and then only they met a human being; for none, except for the purposes of concealment, had ventured where, even in better days, few were willing to wander unprotected. Antonio spoke to each one he passed, but all shook their heads in answer; yet, not discouraged by his want of success at first, he pursued the same plan, though the appearance of his acquaintances, it must be confessed, did certainly not afford Luis a very high opinion of his character, for a more villainous set of cut-throats it had never been his lot to encounter, although they were habited in the richest and most costly garments; but these were so evidently part of the spoils they had collected, and sat so ill upon them, that they only increased the ferocity and wildness of their countenances. Once or twice they met persons with whom he held rather longer conferences, and he appeared by degrees to be gaining some information which was satisfactory. At length, as they were turning the corner of a street, they came suddenly on a person who endeavoured to escape them, by hurrying, at some risk, among the smoking ruins, the moment he saw them approaching; but Antonio was too quick for him, and running after him, caught him by the arm. The person made no further resistance; but, on the contrary, as soon as he saw who was his pursuer, he embraced him cordially, seeming to feel much pleasure at the rencontre, accompanying him quietly as he walked on, followed at a little distance by Luis and Pedro.

“Do you know, senhor, that I have seen the figure of that man before,” said the latter to his master. “I caught a glimpse of his countenance, and as I am a sinner, and hope to be saved, it is no other than the hermit of Nossa Senhora da Pedra, and the holy padre Frè Lopez.”

“Thank Heaven,” ejaculated Luis, “that we have met him. It must be him, and he is the only man who will be able to assist me;” and he was hurrying to overtake Antonio and his companion, when the latter, giving him a parting embrace, hastened off in a different direction.

“Who was that person?” inquired Luis, as he joined Antonio.

“A very great vagabond, senhor, but yet not near so great a villain as many who profess to be virtuous. I have known him for a long time, and if he could but resist temptation, he would be an honest man; and I would trust my life in his power, provided it was not his interest to take it.”

“If he is the man I supposed, he saved mine three days ago,” returned Luis. “Is he not called Frè Diogo Lopez?”

“That is one of his names, to which he has as great a right as to the coat he now wears; but he is no friar, senhor; no, no, he is too honest for that; but if he is tempted to commit any piece of villainy, he assumes the character, as most appropriate for the purpose, he says. He once entered a monastery as a lay brother, where he learned all the habits and customs of the monks; but they did not accord with the ideas of morality he then entertained, so after a couple of years he quitted them, and has ever since wandered about the country in various disguises, as suits his purpose; but if the holy Inquisition get hold of him, I fear he will not be able to escape their clutches.”

“But has he given you any information that may be of service to us?” interrupted Luis eagerly.

“That is to be proved,” said Antonio calmly; “I know the man from whose power the Frade saved your life, and who carried the lady off; a greater villain there does not exist in Lisbon. I have learned so much from our friend, though the difficulty will be to find this Rodrigo; and the chances are that he will adorn one of the newly-raised gibbets before long. I hope, however, to have an interview with him before that time; and then the sooner he is hung, the sooner will there be one villain less in the world.”

“Is this the only clue you have been able to discover?” said Luis, dejectedly. “I fear that it will be of little service.”

“Fear not, senhor,” answered Antonio: “in the first place, you have the satisfaction of knowing that the lady was not killed by the falling houses, when Rodrigo carried her off; and, in the second, I have reason to suppose that it was not for his own sake he committed the outrage.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” ejaculated Luis.

“In the mean time, our friend the Frade is making inquiries which may assist us,” continued Antonio. “And we will now, by your leave, find Captain Pinto, to whom I wish to make some reports.”

They accordingly proceeded in search of the Captain.

When Don Luis and his companions arrived at the spot where they had agreed to meet Captain Pinto, which was at an open place called the Caes Sodrè, near the royal arsenal, they found the people under his command with several prisoners in their custody.

Antonio examined the countenance of each, but he did not recognise any one till he came to a man lying bound on the ground, his clothes torn and bloody, with two of the guards standing near him, badly wounded. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Senhor Rodrigo, you know me, I think?”

“Yes,” answered the ruffian; “I am not likely to forget you.”

Luis looked on with anxiety, for he beheld the ruffian who had carried off Clara; but Antonio, desiring to be left alone with the man, knelt down by his side, while Captain Pinto detailed to Luis the circumstances of his capture. His last act had been in character with his former life. The guards were passing a house from which loud cries were heard to proceed, and on entering it an old man was found weltering in his blood on the floor, and a woman was struggling in the grasp of the ruffian, whose shrieks prevented his hearing their entrance. Before they could seize him, however, he had plunged his knife into her bosom; and then turning on them, had wounded two in his attempt to escape; but at last, after a desperate resistance, he was captured.

Luis shuddered as he heard the account. “Has my beloved Clara been in the power of a wretch like this?” he thought.

Antonio held some minutes’ conversation with the bravo. “For what purpose did you carry off the lady?” he said, after some time.

“To serve another, the greater my folly,” was the answer.

“And she is there still?” inquired Antonio.

“Yes, if he has not removed her.—Go, I would have my revenge on him. He has deceived me twice, and you may gain the ransom I expected—and then I shall die happy.”

Before night the corpse of the noted bravo, Rodrigo, was seen hanging from the highest gibbet at the gates of Lisbon.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

We have observed, in the course of our very desultory custom of reading, that most novelists delight in endeavouring to make their readers suppose, somewhere about the middle of their second volume, that their hero, or heroine, in whose fate by that time they may have begun to feel some interest, has been engulfed beneath the raging waves, or dashed to pieces from falling off a lofty, sea-worn cliff, or murdered by banditti in a forest, or blown up in a castle, or has made his or her exit from this terrestrial scene in some equally romantic way; for we cannot fill our page with further instances. Now, we confess that, after a little experience, we were never deceived by such ingenious devices. In the first place, very few writers have the hardihood to kill their heroes or heroines at all, for the reason, that few readers approve of the principle; and, in the second, they would not think of doing so till the end of the third volume, as they would find considerable difficulty in continuing their story without them. For our own part, rather than commit so atrocious an act, we would alter the truth of history, and defer the dreadful catastrophe to the final scene.

Having made this preamble, we must return to the ruins of the Santa Clara Convent, at the moment the bravo Rodrigo had torn Clara from the arms of Don Luis, after their almost miraculous escape from destruction. She had just recovered sufficient consciousness to know that she was separated from him, and had no power to liberate herself. In vain she called on Luis to save her, as the ruffian bore her away. He carried her quickly across the ruins, passing close to the spot where her unhappy father then was; and when he saw himself pursued, not knowing by whom, he dashed down the nearest turning with his fair prize, regardless of her cries and prayers for mercy. His progress in that direction was soon impeded by the burning buildings, when he was obliged to turn back part of the way, and make a circuit through the northern part of the city in the direction of Belem, towards which he proceeded on the very opposite side. No one regarded him as he passed: they were either wretches like himself, or unhappy beings who had, that day, perchance, lost all they loved on earth, and heeded not aught but their own misfortunes; besides, alas! such spectacles had become too common to attract the notice of any: no one attempted to rescue her from the ruffian’s power. At length, weary from his exertions, for the road he was obliged to follow was long, steep, and intricate, Rodrigo stopped to rest. Even over the most savage bosoms lovely innocence will always be able to exert a softening influence, and we believe that there is no man born of womankind so hardened as not to feel its power. Clara, though she thought not this, for terror had deprived her of all power of thinking, took this opportunity, by a natural instinct, to entreat her captor to restore her to her father, promising him a high reward for so doing.

“So you said once before, lady, when I had you in my power; but I shall not be again disappointed, depend on it,” answered the robber. “However, don’t be alarmed, for your lover, as I guess him to be, is, as far as I know, still alive, no thanks to my intentions, though; and I am going to take you to one who will treat you well, and pay me highly for my trouble and loss of time, so there is nothing after all to cry about.”

“But my father will pay you any sum you demand,” quickly responded Clara, thinking she had made some impression on the man’s feelings.

“No, no,” he answered, “he would not have shut you up in a convent if he cared much about you; besides, for what I know, he may be killed, as thousands were to-day; now my employer was alive a few hours since, and I intend this time to make sure of my reward.”

The thoughts of her father’s death stopped Clara’s further utterance, and the bravo, again lifting her in his arms, bore her onward. He now again turned through some partially ruined streets, several fierce bands passing him who uttered horrid jests, and seemed inclined to dispute possession of his prize; but his fierce threats of vengeance made them desist, for his character was well-known to all.

Full two hours had passed ere he finally stopped before the door of a low house, which appeared uninjured; for while the lofty temples and the proud palaces of the great had been overwhelmed in ruin, the humble shed of the mechanic had escaped.

He forced open the door, and entered without hesitation. An old woman was seated on the floor, trembling and weeping with alarm: a small oil lamp burning near her gave just sufficient light to show the wretched state of the apartment.

He placed Clara on one of the two only chairs the room afforded, and then fastened the door behind him. “Come, rouse up, mother, and stop your tears, the earthquake will do no further harm. Here is a lady I have brought you to attend upon, and remember you must treat her properly.”

“Take her away—I want no ladies here!” muttered the old hag, without looking up.

“Hark you, mother! I expect to be well paid for my trouble, and you shall have plenty of gold if I return her safe to her friends. My taste is not for such delicate fish as this.”

“Am I to have plenty of gold?” said the old woman, eagerly. “Yes, yes, then I will do all you require.”

“That is well,” answered Rodrigo. “Treat her kindly, and give her food, if she can eat such as we poor people have; and take care she does not escape, or we shall lose our reward—remember that.”

“Ay, ay, we are to have gold, are we? then I will take care she does not get away,” returned the hag, glancing at her with her baneful eyes.

“I have said, no harm shall happen to you, lady, so cease crying,” said the bravo, turning to Clara; and, whispering a few words in his mother’s ear, he quitted the house, locking the door behind him, and taking away the key.

The old woman followed her son’s directions, without addressing a word to her prisoner; but, weak and faint as Clara was, she could not, as may be supposed, partake of the fare placed before her. Her witch-like hostess then supported her to a rough couch in a corner of the room, on which, more in a state of fainting than sleeping, she forgot, for a time, the horrors of her situation, though her brain yet retained a confused impression of the terrific sounds and dreadful scenes she had encountered.

It was daylight before the bravo returned, bringing a basket of delicate provisions already cooked and prepared with care, which he placed on the table, without addressing Clara, and withdrew in haste, merely nodding to his mother as he passed out, again locking the door behind him. A few hours’ rest had partially restored Clara’s strength, and enabled her to take a little refreshment; but to all her questions the old woman was as uncommunicative as her son, pretending entire deafness, to escape being troubled with further ones. Her manner was, however, sufficiently respectful, and she was attentive to her prisoner’s wants; but her behaviour was actuated, evidently, more by the hopes of gain than by any feminine or kindly feeling. As she moved about the room, at her work, muttering curses, she would every now and then cast suspicious glances towards the fair girl; but whenever a slight shock of the earthquake was felt, she would fall down on her knees and kiss and fondle the image of a saint, the only ornament the room possessed: as soon, however, as it had passed away, she would again rise and pursue her former occupations. On these occasions, Clara could not avoid trembling with alarm, as she saw the fragile building vibrating with the shock, expecting every instant to be overwhelmed in its ruins; but the earthquake providentially did no further damage than cause pieces of mortar to fall from the ceiling, or the walls, till at last she learned no longer to dread it.

Clara had remained many hours in a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, not only as to her own future fate, but as to that of Luis, whom she had last beheld in the power of the ruffians; and of her father, for she could not tell if he had escaped the destruction, which appeared to her universal, though she was unconscious of the horrors of the commencement; when the door of the room was opened from without, and a tall figure entered, wrapped in a large cloak, so as completely to conceal his person, a black mask covering his features. He bowed respectfully towards her as he entered, and then advanced close to where she was seated, her lovely head bent down, and her face hidden in her hands.

“Lady!” said the stranger, “I have been deputed hither by one who adores you to distraction, and who has heard with deep concern of the violence which has been offered to you; but he has taken measures to prevent the return of the ruffian who brought you here, and if you will accept of my escort, I will conduct you to a place of greater security.”

Clara started at the first sound of that voice, which made her tremble with fear, for the tones seemed familiar; but then she thought she must have been mistaken, yet she mistrusted the speaker.

“I can trust myself with no one who requires a mask to conceal his features,” she answered; “yet let me know to whom I am indebted for assistance, and I may be grateful.”

“Circumstances prevent my declaring myself, lady, at present,” returned the stranger; “but confide in my honour, and I will escort you from this wretched hovel to an abode, which, though unworthy to receive you, is yet equal to any the city, in its present ruined state, can afford.”

“Pardon me, senhor, that I hesitate,” said Clara; “for I dare not confide in one unknown; but if you will carry the information to my father that I am here, I shall be deeply grateful.”

The stranger listened to this answer with signs of impatience.

“I would do what you wish, fair lady, but I grieve to say your father, if, as I believe, you are the daughter of Gonçalo Christovaö, fell a victim to the destroying earthquake.”

“Oh! say you do not speak the truth; you surely must have been mistaken,” she exclaimed; “my father cannot be among the dead!”

“It is but too true, lady,” was the answer; “and I fear you have few or no friends who have escaped it.”

On hearing this sad assertion, Clara bent down her head and sobbed violently, while the stranger stood by, beholding her in silence for some minutes, when she suddenly looked up. “I pray Heaven you may have been deceived in the account you give,” she said; “but if not, as you are a man, and, as I believe, from your air, of gentle birth, I entreat you to discover one who has already risked his life to save mine, and in whom I may place entire confidence—Don Luis d’Almeida. Go, senhor, inform him that I am here, and he will strive to show his gratitude to you.”

Clara, in the innocence of her heart, referred naturally to the person on whom all her thoughts and feelings centred; but her words seemed to give anything but satisfaction to her hearer. He stamped vehemently on the ground, as he answered, between his closed teeth,—“Know you not, lady, that you speak of one who is the murderer of your brother? and he, surely, is not a fit guardian for you.”

She was no longer deceived in the speaker’s voice. She rose calmly from her seat:—“Count San Vincente,” she said, “the disguise you wear cannot conceal you from me; nor do I believe your words; for I feel firm in the conviction that Don Luis could not have slain my brother. I knew not even that he was reported to have been killed; nor do I believe, from your assertion, that such is the case. Now, leave me, senhor; for I know full well you dare not venture to use violence towards a noble maiden. Find means to inform my friends of my situation, and I will not breathe my suspicions; if not, dread the consequences of this outrage.”

“You mistake, fair lady; I am not the person you suppose,” answered the stranger; “and though I am unwilling to use threats to compel you to do what I would wish you to perform of your own accord, you must remember that you are completely in my power, and that I fear not the vengeance of your friends; for none will know that you were not lost in the ruins of the convent, till he who seeks to wed you thinks fit to produce you as his bride. Will you now consent to accompany me?”

“Never!” answered Clara, firmly; “I would rather trust myself to the common ruffian who brought me hither, than to one who is capable of deceit and treachery so vile to gain his wishes. Hear me! Whatever betide, I will never become the bride of the Conde San Vincente, and him I know that I see before me!”

“You will gain little by your resolution, lady, which, like women in general, you will be glad to break on the first occasion,” answered the stranger. “I leave you now to reflect on my words; and remember, that even if Don Luis survives, which I know not he does, you cannot wed him who has slain your brother; and that such is the case, is well-known by all. Farewell, lady; I trust that, by to-morrow, you will have considered the subject more calmly, when I will again visit you.” Saying which, the stranger, bowing low, quitted the cottage, without even deigning to regard the old woman; but Clara was confirmed in her persuasion that he was a principal person concerned in the outrage offered to her, by hearing him again lock the door and withdraw the key, as the keeper of her prison.

For the remainder of the day she was unmolested by further visits; but if she even attempted to approach the window, the old beldame followed her closely, to prevent her, in case she should make any signal for assistance to those passing by; a chance not likely to occur, seeing that the cottage stood in a lane but little frequented at any time, and one end of it being now completely blocked up with ruins.

On the morning of the second day, a knock was heard at the door, to which the old woman went directly, when a hand was thrust in with a basket of provisions, as before, and immediately withdrawn. About two hours afterwards, the tall masked stranger returned, again bowing profoundly, as he advanced towards Clara.

“Lady, I trust that a night’s rest has enabled you to perceive your true condition more clearly than you did yesterday,” he began. “Pardon me that I appear importunate; but though, as I before assured you, I should be unwilling to force your inclinations, yet I must insist on your accompanying me, without resistance, from this wretched hovel, which is not fit to be honoured: by your presence.”

“Neither my opinion of my gaoler, nor my feelings, have changed since yesterday,” replied Clara; “nor is the treatment I have received at all likely to alter them; and, as I have before declared, I will not quit this house, unless in the company of friends in whom I can confide. Force, I think, you would scarcely dare exert, and it would defeat your own purpose.”

“Trust not to such fallacious hopes, lady,” answered the stranger, fiercely; “you know not to what lengths your coldness will drive one who long has lived but in thinking of your charms! By a fortunate chance you were placed in my power, and, believe me, I value you too much to allow you to escape. You understand not my character when you thus venture to trifle with my feelings, for I am one whom the fear of consequences never daunts in the pursuit of my aims; threats cannot terrify me, and all laws I despise, or can elude. Yes, Donna Clara, I will not deny it is of myself I speak. I would woo you as a humble suitor for your hand; but, if you spurn my love, I have the power, and will exert it, to command you as a master; ay, and I will so tame that proud spirit, that you will crave as a boon what you now so haughtily refuse.”

“Never!” exclaimed Clara, with energy; for all the lofty feelings of her noble race were aroused within that bosom, by nature so gentle, and formed for love. “I fear not your unworthy threats. Sooner, far sooner, would I die, than yield to your wishes; for each word you have spoken has but increased the hatred and contempt I have from the first felt for you.”

“Ah! is it so, lady?” said the stranger, his voice trembling with rage. “You will find yourself miserably deceived. Hear me for the last time. I have determined to try what leniency will effect in your sentiments; but, if you still refuse to listen to reason, you will lament the consequences of your folly. Do not suppose that you can escape from hence; for you are here as securely guarded as within one of the dungeons of the Jungueira; so build no hopes on that account. But I will not attempt to persuade you further. I now again quit you, to return but once more, when a priest will be in readiness to unite your fate with mine; and be assured that my impatience will brook but short delay. Till then, Donna Clara, farewell!” He bent low, and attempted to take her hand, but she hastily withdrew it. “Well, well, lady,” he added, in a scornful tone, “to-morrow, methinks, you will act differently;” and, as on the former occasion, he bowed, and quitted the cottage. When, no sooner had he gone than the fair girl’s self-possession gave way, and she burst into a flood of tears.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Sad was the change which three days of intense anxiety and suffering had worked on the fair cheek of the still lovely Clara. She might have been compared to the fresh-blown rose, drooping beneath the hot blast of the sirocco, yet still retaining its fragrance and beauty, and which the balmy dews of evening would quickly restore to health and vigour. The old hag had never for an instant quitted her, nor had she been able to extract a single sentence from her, even to learn in what part of the city she was imprisoned. Her thoughts all the time dwelling on the too probable loss of her father, and brother, and of one who she could not help confessing was even dearer than either, yet she did not rely on her informer’s declaration of their deaths; and she endeavoured so to nerve her courage, as to resist every attempt he might make to compel her to become his bride. Though he had spoken in a feigned voice, and she had not seen his features, she had no doubt as to the identity of her gaoler; and she felt assured that terror of the law would prevent him from perpetrating any violence,—the abduction only of the daughter of a fidalgo being punishable by death, with confiscation of property; though, had she known the disorganised state of society since the earthquake, her alarm would have been far greater. Since the masked stranger had visited her, no one had appeared, and she was now, with dread and agitation, looking forward to his return. She heard footsteps approaching—her heart beat quick—they stopped at the cottage-door, against which a single blow was struck; but the old woman paid no attention to it. It was again repeated, with the same result. Several louder knocks were then heard, when the hag approached the door, and placed her ear against it, in the act of listening.

“Who is there?” she asked, in a voice like the croaking of a raven. “Go away, and leave an aged lone woman in quiet.”

“Open the door first, and we will not harm you,” said a voice.

“I cannot open the door, for my son has gone away, and taken the key: you must wait till he returns,” answered the hag.

“We should have to wait long enough,” muttered some one outside.

Clara’s heart throbbed yet quicker; but it was with hopes of liberation; yet she feared to cry out, for the eye of the hag was fixed on her with a malignant glance; and while she held up one finger to impose silence, her other hand clasped the handle of a sharp-pointed knife, with a significant gesture.

“What is that you say about my son?” she asked, with a startling energy, which made Clara’s blood thrill with dread.

“We speak not of your son, old woman,” said the voice. “Open the door quietly, or we shall be obliged to force it, in the name of the King.”

“You had better not attempt it,” she croaked forth. “My son is not one who likes to have his house visited in his absence, so go your ways till he returns.”

“Delay no longer, but force the door!” said another voice, which caused a tumultuous joy in Clara’s bosom, for she knew it to be that of Luis.

“First tell me where my son is?” cried the beldame.

“Your son Rodrigo is in prison, where you will join him, if you do not directly obey our orders,” said the former voice.

“Ah! is it so?” she shrieked. “It shall not be without cause, and I will be revenged on you first.” Clara uttered a cry of terror—loud blows resounded against the door,—and the vile hag, with her glittering knife upraised, rushed towards her, her eyes glaring with savage fury; and, with a yell of derisive laughter, she aimed her weapon at the bosom of the fair girl; but her foot slipped, and she fell to the ground. In a moment she rose again, and pursued her victim, who endeavoured to escape her rage.

“Luis, Luis, save me!” cried Clara, in an agony of fear.

The blows against the door were redoubled. The hag, with frantic gestures, followed her. Her last moment seemed come, when the door was burst open; and, while several men seized the wretched woman—yet not before she had plunged the knife into her own heart—Clara, with a cry of joy, fell fainting into her lover’s arms.

“Where is my son? you said he was taken,” muttered the old woman, as she forced away the hand of Antonio, who was endeavouring to stanch the blood flowing from her wound.

“By this time he is dangling from one of the new gibbets at the gates of the city,” answered one of the men.

“Then I will disappoint those of what they would much like to know,” she muttered.

She then suddenly endeavoured to tear herself from the grasp of those who held her, uttering shriek upon shriek, mixed with dreadful curses on all around.

“Ay, ay, I see my son in the flames of purgatory, and the devils are dragging me down to him. I will not go yet—I will live to curse those who have slain him. May their end be like his, and may they dwell for ever in the torments of hell!”

She ceased not uttering exclamations like these till her evil spirit fled its vile tenement.

Luis bore Clara from the dreadful scene, accompanied by Captain Pinto, and followed by the rest of the party, till they reached an open space, where a carriage was in waiting; and, as he placed her in it, and took his seat by her side, he caught a glimpse of a tall man, whose features were concealed in a cloak, watching them at some distance. Having received the warm congratulations of his friend, who was obliged to return to his duty, while Pedro and some of the men prepared to accompany him as guards, Luis offered a purse of money to Antonio, as a recompense for his exertions.

“No, senhor,” he answered, declining it; “I have but performed the commands of the Minister, and I seek my reward from him alone;” and, bowing profoundly, he took his leave.

We must not attempt to transcribe the conversation of Clara and Luis, as they slowly proceeded by a long and circuitous road towards the residence of the old Marchioness. She first asked eagerly for her father, when Luis assured her that though too unwell to engage personally in the search for her, he was in no danger, and that her presence would soon recover him. Why, we know not, but she did not even mention her brother’s name. Luis then told her of his wretchedness, and almost madness, at her loss, and she confessed to have suffered as much, which afforded, doubtless, great consolation to him. Next he told her of all the fruitless endeavours he had made to recover her, which had worn him nearly to a skeleton; and, in answer, she told him of the visits she had received from the masked stranger, and of her suspicions as to who he was; when they both agreed, that, if she was right, the Count had acted so cautious a part, that though he as richly deserved hanging as his assistant Rodrigo, it would be utterly impossible to punish him by any legal means, though Luis vowed internally to take the first opportunity of chastising him. Yet they only slightly touched on these subjects; for there was a far more engrossing one which occupied the greater part of the time, as on it they had very much to say. What it was we leave our readers to guess, it being remembered that they had not met with an opportunity to converse since the evening when they first made their mutual acknowledgments of love; and they agreed that what they then felt was cold and tame, compared to their present feelings, after all the dangers and sufferings they had undergone.

We, however, prefer leaving what are usually called love scenes to be described by our fair sister authoresses; because they can paint the characters of their own sex with far more delicate touches, and, besides, know much more about the subject than we old men possibly can, whose days of tender endearment have so long passed by. We shall, therefore, carry them safely to the gates of the palace, when Luis, lifting Clara from the carriage, supported her to the garden, where, under various tents and sheds, the family were still residing.

The first person they encountered was old Gertrudes, who, the moment she observed them, gazed at them as if they were a couple of spirits from the dead, and then rushing towards them, seized Clara in her arms, with cries and tears of joy, almost smothering her with kisses; and then seizing on Luis, joined him in the embrace, bestowing alternate kisses on him; and if, in returning them, which he was bound to do, he did make some slight mistake in the person, we think he is justly to be excused, considering he had never before ventured on such a liberty. He then resigned Clara into her nurse’s care, and was about to withdraw, when, clasping his hand, she raised it to her lips.

“Oh! do not leave me,” she exclaimed. “I dread the thoughts of again parting from you: I know not what may occur: I fear some danger may happen to you, or I may again be committed to a convent. Come to my father, and he will thank you for having again saved his child!”

“You had better first go alone and see the senhor your father,” interrupted the nurse. “There is a vile story told of Don Luis, which I know is not true, but which makes your father dislike to see him.”

“Senhora Gertudes speaks rightly,” said Luis. “Go, beloved one, alone to meet your father, and I doubt not he will soon learn to think more justly of me. I will not quit the palace.”

Persuaded by this assurance, Clara accompanied the nurse to the shed in which the fidalgo was lying. Gertrudes first prudently entered, to advise the father of his daughter’s safety and return, but soon again came out and beckoned her to approach.

No sooner did he behold her, than raising himself from his couch as she stooped to meet him, he pressed her in his arms, sobbing like a child the while. “Thank Heaven that you are restored to me, my Clara!” he exclaimed; “for I could not bear the double loss I thought I was doomed to suffer,—two children within two days!—it was a heavy blow; but now you are recovered, I must, if so I can, be reconciled to your brother’s death.”

“My brother dead?” responded Clara, in a tone of sadness. “Alas! I heard, but did not believe, the tale.”

“It is but too true, I fear,” said the Fidalgo. “He was slain by one you must in future learn to hate,—Don Luis d’Almeida!”

“Oh, do not, do not believe that one so brave, so noble, could be guilty of such a deed! Twice, at the hazard of his life, since we first met, has he saved me from destruction. At that dreadful time, when all others were flying for their lives, forgetful of parents, children, and all the nearest ties of kindred, he rushed among the falling ruins, braving a horrid death to rescue me! In every way has he proved his love,—and he surely could not have slain my brother. Oh, do not, my father, believe that lying tale which says so; for I, whatever befalls, can never cease to love him.”

“At the moment you are restored to my heart, I cannot speak a harsh word, my child,” said the Fidalgo; “but remember that you are vowed to the service of Heaven; and were you not, you could not wed one whose hands are stained with a brother’s blood, although guiltless of the intention of shedding it. That Don Luis has risked his life to save one dear child from destruction, disarms me of my revenge; but from henceforth you must be as strangers to each other.”

Poor Clara scarce heard the concluding sentence; the bright hopes which were budding forth with the first gleam of sunshine were suddenly blighted by this confirmation of the masked stranger’s report of her brother’s death; and instead of feeling joy at her return home, naught but clouds and gloom threatened her future days. She had no arguments to advance against her father’s decree; for she felt that what he said was just. Placing her head on his pillow, she burst into an agony of tears.

The fidalgo in vain endeavoured to comfort her; for he had no consolation that could avail to offer her. He assured her that her return had restored him to health and strength, and that he would not willingly contradict her wishes in anything; but that his confessor, Father Alfonzo, had told him that he must determine, if he recovered her, to keep to his original intention of dedicating her to the Church, as the most acceptable way of proving his gratitude to Heaven for the favour vouchsafed to him,—the Father promising not to cease his prayers to the saints to intercede for him, but more especially to the Holy Virgin.

To this the unhappy girl had not a word to answer: it was but, alas! too much in accordance with the creed she had been taught, and she had never even heard that a doubt had been started against its infallibility. Yet her heart rebelled against the decree; but she shuddered at her own feelings, and endeavoured to stifle them; for the lessons inculcated on her mind told her they were sinful.

After some time, in a voice trembling with grief and agitation, she inquired the manner of her brother’s death. Her father then told her, that on the morning after the sad occurrence, the one preceding the earthquake, he had become alarmed at Gonçalo’s not returning; when the Conde San Vincente called to say, with much friendly concern, that he had been with him on the previous evening, when suddenly they were set upon by several persons, among the foremost of whom he recognised Don Luis d’Almeida, who seemed bent upon engaging with Gonçalo, and that, after exchanging several passes, he saw his friend fall severely wounded; but from having great difficulty in defending his own life, he could not go to his assistance. While thus engaged, several persons who had taken no part in the fray had rushed up, and lifting Gonçalo from the ground, had borne him off he could not tell where, and that, as soon as this was done, Don Luis and his party had drawn off. The Count then said, that he had made every exertion to discover whither Gonçalo had been conveyed; and that he had at length learned from a man who had been engaged in the affair, and whom he could produce, that he had been carried off by order of Don Luis, and that he hoped, in a few days, to discover where.

The fidalgo then said, that the Count had called that very morning on him, having only just learnt where he was to be found; and that his worst fears had been realised. He said that Gonçalo had been conveyed to a house near where the fray took place, and had died of his wound the very morning that the awful catastrophe had occurred; that the house falling, had involved all its inmates in destruction, so that it was utterly impossible to discover any further particulars of the case. The fidalgo finished by lamenting that his own prostration of strength had prevented him from making inquiries, and searching for his children as he earnestly had sought to do.

Clara listened to the account the Conde had given with incredulous ears, and then, in return, narrated the adventures which had befallen herself, and her suspicions that it was from his power Luis had rescued her; but to this her father would not for a moment listen, affirming that he was the soul of honour, and incapable of such an act; nor could anything advanced by Clara convince him to the contrary. We have before remarked, that when once an impression had been made on his mental faculties, it was difficult to remove it. No longer able to bear the conversation, even of his daughter, he sank back exhausted on his couch.

Luis had long been anxiously waiting at the entrance of the garden for the return of Clara, when he saw her approaching with slow and timid steps. He hastened to meet her.

“Oh, Luis, I am very wretched,” she said; and she detailed the history she had heard from her father, as the Count had given it, at which the indignation of Luis was excessive; though, as may be supposed, he had no great difficulty in persuading her of its falsehood. Yet her tears flowed fast; for he acknowledged what she hoped to hear him deny, that, though he had striven to avoid it, her brother had been wounded by his hand. “Yet far rather would I myself have been the victim, than have spilt a drop of the blood of one dear to you,” he continued. “And believe me, did I deem myself your brother’s murderer, I would not have dared to touch you with my polluted hands.”

“Oh no, no, I feel that you are not,” she answered. “But, Luis, there is a sad foreboding at my heart, which tells me that we must part, and for ever. My father did not forbid me to see you to-day; though, alas! I know full well he will do so to-morrow, and then I dare not disobey his commands. Yet think not, Luis, that I shall forget you; that no power can compel me to do; and the remembrance that I was loved by you, will be a soothing balm to my heart for the few remaining years I have to endure my cruel lot. But you must learn to forget me, or to think of me as one already in her grave. You will enter the world, where there is much to drown your thoughts of the past, and where you will meet with one in whose love you may be happy.” As she came to the last sentence her voice trembled, and her tears flowed fast.

Luis clasped her in his arms, and she did not attempt to resist. He swore that he could never forget her; and that he could never love or wed another. He entreated her not to despair, or consent to return to a convent, and he promised that he would compel the Count to contradict the vile accusation he had brought against him; and that perhaps then her father might relent. That he could at once prove part of the Count’s story false, through his friend, Captain Pinto, who was with him at the time, and engaged in the rencontre. He said, indeed, everything that could possibly be said on the occasion, though he failed of imparting any of his own sanguine hopes to Clara; yet at times she gazed up into his face and smiled, but it was a smile more of sadness than of joy, and her tears again flowed unrestrained. How long the interview would have lasted it is impossible to say, had not Senhora Gertrudes, who had been in attendance at a respectful distance, hastened up to warn her that they must part; and at length Luis, imprinting another kiss on her brow, yielded her half fainting to her nurse’s arms, and hurried from the palace.

At the gate he found Captain Pinto waiting for him, who insisted on his accompanying him to his lodgings, and on the following day returned with him to the palace, where he went with the hopes of seeing Clara, or, at all events, having an interview with her father. He had been again unsuccessful in his search for the packet he had received in the hermit’s cave, and now all hopes of ever discovering it had vanished with the destruction of his father’s house; so he tried to console himself with the hope that it was unimportant; though the contrary would again and again recur to him. As he appeared, a servant handed him a letter, requesting him to read it at once. It was from the fidalgo, expressing his deep obligation to him for rescuing his daughter from destruction, and for having afterwards recovered her from the ruffian who had carried her off; but that these acts could not cancel the feelings he entertained towards the destroyer of his son, even convinced, as he now was, from what his daughter had told him, that he was innocent of any intention to commit the deed. He finished by requesting Captain Pinto would do him the favour of calling, adding, in a postscript, that he had desired his daughter not to see him again, and begging him not to attempt to seek her.

The Captain having but little time to spare, immediately requested to be conducted to the fidalgo, while Luis waited outside. He soon returned, shaking his head.

“The fidalgo is inexorable,” he said. “I have convinced him that you neither intended to kill his son, nor had anything to do with concealing him; hinting, that it was our suspicion the Count had done so himself. He seemed struck by the observation; and will make all possible inquiries on the subject; but he insists on your not again seeing his daughter, and he says that when he is perfectly convinced of his son’s death he shall return to Oporto, where she is again to enter a convent. It is extraordinary how slow some men are in forming an opinion, and how difficult it is to knock it out of their heads, when once there: now he has taken it into his that the Count is an honourable man, and has much at heart the interests of his family; nor can all Donna Clara and I have said to him persuade him that it was probably he who caused Gonçalo to be concealed after he was wounded, for the sake of making her hate you; and that also it was on his account she was carried away after you had saved her from the ruins. I trust, however, that I have made some impression, though he does not acknowledge it. But come, it is useless remaining here, and I must attend to these disagreeable duties imposed on me.”

Luis accompanied his friend, in a state of sad despondency; his hopes again blasted, even on the very threshold, as he had fancied, of happiness.

“Come, rouse thee, my friend,” said the Captain. “This is but one of the many trials you must yet undergo in your course through life, to perfect your character as a man; and fortunate are those who are so tried, that when the still greater struggles of life approach, they may not be found wanting. See, it is now my turn to raise, rather than depress your hopes. Look on what has occurred, with the calm eye of philosophy, and you will see that you are not only not in a worse state than you were before the earthquake, but have the additional consolation of feeling that you have saved the life of a very charming lady, I allow. Her father may relent; her brother may not have died from his wound, as we have only the Count’s word for it, and he may be proved to be a villain. Here is food enough to supply a lover’s hopes for a year at least. However, I not being a lover, must hurry on to take my dinner, so come in, and share it with me.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Several days had passed by since the dreadful morning of terror and destruction; and, though slight shocks were occasionally still felt, people had become accustomed to them, and were beginning to arouse themselves from the state of apathy into which fear had thrown them. It was a sad spectacle, to see the forlorn citizens wandering over the yet smoking ruins of their former habitations, seeking, in vain, to find the spots where they had dwelt in peace and happiness; but wheresoever they turned, naught but scenes of destruction and confusion met their view. In vain they endeavoured to recover their property; what the earthquake had spared the devouring flames had consumed. Precious jewels, and rich stores of gold and silver, had been reclaimed by the earth, from whence they were dug; and immense quantities of valuable merchandise had been destroyed; so that the before flourishing merchant or tradesman found himself reduced to bankruptcy and starvation. The historian of the time winds up his description with these words:—“The whole of the centre of Lisbon was reduced to one horrid desert, in which naught was beheld but mountains of stone and ashes; some ruined walls, blackened by the fire, alone rising amid this sea of confusion, sad monuments of those fine streets and spacious squares which, but a few days before, were full of wealth, and crowded with people.”

Now was the time that the sagacity, energy, courage, and perseverance, of the Minister were most conspicuous in restoring order, and preventing the site of the city from being deserted altogether. No sooner had the ashes cooled, than, assembling workmen, he caused roads to be cut through the ruins, and immediately commenced rebuilding the city, he himself planning those streets which now form by far the handsomest part of Lisbon.

Since Luis had restored Clara to her father, he had devoted all his thoughts and energies to the task of endeavouring to discover some traces of her brother; but he had as yet been completely unsuccessful. He had applied to Antonio, but he could not, or would not, afford him any assistance; and of the companions of the youth, some had been killed, many had fled, and the rest would not trouble themselves about his fate. Captain Pinto had not even been acquainted with him by sight; and his unhappy father was still too weak to leave his couch, to go in search of him, so that Luis began to fear that he should be for ever unable to prove his own innocence. The Count San Vincente, in the mean time, paid daily visits to the fidalgo, professing to be using his utmost exertions to discover his son, though Clara perseveringly refused to see him nor did he, indeed, appear anxious for an interview.

Luis had one morning wandered, accompanied by Pedro, nearly into the centre of the ruins; for there was something consonant with his own feelings in their desolate aspect, and he loved to be among them; perhaps, that the contemplation of the misery he beheld afforded, in the comparison, some alleviation to his own. The immediate scene we have already described;—beyond, on the hills above, were scattered the tents and huts of the inhabitants; while on every side, in the distance, arose the lofty gibbets, loaded with ghastly corpses,—a warning to the daring banditti who even yet prowled about, thirsting for booty, though their numbers and depredations had greatly been diminished by the summary proceedings against them. As he was returning homeward, he overtook a party of the new guards, dragging a man on among them towards the nearest hall of justice. He was about to pass them, when his steps were arrested by a voice calling to him from the crowd, in accents of entreaty, “Oh, Senhor Don Luis! save me, save me!—You know that I am an honest man and a friar, which I cannot make these gentlemen believe, and I shall be hung, to a certainty, before I can prove my innocence.”

On hearing himself addressed, Luis turned round, and beheld his quondam acquaintance, Frè Diogo Lopez, in the hands of the officials of the law.

“Speak a word for me, senhor,” he continued. “You know that I saved your life the other day; so, if you have a spark of the noble sentiment of gratitude, you will return me the favour on this occasion, or you will never enjoy another.”

“He speaks true,” said Luis to the guards; “and if you have no specific charge against him, I will be answerable if you will release him.”

“That is utterly impossible, senhor,” said the chief of the party. “I have no doubt but that you are a gentleman; but I know that this is a vagabond and a rogue. He is a friar, he says; and see, he is dressed in the gay suit of a dandy; besides, he can give no account of himself.”

“Few innocent people can answer, when first accused of some dreadful crime at which their soul revolts,” interrupted the Friar; “and then, as in my case, their hesitation is taken as a sign of their guilt. I can clearly account for wearing these clothes; for I had arrived in Lisbon late on the night preceding the earthquake, to be present at the festival of All the Saints; when, weary from my long journey on foot, I overslept myself; so that, when the dreadful event took place, I was fast asleep; and, hastily rising, I rushed out into the street, in a state more easily imagined than described. Now, being a modest man, I was anxious to take the earliest opportunity of supplying myself with garments, and, finding an unfortunate youth, who had been killed by the falling of a beam, with a decent suit on, uninjured, and seeing it could be of no further use to him, I took the liberty of appropriating it.”

“That is very likely,” said the officer. “But how came you to wear a wig, being a friar, senhor?”

“You would not wish me to wear such clothes as these without a wig, surely?” exclaimed the Friar. “That would have made me look ridiculous, indeed. No, senhores, I knew what was due to my character, and acted accordingly. However, I will not keep you waiting here, away from your duty, and would make you a present for the trouble you have been at to drag me along so far, had you not already eased me of all my spare cash; but I feel confident my friend, Don Luis d’Almeida, who has a sincere regard for me, will be happy, on my account, to make you a present, when you release me; and I shall certainly express to the proper authorities my high opinion of the way you perform your duty, on the very first occasion; whereas, if you blindly persist in your mistake, the Church will pronounce her anathemas on your heads, for having sacrilegiously destroyed one of her servants.”

It is difficult to say whether these arguments, which he poured out with a voluble tongue, would have had any effect, had not Luis, anxious to save the man, who, though a most impudent rogue, had preserved his life, pulled out a purse, distributing its contents among the guards. At sight of the money, they immediately began to consider that the Friar had been ill-used and unjustly suspected, though the circumstances under which he was taken warranted what they had done, which, perhaps, accounted for his not threatening them with punishment; and no sooner did they feel the crowns in their hands, than they set him forthwith at liberty. When he found himself free, he rushed up to Don Luis, embracing him cordially, and then made his captors a profound bow, as they moved away.

“Pardon me, senhor, for the liberty I have taken,” he said, “in pretending to be your friend; but I had no other chance. You have saved my life, and I shall ever be grateful. Perhaps some day I may have the means of proving it.”

“You may, perhaps, at once,” said Luis, eagerly. “You aided Antonio, the other day, in discovering where Donna Clara was concealed, and now, perhaps, you may be able to trace where her brother is to be found.” And Luis gave him an account of the case.

“I will do my best, senhor,” answered the Friar; “but at present I know nothing about the circumstance, though I have no doubt that villain Rodrigo, who was hung the other day, had a hand in it. I wish that I had never known that man: ‘evil communication corrupts good manners;’ and I confess that I have done some things I had better have left undone; but I made a vow just now, when I was in the power of those myrmidons of the law, that, if I escaped hanging, I would reform; and I intend to keep to my resolution. I will first endeavour to perform the service you require; and, to my shame I confess it, I know most of the rogues and vagabonds yet unhung in and about Lisbon, who are likely to give me information on the subject; and I then purpose to quit this city of sin and temptation, and return to my convent, and lead a pious life.”

“I applaud your resolution, my friend,” answered Luis; “and I shall, indeed, be grateful if you can afford the assistance I ask; though beware that you are not again captured by the officers of justice: you may not escape so easily.”

“Trust to my caution,” said the Friar. “A rat once escaped from a trap does not put its head in a second time. Now, adeos, senhor!—By the way, if you could lend me a few crowns, I should find them useful, and shall then be able to purchase another friar’s gown, under which I shall be safer than in these gay habiliments. There is nothing like the outward garment of sanctity, when a man’s character has been slightly blown upon.”

Luis gave him a few crowns, which he could, however, but ill spare, for which the ci-devant Friar expressed himself very grateful, and then hurried away as fast as he could.

In the course of his walk, Luis reached a hill, on which had stood the church of Santa Catarina, now a heap of ruins. A crowd of persons, of all ranks and ages, and of each sex, were assembled there, collected round a tall figure, who had mounted to the summit of a heap of stones, and was haranguing them in a stentorian voice, throwing his arms aloft with the wildest gestures, and rolling his eyes around in a delirium of enthusiasm.

Luis inquired of one of the bystanders who the preacher was who was addressing them.

“Know you not,” exclaimed the man, with a look of disdain at his culpable ignorance, “that he is one of the greatest prophets that has ever lived,—one to whom the gift of tongues has been vouchsafed, as to the apostles of old,—one in whose presence the kingdom of Portugal has been peculiarly blessed, and who, in these times of horror, pours balm into our hearts from his copious fountain of eloquence?—he is the great and pious Father Malagrida.”

When Luis had asked the question, the preacher had just ceased speaking for a moment, coughing, and blowing his nose, in which the greater part of his congregation imitated him.

“Hark!” said the person to whom Luis had spoken; “he again commences.”

The congregation now fixed their eyes with an intent gaze on the preacher as he began; and we are fortunate in being able to give an exact translation of his discourse, it having been printed in January, 1756; and a copy having, by a fortunate chance, fallen into our possession; and it serves to prove that some congregations, a hundred years ago, were not much wiser than they are at the present day, and that some preachers were able to convert the Scriptures to their own purposes with equal facility and talent.

See Note.

“Few are there among those who hear me, who do not wish to know the origin of these terrific convulsions of the earth; but this is not the first time that God has confided to the ignorant, and hidden from the wise, a knowledge of his profound secrets. ‘Abscondisti haec à sapientibus et prudentibus, et revelati ea parvulis.’ (Matt. xi. 25).

“Now, perhaps, some who deem themselves very clever, will endeavour to explain that they arise from natural causes; but yet a man may be very ignorant, and yet be able to convince them that such is not the case. God says it, (and it is enough that He should say it, to be infallible,) that there shall be a great change in our generation. ‘Generatio praeterit, et generatio advenit.’ (Eccles. i. 4.)

“Moreover, that the machine of the earth will always preserve a perpetual firmness. ‘Terra autem in aeternum stat.’ (Ibid.)

“Hence, it is not necessary to be a sage; it is sufficient to be Catholic, and to believe what God says, to know that the earth is immovable. Thus a believer will declare, although he be an ignorant man, notwithstanding that the Copernicanians say the contrary, who confide more on mathematics than on Christianity: it matters little that they affirm, with sacrilegious zeal against the sacred writings, that the earth moves, and that the sun is fixed; and it is in this way that wise men are deceived, and that the ignorant discover the truth. The earth, then, being immovable, for thus He says, who formed the centre of the world: ‘Firmavit orbem terrae, qui non commovebitur,’ (Psalm xciii. 2;) and its immovability being sustained by that omnipotent Idea with which the immense spaces of all infinity were built, what madness it is for those who call themselves sages to consider that the convulsions of the earth arise from natural causes. He only knows who made it with a nod, and can move it with a word. To such a height had this delirium, this inflation of science, as the Apostle calls it, arrived, that there was a sophist in the days of antiquity, who declared that, had he whereon to place his feet beyond the circumference of the globe, he could lift it with his shoulders; but this science is that folly of which Solomon speaks: ‘Stultitia hominis supplantat gressus ejus; et contra Deum servet animo suo.’ (Prov. xix. 3.)

“I know not whether this pride, this scientific impertinence to which philosophy always has recourse to banish the fear of strange events, is more presumption than as a punishment for our sins; and it appears fated that this should happen more in earthquakes than in other impulses of the Omnipotent hand.”

The preacher then proceeded to show by what sort of fire Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed, comparing their inhabitants to those of Lisbon, in no flattering terms.

“If you would know the cause of these calamities, listen not to what the mathematicians and philosophers say, but to what God says through the mouth of his prophet Isaias: ‘Movebitur terra de loco suo propter indignationem Domini exercituum et propter diem irae furoris ejus.’ (Isaiah xiii. 13.)

“Cease to persuade yourselves, then, that the earth is moved, not because the world is living, as some atheists say;—not because it swims on the sea, as Thales says;—not because the subterranean fires and waters meet, as Democrates says;—not because some of its enormous portions are hurled to the centre, as Anaximenes says;—not because the wind confined in the internal caverns of the globe bursts forth, as Aristotle says;—but because thus God shakes it, and because God drives it with an invisible force, proceeding from His sovereign indignation.

“There is no doubt that the prophet foretold the fate of Lisbon under the name of Babylon, when he says: ‘Vidi Angelum descendentem de caelo, habentem potestatem magnam; et exclamavit in fortitudine, dicens: Cecidit, cecidit Babylon.’

“Yes, the crimes of the people will ascend to heaven, and remind God of their wickedness, and He will cause their city to become a heap of ruins and ashes, and there shall be death, and mourning, and hunger. Did not all this happen, and did not the King, when he beheld his palace and his city in flames, weep and mourn? ‘Et flebunt et plangent super illam Reges terrae cum viderint fumum incendii ejus.’”

He then mentioned the riches that were destroyed exactly as the prophet foretold.

“What further evidence to convince you of the truth would you have? Yet here are others. Did not the pilots and sailors remain at a distance, on the bosom of the Tagus, to behold the miserable destruction? ‘Et omnis gubernator, et omnis qui in lacum navigat et qui in mari operantur longe steterunt.’

“Did not also the singers and musicians, who had come from various countries to increase the amusements of the Court, fly away, so that the sounds of their instruments were no more heard? ‘Et vox citharaedorum et musicorum et tibia canentium et tuba, non audietur in te amplius.’

“Are not these great and striking evidences that the destruction of Lisbon was foretold? And also all the holy fathers of the Church agree, that when Babylon was spoken of, some other city was meant, supposing it to refer to the destruction and burning of Rome; but now it is confessed by all, that St. John spoke not of Rome, but of Lisbon. Does he not speak of a city built on seven hills, great, flourishing, and powerful, and does not Lisbon stand on seven hills? I ought rather to say, did stand; and was she not one of the first cities in the world? And can there yet be a soul so incredulous, that he should persevere in declaring that this horrible calamity was chance, and not design?—was an impulse of nature, and not a Divine sentence?

“Yes, alas! some are so hardened as still to doubt; for that was also foretold: ‘Ingravatum est cor Pharaonis: induratum est cor Pharaonis.’ (Exod. vii.)

“Many are the hearts like Pharaoh’s, and many are the warnings they have received like him. Say, when the earth shook some years ago, did you then repent?—No. When it shook a second time?—No. And a third time?—No. Will you repent this time?—No. ‘Induratum est cor Pharaonis;’ for ‘Dixit insipiens in corde suo: non est Deus.’”

He then clearly proved that “Mulierem sedentem super bestiam coccineam, habens poculum aureum in manu sua, plenum abominatione,” etc, was a description of Lisbon, filled with people of all nations, addicted to all manner of abominations, particularly with Jews and heretics of all sorts. (We have heard rather a different interpretation given elsewhere.)

“And yet some will not believe,” he continued. “Well may I say of you, with Jeremiah, ‘Ostulti et tarde corde ad credendum!’”

As he proceeded, a bright rainbow was seen hanging over the ruined city.

“See, see! a portend! a portend!” he cried. “If you will repent, if you will no longer live in sin, you will be forgiven. ‘Arcum meum ponam in nubibus, et erit signum faederis inter me, et inter terram.’

“The same sign that God gave to Noah has He now given to us, to assure us that the earthquake will cease. ‘Et Iris erat in circuitu sedis’ (Apocalypse, iv.) But Iris is, it can be clearly shown, as Saint Eupremio and Saint Antonio call her, the holy Mother of God, who has sent the glory which surrounds her head to show us that His anger has ceased; and, as Saint Bernardo says of her, ‘Sicut Iris, Virgo scilicet benedicta, in circuitu Ecclesiae constituitur.’

“Oh, pure Virgin! who standest ever before the throne of your Son, with hands uplifted, seeking mercy for our sins, hear our prayers, and speak these words in our favour which Moses spoke for the Israelites. ‘Quiescat ira tua, et esto placabilis super nequitia populi tui;’ for if the Lord listened to his words, how much more will he to those of the Mother of God! and then let us hear those joyful words; ‘Placatus est Dominus ne faceret malam quod locutus fuerat adversus populum suum.’”

As Luis was attentively listening to this discourse, so full of theological erudition and acute reasoning, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turning round, he beheld the holy father, Jacinto da Costa.

“I am glad to see you yet an inhabitant of this world, my good cousin,” said the latter, in a reproachful tone; “though, verily, you took but slight pains to discover whether I had escaped this dreadful visitation; however, I have plenty of excuses to offer for you, so do not attempt to make them yourself. Nay, do not answer. I have heard frequently of you. Retire a little from this crowd of fools; for I should be sorry to rank you among them. So, you have recovered from your fit of wretchedness at the loss of our fair cousin, Theresa, and have a second time entangled your feelings in a love affair, which promises to be equally unsuccessful.”

“Alas! I fear so,” answered Luis; “and that must excuse me for not having visited you.”

“I am glad of it. You will have far more opportunities of exerting your energies on the wide field the world offers, than if you wed some weak girl, who would bind you to her apron-strings. Remember what I said to you some months ago; and, instead of repining at your fate, rejoice that the road I then pointed out is still open before you.”

“I shall never forget your words, Father,” answered Luis; “but were I likely to follow your advice, it would have been then, when I was inclined to despair; now I am buoyed up with the proud consciousness of having my love returned, by a being as lovely, and as perfect in mind and person, as this world can produce.”

The Jesuit gazed at his young kinsman with a cold and scornful smile. “So you thought was Donna Theresa,” he returned; “so you will think every woman you love, till you awake from your opiate slumber, and find ’twas but a flitting dream. I once thought the same, till the magic key to the human heart was committed into my hands, and in the all-powerful confessional I learned to unlock its secrets. Then I discovered how false had been my early impressions, at the same time that I felt an absorbing interest in the inexhaustible field of study opened to my view. Years have I now spent in tracing the intricate workings of the human heart, and yet, each day am I making new discoveries; but it is with the sex of whom you are most ignorant that I have attained the greatest knowledge, for the reason, that to me they are more ready to communicate their thoughts and feelings, while to you their whole aim is to conceal them,—whereas men rarely allow more to be known than they can avoid. However, I will not now enter into the subject. Accompany me to my convent, which has escaped uninjured, Malagrida and others are convinced, and endeavour to persuade the people, as a peculiar mark of Heaven’s favour; and so I might suppose, but that other parts of the city, inhabited by a class to whom the world does not impute much righteousness, have been equally distinguished. We will stay here a little longer, for I wish to know what our celebrated prophet will say to the people. I fear he may commit himself with our arch-enemy Carvalho, who would be delighted to have an excuse to annoy us. Yet, mark how easily the crowd are led, by one little better than a madman, to believe the most absurd nonsense, and to commit follies which make one blush for one’s fellow-men.”

Luis promised to accompany his cousin, for he had no reason to assign for refusing; yet the sophisms of the latter made but little impression on his understanding, though not a word the Jesuit had uttered was without cause: notwithstanding his extensive knowledge of human nature, he was perhaps deceived in the character of his young relative.

While they were conversing apart from the crowd, Malagrida again mounted the heap of ruins, and commenced speaking, in a voice which was heard for a wide circuit round.

“You have been firmly convinced, O ye people! that the late awful visitation was by the direct command of Heaven; but why did the Lord thus suddenly think fit to manifest his anger? Was it on account of the increased wickedness of the people? No! they had not become worse than they always were since the city was built; but it was because he looked down on the city and beheld his true and faithful servants, whose whole lives have been spent in forwarding his works, thrust out from their offices, and treated by the rulers of the land with scorn and neglect. Could he longer endure such impiety? No! Now mark where the whole fury of his anger fell. See, the once proud palace of the King a heap of stones and ashes! Why was this? Who is the culprit? Who but the King? And why? because he retains in his councils that impious despiser of the commands of the Lord,—that hater of our holy religion,—that persecutor and vile calumniator of the ministers of the faith,—that man in whom none ought to place trust,—whom all must hate,—that man accursed by Heaven, Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho! Do any here think I fear him? No, I scorn his hatred—I laugh at his fury. Why should I fear him? I who have stood boldly before the kings of the earth, and have rebuked them for their transgressions; and again do I rebuke the King who now reigns over this unhappy country. Let him beware; for even as the kingdom departed from Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon, so will his kingdom pass away from his hands, and whoso slayeth him shall be accounted blessed in the sight of Heaven.”

Malagrida still continued speaking, when Father Jacinto, taking the arm of his young cousin, led him on one side. “I had heard that the horrors of the earthquake had somewhat injured my holy brother’s brain, and I came here to endeavour to stop his preaching, fearing that he might commit himself, which he had indeed done; for one might as well expect to stop a winter torrent in its impetuous course as that man, when he has persuaded himself that the Spirit prompts him to speak. My only hope is, that his mad words may not be reported to that enemy of our order, the Minister, or Malagrida will be made to suffer severely for what he has said, and, at all events, banished from hence. I have heard enough to convince me that he is no longer to be trusted, so I shall not remain here. Come with me to my convent; for I can there speak to you on a subject which I have to communicate, but little calculated to raise your spirits; here I will say nothing.”

Luis, wondering, yet dreading what the Jesuit had to relate, accepted his invitation; and, as they were passing the crowd, he observed Antonio among them. He longed to speak to him, to ask him if he had gained any information regarding the young Gonçalo; but the crowd was so dense that he could not approach him, nor could he catch his eye, for there was no one more intently listening to every word the preacher uttered than he, nor would any of the bystanders have been supposed more devoutly believing.

“By the God of my fathers, that man strives hard to gain the glorious crown of martyrdom; and, if I mistake not, he will deservedly win it before long,” thought Antonio to himself. “He must be got rid of, or, mad as he is, he will find fools enough to follow his counsels, and among them they will commit some mischief before many days are over.”

Note. The whole of this Sermon is a literal translation.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

“Farewell, my kind friend,” exclaimed Don Luis, pressing the hand of Captain Pinto, as they stood together in front of their humble lodgings on the outskirts of the ruined city, while Pedro held his master’s horse and his own, prepared for a journey.

“Farewell, Luis; we may meet again under happier auspices, when I return from the cruise on which I am now despatched, and you recover from the effects of your disappointment and reverse of fortune.”

“The mere loss of fortune I could, as far as I am individually concerned, have borne with fortitude, but that it casts a cloud over the last days of my father’s life, and that it deprives me of the last chance of gaining Donna Clara.”

“But is your father’s property so irretrievably involved, that you may not hope to recover it?” asked the Captain.

“So Father Jacinto, my cousin, informs me, the mercantile house in which the whole of my father’s monied property was placed having completely failed, and the estates being mortgaged to their full value.—No, alas! I see no chance of ever being able to recover what we have lost; and with me, I fear, our once high name must end.”

“Don’t think of such a thing. When you least expect it, Fortune’s wheel will turn up a prize, and you will find yourself prosperous and happy. You do not mean to become a friar, I hope? You were fitted for nobler aims than such a life can offer.”

“I must visit my father,—I fear it will be but to close his eyes,—before I fix on my future course in life, though surely anything is preferable to hanging about the Court, a poverty-stricken noble, in greedy expectation of some paltry office, cringing meanly to those one despises, to obtain it, as is the fate of many, and would be mine also if I could submit to it; but that I never can. No, I would far rather sink my rank and name, and be forgotten by the world, than lead such a life.”

“You are right, Luis, anything is better than that contemptible hunting after place, in which so many men waste their energies; but you need not be reduced to that necessity,—the Minister will gladly give you employment whenever you ask for it, as he has already promised you, and he is not a man to forget his word.”

“That was when fortune appeared to smile on me, and I was not a suppliant for charity. You yourself have often told me that people are far more ready to bestow gifts on those who do not ask for them, than on those who are petitioners.”

“With people in general, such is the case,” replied the Captain; “but the Minister is not to be judged by the same rules as other men: besides, you have other powerful friends, whom you are not aware of, but who would be the last people to wish you to enter the profession of the Church—with due reverence be it spoken. Should you be deprived of your natural counsellor,—your father, do not take any step without consulting one in whose judgment you may place the fullest confidence,—I mean, Senhor Mendez. You will always hear of him at the house where he is now residing, and he will ever be ready to advise you. Do not act like some foolish people, who fancy that it betrays a weakness of judgment to ask advice, whereas another person, of even inferior capacity, may often, from viewing a case calmly and dispassionately, be able to form a better opinion than he who, having to act, is naturally biassed according to his feelings at the time. You will think me an old proser if I continue talking much longer; and, at all events, your servant and horses are impatient to be off, so once again, Luis, farewell.”

The friends embracing affectionately, Luis mounted his horse with a sad heart, and turned his back once more on all the horrors and miseries with which for the last few weeks he had been surrounded. He had, in despair, been obliged to give up his search for the younger Gonçalo Christovaö, not being able to discover the slightest trace of him, so that at last he felt convinced that he must have been one of the sufferers in the earthquake.

The fidalgo had recovered his strength, and a few days before had set off on his return to Oporto, accompanied by his daughter, and his confessor, who did not cease to insist on his fulfilling his vow of placing the fair girl in a convent; and it was at last agreed that she should enter the principal one in that city. Clara, broken-hearted and despairing, offered no opposition to the proposed plan, so that it was arranged she should commence her noviciate soon after her return home,—her younger brother, who had been before destined for the Church, being taken from Coimbra, where he was pursuing his studies, little thought of or cared about, to be treated henceforth as the heir of the house.

Luis heard of these arrangements through a message sent him by Senhora Gertrudes, who promised him that, happen what might, her young mistress should never forget his love and devotion; and that to his courage she owed her life and honour. This was the only particle of consolation he received; and, as it was the only food offered to his hopes, it was not surprising that they were left to starve.

He had just passed the last point from which the ruined capital could be seen,—Pedro, observing his master’s mood, not attempting to interrupt his meditations,—when a horseman from a cross-road suddenly joined them, and riding up to the side of Luis, accosted him.

“Good morrow, Senhor Fidalgo, you are early on the road,” said the stranger, in a clear jovial voice. “By your leave, I will ride on some way with you.”

“Many thanks, senhor, for your polite offer,” returned Luis, scarcely noticing the speaker; “but I should prefer travelling alone.”

“What! Don Luis d’Almeida, the brave, the gallant, and the gay, turned misanthropical?” exclaimed the stranger, laughing. “However, great changes are taking place every day,—honest men turning rogues, and rogues turning honest; one can never tell what will happen next.”

As the stranger was speaking, Luis regarded him attentively, nor was he long in discovering, beneath the military curled wig and queue, the fierce moustaches, and heavy travelling dress, the features of the ci-devant Frè Lopez.

“I trust that you are one of those making a change for the better, Senhor Padre,” said Luis; “but I expected to have met you in a dress more appropriate to your character than the one you wear.”

“I am glad to find that you do not forget your old friends, as I was at first afraid you were going to do,” returned the Friar. “With regard to my costume, you belie it, to say that it is not suited to the character of an honest man; for let me assure you, that, doubt it as you may, I have turned honest; and where can you find a more honourable dress than that of a soldier?”

“Yet, such is surely not suited to your character as a friar,” said Luis.

“Why not? may I not belong to the church militant,” returned Frè Lopez. “However, to confess the truth, I have my friar’s robes carefully wrapped up in my valise behind me, and I intend before long to don them for ever; for I am growing weary of the fatigues and dangers of the wild life I have led, and pine for the quiet and security of the cloister. Yet, let me assure you that it was for your sake I assumed my present disguise. I heard that you were about to travel this way, and, knowing that the roads were very far from safe, on account of the number of thieves who have been frightened out of Lisbon, I thought it my duty to accompany you, to prevent your suffering from them.”

“Many thanks for your attention; but are you not afraid of being apprehended yourself as a suspicious character? You heard that the Minister has issued an order to the corregidors of all the towns in the south, to stop every one who has no pass from him, in case they should be carrying off any property stolen from the city.”

“Oh yes, senhor, I heard of the order, and am provided with a pass, if necessary; but I should think it would not be asked for in such worshipful company as yours.”

“Then you had some other motive in favouring me with your company?” said Luis, scarcely refraining from laughing at the man’s impudence.

“People generally have more than one motive for their good actions,” returned the Friar. “Now, if I, being a rogue, preserve you from the rogues, you, in return, being an honest man, are bound to preserve me from the fangs of the law; therefore, the obligation is mutual, and I have the satisfaction of performing a good action, and receiving a service from you besides. Don’t think I am the less honest on that account. I tell you my motives, whereas another man would keep them secret, or, at all events, give you only one of them; but I scorn such hypocrisy.”

“You are honest,” said Luis.

“You flatter me, senhor,” interrupted the Friar. “It is the first time, for many a long year past, that I have been told so; and I will endeavour to merit the good opinion you have formed of me.”

“I shall be indeed glad to hear that you have foresworn the very suspicious companions with whom I have so frequently met you,” said Luis.

“I have already bidden farewell to most of them. There they hang, like fruit on the trees, thanks to the mild clemency of the Minister!” As the Friar spoke, he pointed towards Lisbon. “I am glad enough to get beyond the sight of those ghastly corpses. Ah, senhor! it is a dreadful thing to hang people up in that way; and many an innocent man is among them. Thank Heaven, I have not such deeds on my conscience! That reminds me, senhor, that I have gained some information which may assist you in discovering what you spoke to me about. I was speaking to one of those poor fellows the night before he was caught and hung,—and, by-the-bye, he no more deserved hanging than I do!—he told me that he had been employed, some time ago, in carrying a young fidalgo, who had been wounded in a night-fray, to a house in the outskirts of Lisbon; but that he could not exactly tell where it was, and who was the person. He had been hired by Rodrigo, who did not mention the name of their employer. The poor fellow was to have accompanied me the next day to try and find out the house, but he was hung instead. Ah! I am a great enemy to the system of hanging.”

Luis listened with deep interest to this account. Then Gonçalo might have escaped destruction from the earthquake! He might be yet alive! He longed to turn back, and continue his search; but he had slight grounds to go upon; for the Friar could give him no further information, and his father was expecting him at home. With sanguine dispositions, the slightest thing is sufficient to raise hopes which, alas! may never be accomplished, but which it often takes years and years of disappointment to learn to distrust. Now old men, as we have informed our readers we are, even to this day, we find ourselves building castles in the air, of such bright and glowing colours, that our own sight is dazzled by the splendour of the fabric we have raised, when a single word has been sufficient to make it fade away like the morning mist, each brilliant hue growing less and less distinct, till we have wondered that it could ever have existed even in our imaginations; and at other times a rude blow has dashed the lovely edifice to the ground, and as we have flown to the spot, we have not found a fragment remaining.

The words the Friar had spoken had been sufficient to raise just such a fabric in Luis’s brain; and, thus occupied, in happier mood he rode on, while the former fell back to converse with Pedro, who was not averse to the company of so amusing a personage, although a rogue. Several very suspicious parties either overtook them, or passed them on the road; but a signal, or a few words, from the Friar, always sent them peaceably away; so that Luis, during the whole journey, met with no adventure worth relating.

“Farewell, Don Luis!” said the soi-disant Friar, as they came in sight of the gates of the Count’s estate. “I have borne you company thus far, and we must now part. We shall meet again some day, I hope; if not, think of me sometimes, as I would be, and not as I have been; but I fear I shall not be a more honest man as a real Friar than I have been as a pretended one. Adeos, senhor!”

And, without waiting for an answer, he rode back the way he had come; while Luis, followed by Pedro, hastened to embrace his father, although the tidings he had to communicate must, he knew, cause much sorrow to the old Count.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

More than a year had passed since the dreadful earthquake of Lisbon, as the violent convulsion of the globe in 1755 is commonly called, although it was felt over the greater part of Europe, to the north of England, and to the shores of Africa, where many towns were destroyed or severely damaged. Under the energetic superintendence of the Prime Minister, the city was rapidly rising from its ashes; and instead of the dark, narrow, and winding lanes of the old town, fine broad streets were planned by able architects invited by him from England and France.

The tents and wooden huts in which the inhabitants had so long dwelt, were ordered to be destroyed, to prevent the rogues and vagabonds, who it appears had again, notwithstanding the terrors of the hanging system, increased to an alarming degree, from harbouring in them.

The horrors of the previous year began gradually to fade from the recollection of men, and they forgot that beneath the ground on which they dwelt burnt those unquenchable fires which might, at any time, burst forth and again destroy their homes and property.

The King and the royal family had taken up their residence in the Palace of the Necessidades, having dwelt for nearly a year in one built of wood, of one story high, to run less risk of injury in case of a recurrence of the former disastrous visitation.

It was some hours past the time of sunset, when, in a cabinet of the palace, the Minister was seated at a table thickly strewed with papers, deeply immersed in the affairs of the state, it might be presumed, from the lines of thought and care which marked his brow. He wrote on for some time, without stopping or hesitating a moment for want of subject, and then, having concluded the work he was about, he threw himself back in the high leathern armchair in which he was sitting, and resting his brow upon his hand, continued for many minutes wrapped in meditation.

“Men would blame me, did they know the game I played,” he thought; “but ’tis the way by which alone I can manage my weak and indolent master:—master!” he muttered, in a scornful tone, “let me say, my slave, my tool! I can brook no master. While he is occupied by some mad folly, or new passion, he will gladly resign all but the empty shadow of power into my hands, and it must be my care to keep him thus employed, while I silence, and for ever, all opposition from without to my aims. His infatuated admiration of this young Marchioness of Tavora may lead to serious results: but no matter; I can easily turn them to my advantage; and, at all events, it keeps him occupied. The pursuit is likely to be a long one, for the lady seems colder and more inaccessible than I had deemed her. Ah! here he comes!”

As he spoke, a door on one side of the room opened, and the King entered. The Minister bowed profoundly as the sovereign threw himself listlessly into a chair, and commenced signing a variety of papers, which the former placed before him, without even glancing at their contents. At last, with an air of disgust, he threw down the pen and rose from his seat, exclaiming, “I can sign no more of your long edicts to-night, my Carvalho. Far more pleasing cares call me elsewhere; and I must snatch a few hours of liberty while my most jealous lady Queen is persuaded I am closeted with my faithful Minister.”

“Your Majesty’s wishes are ever my laws,” returned the Minister; “and I will occupy myself till your return with many important affairs which demand my attention.”

“Do so, my good friend,” said the King.

“I shall not detain you long. Has Teixeira yet come?”

“I will inquire,” answered the complaisant Minister; and quitted the room by an opposite door to that by which the King had entered.

The King walked impatiently about the room till Carvalho returned, accompanied by another person, who bore a large cloak, which he threw over the royal shoulders. The King then wrapping it around himself, so as to conceal his features, left the cabinet, followed by his attendant, while the Minister resumed his previous occupations.

More than two hours thus passed away; not a sound reaching Carvalho’s ears, and no one venturing to intrude where his Majesty was supposed to be occupied in framing laws for the welfare of the kingdom committed to his charge.

For the first hour he continued writing without rising from his seat; inditing letters which no eye but his own and the persons to whom they were addressed might see; making notes only of their contents as he folded and sealed them; for it was his principle never to trust any one where it could possibly be avoided: nor did he allow the secretaries and clerks, who were absolutely necessary to carry on the public business, to be acquainted with any affair beyond their immediate office, punishing those severely who betrayed what was committed to them. He then rose and strode up and down the room for some minutes, with knitted brow and compressed lips. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “thus shall all suffer who dare oppose my will. I have given the people of Oporto a lesson they will not easily forget. Their chief magistrate and eighteen of his seditious companions executed; three hundred of the principal people sent to the galleys, and their city given up to the licence of a brutal soldiery. This will, methinks, put a stop to further conspiracies against my authority; and, if not, in every town and village throughout the kingdom I will have gibbets erected, and hang every one who dares to utter a word of complaint. By terror alone can these people be ruled—all mild measures are worse than useless; for, instead of conciliating, they cause the nation to suppose that it is through fear, or want of power, that they are employed. By Heavens! they shall no longer have reason to suppose so. I have begun my reign of terror, and from henceforth I banish all pity or remorse from my bosom; and the abject wretches on whose necks I will trample, shall feel that, at length, they have a man, instead of the drivelling priests or ignorant debauchees who have hitherto attempted to govern them.”

Muttering, rather than speaking, his thoughts aloud, he returned to his desk. He was still writing when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and, rising from his seat, he bowed to his sovereign, who had entered, if not unperceived, at least unattended to.

“You work hard for our benefit, my faithful Minister,” said Joseph, seating himself; “but we wish you would rule a lady’s changeful mood as easily as you can govern our kingdom. The lovely Donna Theresa continues cruel as ever: she listens to all my passionate speeches with a smile of satisfaction, and entreats me to return again before long, for that she should die were she deprived of my society; and in the same breath talks of her husband and the honour of her family. Her coldness provokes me, while her fascinations increase my love.”

“Your Majesty need not despair,” said the sagacious Minister. “A woman who has once consented to admit a lover to an interview without her husband’s knowledge will never draw back if he proceeds with caution; and when that lover has the qualifications of your Majesty, her fate is certain. A few weeks’ more perseverance and she will yield, or I must renounce all knowledge of the female heart.”

“She must, Carvalho, she must!” exclaimed the King, impatiently. “This suspense is dreadful. What advantage is gained by being a King, unless our subjects will dutifully obey us?”

“Your Majesty is perfectly right; and few there are, I trust, of all your Majesty’s subjects who would prove thus disloyal, except some of the haughty nobles of the realm, who appear to suppose your kingdom their own; and of one of those families is the lovely Donna Theresa, which will account for her most undutiful hesitation. Yet your Majesty need have no fears of the result.”

“I know, I know,” said the King, hastily; “I am convinced she loves me; but some foolish prejudice appears to restrain her from her own wishes.”

“’Tis the work of those accursed Jesuits,” exclaimed Carvalho; “but your Majesty need not fear, and will be able to counteract their aims, if you will follow my advice.”

“Your counsel is always that of wisdom,” said the King. “Speak, my Carvalho.”

“I would, then, advise your Majesty to make a present to Donna Theresa of your favourite dwarf, Donna Florinda. She is acute and observing, and will very soon become mistress of all the young lady’s secrets, at the same time that she will counsel her no longer to treat your Majesty with her general cruelty.”

“Ah! the idea is indeed worthy of following!” exclaimed the King, enraptured at the bright thought. “Thanks, my Carvalho, thanks. You are truly the most sagacious and first of Ministers. I will persuade our Queen, who will willingly part with her, to send her to-morrow morning; and then, if she succeeds, I shall indeed be thankful to one who has so well aided my wishes.”

The King then, holding out his hand, which the zealous and unprejudiced Minister kissed, with every sign of respect, retired to his chamber, and the latter, securing his papers, some in an iron chest, the key of which he kept, and others of more importance about his person, sought his carriage, which was in attendance, and returned to his home.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

We have, for a considerable time, lost sight of Donna Theresa d’Alorna, now the young Marchioness of Tavora. She was seated in her private apartment, on the morning following the consultation of the King and his Minister, in the palace which had been allotted by his father to the young Marquis, when one of her female attendants entered to inform her that her confessor was in attendance below, and requested to know if she would wish to see him.

“Yes, yes, I will see the holy father; conduct him hither,” she exclaimed hastily, and the attendant retired.

“His requests are indeed commands,” she whispered to herself. “Alas! I feel a power I cannot see, and know not whence it comes, hurrying me to the edge of a precipice.”

Donna Theresa was but little altered since we introduced her to our readers. In beauty she had rather improved; her figure had become more rounded and voluptuous, and the sparkle of her eyes was brighter even than before, with greater expression in her countenance, her polished brow giving more signs of deep thought, and, alas! it might be, of care.

Though she had been expecting her visitor, she started as he entered, and rose to welcome him. Our readers will recognise, by his tall, yet graceful and dignified form, the lofty and marble brow, the piercing cold grey eye, and rich melodious voice, the holy Father Jacinto da Costa, the head of the Jesuits’ College.

He took the hand of the young lady, and, with respectful courtesy, led her to a seat, and took one by her side. “I have come, my fair penitent,” he said, in a gentle tone, “to hear the result of your conference with the King. He visited you, as you expected, yesterday?”

Donna Theresa cast her eyes to the ground, and then gazing up earnestly at the Jesuit, she exclaimed, with a voice trembling with agitation, “His Majesty did come last night, trusting in my love and faith; but I had not the heart—I wanted the courage—I could not be guilty of the treachery, to ask the questions you dictated. Oh! do not longer impose this odious task on me! If it be necessary for the safety of my family, if it be advantageous to the service of our holy religion, take some other means to attain the same ends, but I can no longer feign love to my confiding sovereign. Every time I meet him, I feel myself lowered and degraded far worse than the guilty thing the world will soon suppose me.”

The Jesuit smiled encouragement, as he gently shook his head. “The foolish girl loves this weak puppet already,” he thought; but she divined not what was passing in his mind. “No matter, my ends are answered; and if she must be sacrificed, I shall, perhaps, gain the more. Besides, in so holy a cause, I can afford her speedy absolution.”

“Theresa,” he said aloud, “it pains me to hear one of your soaring and acute mind utter expressions worthy only of a foolish girl. Think of the ends proposed. It is not the King I wish to injure; I alone seek to counteract the machinations of that arch-enemy of your family, and of my order, the Minister Carvalho. Could you once gain that complete ascendency over the King which is within your power, you might not only rule him, but the Minister himself would become powerless to injure any of those connected with you by kindred and by love. Believe me, if you hesitate, that treacherous man has sworn, and will not fail in his oath, to ruin all your race, for their haughty contempt of his plebeian extraction. Choose which course you will; allow your newly-raised scruples to conquer your former resolution, and see all those you love destroyed; or take the means of winning a power far greater than any other female in the land can hold.”

“But will the means you advise gain that power?” she asked, with a doubtful tone. “Already have I lost much of my former influence with the King. He begins to doubt the sincerity of my love, and accuses me of coldness and indifference, urging me with prayers and entreaties to give him stronger proofs of my affections, endeavouring to persuade me to sacrifice my honour to his passion.”

The priest of God looked steadily at the young girl. “Theresa,” he said, “I know that you are superior to the foolish superstitions of mankind; and, being convinced of the fallacy of what many call the moral rules of conduct, you will laugh at the prejudices which now cause you to hesitate in performing a necessary duty. With us, the only true priesthood, rests alone the knowledge of what ought or ought not to be performed under certain circumstances. There are rules necessarily promulgated to keep in check the mass of mankind; but they are not without exceptions. What is a crime when performed by one person, becomes a virtue in another. It is the cause and effect of the action which constitutes a crime. When a man in a fit of causeless anger, slays another, he is guilty of murder; or when, to conceal previous guilt, through revenge, or to wrench his gold, one kills another, he is a murderer; but, with the same knife, and in the same way, a man may kill another to attain some good end, or to punish guilt, and he has performed a righteous deed. In the same way, if a woman, through the frailty of her sex, yields to the temptation of passion, she commits what is looked upon as a crime, according to the code at present received as the rule of conduct; but should a woman employ those captivating qualities with which nature has endowed her to attain some desirable object, instead of committing a crime, she has performed a meritorious action; the more so, that she has exposed herself to censure from her fellow-creatures for the purpose.”

Theresa answered with energy, “Oh, Father! but it surely cannot be justifiable to deceive my husband, to barter his honour, and to betray the secrets drawn from my confiding sovereign in a moment of affection.”

“The honour of a husband you do not love, and whose affection for you you have found but of short endurance, is but of little worth,” answered the Father. “Besides, by acting as I would have you do, you perform a far greater service to him and his family than in preserving what he does not value. You treat him far better than he deserves. Let not that thought trouble you. With regard to winning the secrets of your sovereign, you injure him in no possible way; it is through him alone we may hope to arrive at many of the secrets of the Minister; for to no one else are they confided; and against our enemy alone is a blow meditated.”

Donna Theresa had no further excuse to make for her refusal; yet her heart (for that was not quite convinced by the cunning arguments of sophistry) told her that she would be acting a treacherous and sinful part in following her confessor’s counsels. But then again, her ambition urged her on,—and, more than all, she loved! A moth may not play round the flame without scorching its wings; and a woman can seldom tamper with the affections of another without injuring her own. From the moment that she felt she loved the weak monarch, she was no longer able to act the treacherous part she had before been taught to play. She grew cold and distant, for she could not trust herself; and, while her royal lover fancied himself further from his object, he was on the very verge of attaining it. Now, then, her scruples on one score were banished; for she had no further reason to hesitate, when her only counsellor assured her she was committing no crime; but it was not in her nature to be deceitful, and she began to doubt how far she was justified in gaining the confidence of the King in order to betray it. Before she loved, this thought had never occurred to her. Her aim, from the first, had been to gain power; and vanity had led her on from step to step.

It is extraordinary in what different lights we mortals view the same objects under various circumstances. What at one time appears the thing of all others the most desirable to be gained, and for which we would sacrifice our present happiness, and, perhaps, all those dear to us, we the next instant look upon as worthless. What we once thought a heinous crime, we too soon, alas! learn to consider as a slight failing, though far less often do we shudder at crimes which we before committed with untroubled consciences.

“I do not advise you to yield to the King’s passion,” continued the Priest; “but as you value all you have loved, at every expense, retain the power you have gained over him. Bind those captivating chains round him, which your charms are so well calculated to forge, and from henceforth it will not be he, but you, who rule these fair realms of Portugal. Promise me you will do this, Theresa, and I will afford such complete absolution for aught which may trouble your conscience, that it shall remain as bright and pure as at present.”

“Father, I do promise you,” returned Donna Theresa. “You have convinced me both of the necessity of the end, and of the innocence of the means. From henceforth no vain scruples shall deter me!”

There was the slightest possible tone of sarcasm in her voice, for she was not convinced, but she was unable to answer. Such is very frequently the case; and an acute reasoner, who has brought all the arguments of logic and sophistry into play, fancies he has won a victory, because he has silenced a battery, while in reality the fortress remains as impregnable as before. The Jesuit pretended not to notice the irony with which she spoke, as he answered,—“Spoken as I should ever wish my fair pupil to utter her thoughts. By acting as I would desire, you will deserve the warmest gratitude from all you benefit, and the King himself will in time learn to thank you for having rescued him from the thraldom of the tyrant who now holds him in such abject subjection. He is a man who must be governed by some one; and it is far better he should be under the mild sway of a lovely woman, than be the slave of a bloodthirsty monster.” He rose as he spoke. “Farewell, Donna Theresa;—a business of importance calls me away; and I trust, when I next call on you, I shall hear you have obtained the valuable information I so much require.”

He did not wait to receive an answer, for he felt confident that his object would be attained; and he left his last observations to take their full effect.

As Father Jacinto was leaving the palace, he encountered the little black dwarf, Donna Florinda, just getting out of her chair; but, pretending not to observe her, he passed on, muttering to himself, “Ah! is this the way the royal lover is about to work? Let him beware that the betrayer is not betrayed!”

Donna Florinda was far too much occupied in arranging her own dress, in her eagerness to bustle up stairs to exhibit her credentials to her new mistress, to observe the dark figure of the priest. She had received but one charge, being the very simple one of praising the King, and keeping all other lovers at a distance. The young Marchioness received her with great civility, for she had the capability of making herself very amusing, by detailing all the events and scandal of the Court, there being abundance of material for the latter; and she was, therefore, constantly welcome, wherever she went.

The little sable lady was in no way altered in appearance since the time we first introduced her to our readers, being dressed in the same extravagant and gaudy style of costume, and exhibiting a like perfect unconsciousness of the ridiculous figure she made. This was a failing not at all peculiar to herself in her day, nor do we think any very great change has since taken place in the world. She smirked and curtsied as she entered, and presented a letter to Donna Theresa, who, requesting her to be seated, broke the seal, and scanned it over with eagerness.

“Their Majesties are, indeed, very kind, to make me so valuable a present as yourself, Donna Florinda,” said the young Marchioness; “but I fear you will be very unwilling to exchange the splendour and gaiety of the Court for the private residence of one who lives so secluded a life as I do.”

“Far from it, my sweet mistress; I am too happy to come and reside with one so charming and gentle as you are, instead of the cross-grained Queen,” returned the Dwarf. “You well know how I have always loved you; so I was overjoyed when I heard the King propose sending me to you, and in a fright lest her Majesty should take it into her head to refuse to part with me. As soon, therefore, as the point was settled, I hurried away, after paying my most dutiful respects, lest they should again change their minds. To tell you the truth, the King had some difficulty about the matter, but he knew that it would please you, and that had made him determine to carry his point. Ah, he is, indeed, a King to win the hearts of every one,—so kind, so gentle, so loving! You do not appreciate all his surpassing qualities, Donna Theresa, or you would not be so cruel as I suspect you are to him. The other day, when speaking of the beautiful ladies of his Court, he said there were many bright moons which lighted up the night, but they all faded when the sun rose, by which he meant to hint, where you were present; but you may be assured he did not allow the Queen to hear him.”

“His Majesty is very complimentary to my poor qualities,” returned Donna Theresa, coldly.

“He does not compliment—he speaks the truth, my sweet lady,” said the Dwarf. “He loves you far more than you can tell: if you were aware how much, you would acknowledge his is a heart worth winning.”

Donna Theresa answered not, and endeavoured to conceal the pleasure which even this coarse style of flattery gave her. We need not describe it further. Such was the tenor of the words with which the well-trained negress constantly assailed her, and, like water dropping on a rock, they had their effect.

On quitting the young Marchioness, Father Jacinto took his way to Belem, where the old Marquis of Tavora had a Quinta. Here Donna Leonora, his wife, was now residing, since the destruction of their palace in the city; and here she held her coteries of all who were inimical to the King, and haters of his Prime Minister. Of these there were a very large class in the country, some angry at being deprived of the monopoly of legislating, which they had so long enjoyed, without one single qualification for the purpose, except a very common one, the love of place; and others, justly incensed at the cruelty and unwarrantable tyranny of the Minister.

At these meetings the Jesuits were ever the most active members; for to their care had the old Marchioness committed the entire spiritual guidance of her mind, when they, of course, took possession of the direction of every other action of her life.

When the Jesuit reached the gate of the Quinta, he was admitted with welcome, and conducted forthwith to the presence of the lady of the mansion.

His manner was no longer that of the intimate and advising friend, with a slight, though unalarming, tinge of a warmer feeling, doubtful whether that of a parent or a lover, it might have been interpreted either way, as it had been towards Donna Theresa. He had now all the humility and devotion of a subject towards the ex vice-regal lady; piety was his only ostensible motive for action, the thoughts of heaven and religion the only ones which filled his mind, except when occupied in following her wishes. Though humble, he was not cringing; to that his haughty spirit could not bow, even for the sake of deceiving; he behaved more as a minister to his sovereign, offering advice with firm respect, determined to gain his point, yet endeavouring to persuade, rather than to insist on his opinions being followed.

“Do you bring me any news, holy Father?” said the Marchioness, as the Jesuit was ushered into the apartment in which she was seated; and her attendants, at a sign from her, had withdrawn. “Will the King revoke the sentence of banishment pronounced against that pious saint and holy father, Malagrida; or must we still be deprived of his righteous counsels and exhortations?”

“Alas, lady! the heart of the King is still hardened, I fear through the evil advice of that incarnation of the prince of sin,” answered the Priest. “He has not only not revoked the sentence, but is planning fresh aggressions against our Church and holy religion. Before long, if such unheard-of wickedness is not put a stop to, we shall become a nation of atheists and heretics.”

“The words of the sainted Malagrida will come too true,” exclaimed the Marchioness: “our altars will be profaned, and our holy priests driven into exile. His advice must be followed. This wicked King must be removed.”

“Heaven forbid that I should say so,” said Father Jacinto. “He is the Lord’s anointed, and the heritage of this kingdom is his. My brother Malagrida cannot counsel aught that is wrong; but I would first use milder means. I would seek to turn his heart from wickedness, and lead him to the path of righteousness.”

“Has not that been tried, Father, and found to fail?” exclaimed the proud Marchioness, impatiently. “Has he not refused to listen to the words of our religion, and banished from his presence those who are alone able to teach them to him? By what other means, then, can you hope to work his conversion?”

“By the gentle influence of your sex, lady, may that happy end be accomplished. The King loves your daughter-in-law, Donna Theresa, with the most ardent passion; but she is cold and indifferent to him, and faithful to her husband. By her means might his heart be turned to religion, if she would exert her power over him. This she will not do while she fears the censure of the world, who, misinterpreting her conduct, will deem her guilty of infidelity to her husband, while she is innocent of any crime.”

“What, Father, you would not ask my daughter-in-law to dishonour the proud name she bears!” exclaimed the Marchioness.

“Heaven forbid,” interrupted the Jesuit. “I would ask her to do only that which is right. She possesses the means of gaining power to forward a holy cause, and I would counsel her to exert it. But, lady, of her own accord she will not do so; her youth and timidity, her fear of offending you and her husband, prevent her from encouraging the advances of the King. Were you, on the contrary, to sanction her holy efforts to enchain him completely, her scruples would cease; and the censorious world would then be convinced that she was guiltless of dishonouring her noble husband, your son, and that she received the visits of the King through that pure friendship which draws persons of similarity of tastes and disposition together.”

“I comprehend your reasons, Father, and pardon me that I should for a moment have misunderstood your expressions. I will see Theresa, and persuade her no longer to treat the King so coldly. I was aware that he had visited her; but my son is still ignorant of the fact, and it will be better not to inform him of it yet; he is young and passionate, and might not understand our motives.”

“Your caution is advisable, lady,” said the Jesuit. “It is a wise plan never to communicate our intentions to more persons than is necessary; and I would advise you to speak on this subject to no one else.”

“I will follow your counsel, Father,” answered the Marchioness. “But tell me, should Theresa not succeed in turning the King from his evil course, and, should he still persist in persecuting the servants of the Church, what means must we then pursue?”

“Any will be justifiable,” responded the Priest. “Events are in the womb of time, and, according as they appear, so must we guide their course.”

The conversation continued for a considerable time longer, chiefly on the same subject; the wily Priest, while pretending to combat, often encouraging the plans of the Marchioness, by advancing arguments against them which he allowed her easily to controvert. At length, having assured himself that his own arrangements were in the proper train, he, with profound respect, took his leave; and, rejoicing at his success, went about many of the minor plots and intrigues in which he was engaged, for the sole purpose of forwarding the great aim of his Order.

End of the Second Volume.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Being very anxious to proceed with our history, we would rather avoid any retrospection; but, that our readers may understand more clearly the occurrences of the times we are now describing, it will be necessary to give a slight sketch of a few events that had already passed. The most important was the revolt of the inhabitants of Oporto, and of the neighbouring provinces, against the authority of the Minister, in consequence of the establishment of a Company, with almost unbounded privileges, to superintend the sale of the wines produced on the banks of the river Douro. The proprietors of the vineyards, who had been accustomed to a free trade, by which they had grown wealthy, were highly exasperated at a monopoly which would so completely curtail their profits, and of course the people whom they employed espoused their cause. They in tumultuous bodies flocked to the city, compelling the chief magistrate, known by the name of the Judge of the People, to espouse their cause, and pillaging the houses of all those they suspected to be favourers of the measure.

No sooner did the Minister receive intelligence of these disturbances, than he despatched three regiments against the city. The inhabitants yielded without striking a blow; but their submission availed them not; their city was given up to the unbounded license of the savage soldiery; and had it been taken by storm, scarcely could more frightful excesses have been committed. The soldiers were then distributed at free quarters on the inhabitants; the unfortunate Judge of the People was dragged through the streets by the common hangman, with a halter round his neck, and then executed with every mark of ignominy. Eighteen of the principal citizens shared his fate, and three hundred persons, who were accused of being concerned in the sedition, were imprisoned, or condemned for life to the galleys.

The obnoxious and tyrannical Company, their charter sealed with blood, was established; for, after the dreadful examples of the Minister’s unswerving vengeance, fear prevented the people from making any further attempts to overthrow it. It has since been, if we may be allowed to judge, one of the greatest banes to the country.

Though one of the most determined opponents to Carvalho, our friend Gonçalo Christovaö had, on this occasion, taken no open part in the movement, so that he escaped the punishment which fell on so many others; but he was not the less indignant at the atrocities committed in his native city, and he was, at the time we speak of, on his way to Lisbon, to complain in person to his sovereign, hoping to gain some redress, or, at all events, a mitigation of the grievances under which the people suffered.

We scarcely dare mention the fate of the lovely Donna Clara. For a long period her father had resisted all the persuasions of his confessor to compel her to assume the veil, though she was now almost indifferent on the subject; but he had at length yielded, and she was now performing her year of noviciate at the convent of her patron saint at Oporto, which was considered nearly equal in point of the rank of its inmates to that of Santa Clara at Lisbon. Indeed, since the destruction of the latter, many of the nuns, who were all of noble family, had been conveyed thither. It was a sad cortège which had arrived from the ruined city, carefully concealed from the prying eye of curiosity, in closely covered litters, surrounded with a guard of soldiers, who were ordered strictly to keep their eyes turned away from the holy sisterhood. Whether they obeyed the order is a matter of doubt, and whether a delicate hand might not now and then have drawn aside the curtains to admit a breath of fresh air, we cannot aver. This only we know, that the Minister himself had issued an order for their safe conduct; and, as the religious houses on the road were not sufficiently near to admit of their reaching one each day, he commanded that the inns should be prepared for their reception, and that no other travellers should be admitted, which latter order, we suspect, was no slight disappointment to the younger ladies;—but we are growing profane.

To return to the revolt at Oporto. The Jesuits were accused of being the instigators even of this transaction; but we, although no friends of theirs, as may have been guessed, acquit them completely of having had any share in the affair. By an unsuccessful rebellion they could have gained nothing, and must have been aware that such would only strengthen the power of the Minister. We feel assured, therefore, that they were innocent of this charge; nor was it at all in accordance with their usual mode of proceeding: they would have acted far more cautiously and sensibly, so that nothing might be attempted without an almost certain confidence of success. However, the old proverb, “Give a dog a bad name,” was fully exemplified in their case, and every disturbance in the country was imputed to them. We think that, in many respects, they were very hardly used; and we might as well suppose that the followers of the new Bible (which a foreigner told us we English heretics had lately published, called the Oxford Tracts,) were guilty of the riots in Wales, as that they would have excited people to open rebellion. The past had, and the present have, a very different aim in view: they seek not to overthrow dynasties, but to establish their power on the weakness and folly of their fellow-men; they wish to hide the gold, that their own base alloy may be taken as genuine ore. While pretending to point out the narrow path to heaven, they, like the cunning fowler, lead their fascinated admirers into their own well-constructed decoys;—more narrow and narrow grows the way, with many a twist and turn, till at length they cast their nets, from whose meshes there is no escape.

Now, it is very far from our wish to speak disrespectfully of the Church of Rome, or in any way to decry it. On the contrary, we cannot conceive an establishment more admirably adapted for every purpose of untrammelled government. It at once puts a stop to all doubts or discussions, pointing out so exactly what people ought to believe, that they have no further trouble on the subject. As when men have learnt to submit in one way, they generally do so in another, were we a sovereign desirous of absolute power, we should prefer it as the religion of the state, and then, keeping its ministers our friends, we should, if we pleased, be able to govern with the most despotic rule.

We esteem many of the ministers of that Church, and if they attempt to convert us to their opinions, we feel that they are but performing their duty: we do not blame them, because they exercise the power which has been confided to them by their superiors; nor do we blame its followers that they practise what they have been taught; but we are called on to exhibit in their true colours those who, urged on by the lust of power, strive to revive a long-disused engine of authority; disused not through forgetfulness of its existence, but from a general conviction of its pernicious effects, from all men being persuaded that it defeated the purposes of true religion.

We, while residing in Portugal, where the Order of Jesus is no longer tolerated, often hear the opinion of those who see clearly what is going forward in our own country. “Ah!” they exclaim, “you will soon become as good Romanists as we are. You have some clever Jesuits among you already,—both open and concealed ones too.”

These observations may, perhaps, make some men look into their own hearts, and examine their motives; for the thought of power is very captivating. We would fain save a few birds from the fowlers, and we may trust that some who read this work will be warned in time to avoid those snares, the very first consequence of which is the abject slavery of the mind,—an imprisonment (so cunningly devised, and so strong are the meshes formed) which few are able to break through,—whose captives are ever debarred from the enjoyment of thought, and the light of truth.

From what we have said, we doubt not we shall be accused by one class to which we allude, of being sneerers and revilers at religion; such always is the fate of those who would exhibit existing abuses in their true colours, and who would endeavour to draw out and expose the falsehood from among the truth, in which it may have been shrouded. Let them hurl their anathemas on our heads; they will fall innoxious on our helmet of rectitude. We revere religion, but we detest tyranny and superstition, nor shall we ever cease to strive against both one and the other. But we must not allow ourselves to be carried away by a subject, in which we are so deeply interested, though one scarcely suited to a work of the nature of a romance; we may, however, trust, that while the eye wanders over these pages, in search of amusement, a warning lesson may be received, to beware of concealed Jesuits, who, filling our ears with their sophistries, would persuade us to submit to their power.

We must now return to the current of our story, from which we have so widely wandered. For some time previous to the anniversary of the dreadful catastrophe we have described, various people appeared in and about the neighbourhood of Lisbon, assuming the characters of prophets, and foretelling the final destruction of the city on that day. One of the first who uttered these predictions was the holy Father Malagrida. He probably placed full confidence in them himself; they either being the work of his own distempered brain, or having been put into his head by others for their own purposes.

Whoever was the originator of the deceit, he was the chief promulgator of it, while many others, perfectly aware of its want of foundation, repeated it, in the hopes of driving the frightened citizens from their habitations, while they would be enabled to plunder, without apprehension of any interruption to their proceedings. Such we find the case in the present day: a madman leads fools, and knaves follow, to prey on their folly.

Malagrida had chosen for the scene of his oratory the ruins of a church outside Lisbon, where he had collected a large assemblage of people, women and children predominating, and idle ragamuffins, who were glad of any excuse to escape from toil: there were others also, of all classes of citizens, who were listening to the insane ravings of blasphemy proceeding from his lips.

“Fly from the city of destruction, all ye who would be saved!” he exclaimed. “Escape, ere the crimes of your impious rulers be visited on your heads. Once have ye been warned, and ye would not listen to the warning;—this is the last time that I will speak to ye,—this is the last time that ye shall hear my voice; for the wicked have risen up against the prophets of heaven, their hearts have been hardened, and they have sworn deadly enmity to the true ministers of the Church. Fly, then, from among the despisers of the faith, leave them to the vengeance which shall overtake those whom the Lord has marked for destruction. He who, in self-confidence, vaunts so proudly of his power, shall be brought low; for fire shall rain down on the haughty head of the persecutor of the faithful.”

The prophet had for some time run on in this strain, when suddenly a body of guards appeared among the crowd. Two of them advanced, and, placing themselves on each side of him, informed him that his presence was required elsewhere.

“Begone! ye myrmidons of the man of sin, and answer that I come not at his call,” he exclaimed in a loud voice. “Begone! I fear ye not.”

The men, however, paid no attention to his orders; but, seizing his arms, attempted to drag him forward. Their efforts, however, were vain; for, shaking them off with a powerful exertion, he continued his discourse regardless of their presence. Again they seized him, when a cry arose among the people, who seemed inclined to hasten to his rescue; but the customary obedience to which the Minister had subjected them, checked them, and the remainder of the soldiers advancing, completely surrounded him.

“Down with the tyrant, who would overthrow our religion!” exclaimed a voice from among the crowd at a distance; but no one responded to the cry; and Malagrida, making no further resistance, was conducted before the judge of the district. He protested vehemently against the treatment he was receiving, but to no purpose; he was ordered forthwith to retire to his college, and the next day, he received a command from the government, to proceed to the town of Setubal, and there to remain till desired to quit it. We are not informed why that place was chosen as his abode in banishment; whether it was that the people were so wise, that they would not listen to his mad ravings, or, that they were so foolish, that he could not increase their folly. Thither, however, some of his warmest admirers followed him, to put themselves under his spiritual guidance, and among them, was the devout and intriguing Marchioness of Tavora. For some weeks she resided there, performing what were called exercises, under his directions, during which time, he took the opportunity of instilling into her mind both the necessity of ridding the country of their tyrant, and the lawfulness of doing so, by any means which might offer. Notwithstanding the many disciples he collected round him, his unsettled disposition caused him to pine for more active excitement, and, as we shall see, in despite of the threats of the Minister, he determined to quit the spot assigned to him for his abode.

Though Malagrida was silenced, there were yet a number of prophets, perfectly in their senses, who continued to give utterance to predictions, threatening the utter destruction of Lisbon. The Minister, in consequence, issued a decree, ordering that all such persons should be seized and committed to prison, as rogues and vagabonds. Lest also, the easily beguiled citizens should, trusting to their prophecies, desert their homes on the fatal day, he commanded that no one should quit the city on that or the two previous days; and, to enforce this decree, troops were collected round the barriers, who would allow no one, on any pretext whatever, to pass.

The affrighted people were in despair; but they dared not venture to force the barriers, and the measure proved that a little coercion is, at times, for the benefit of the multitude, notwithstanding what demagogues may say to the contrary; for the day passed, and no convulsion took place. We do not hear if the people accused their prophets of prophesying falsely, though we suspect they probably found some means of excusing them, at least, if we may judge from the credence given to their brethren of the present day, who, let them utter, time after time, the most absurd predictions, always unfulfilled, are not the less believed by their enlightened and educated disciples, they ever discovering some plausible interpretation for their teachers’ words.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

The usual time for paying visits in Portugal is in the evening, when ladies are borne about to the houses of their acquaintances in their carriages or chairs, full dressed, as if for a ball; most families of any pretension to fashion having certain nights fixed for the reception of their guests.

The Marchioness of Tavora, although famed for her devoutness, had become even more particular than before in conforming to all the observances of etiquette, in the hopes thereby of gaining over more partisans in the plots she was forming; and she was on her way to pay several of these politic visits of ceremony, when she alighted at the palace of her daughter-in-law, Donna Theresa. She had gained a considerable influence over the younger Marchioness, more, perhaps, by having inspired awe than love; nor did the latter ever feel perfectly at her ease in her society. Her purpose, at present, was, following the advice given by the Father Jacinto, to persuade Donna Theresa to endeavour to win the confidence of the King at every cost; a task she found no very great difficulty in accomplishing.

“I will assure my son, on the earliest opportunity,” she said, “that you have my sanction to receive the visits of the King, which will prevent any jealous doubts arising in his mind, should he discover a circumstance of which he is not now aware. His hot temper, were he to hear of it, before being warned by me, might otherwise take fire, and cause him to commit some mad outrage, which might bring destruction on us all. But be not alarmed; I will arrange affairs so that he shall have no cause to complain of your infidelity; for he will, as I do, put full confidence in your honour; and that your family pride alone will prevent you committing aught derogatory to the dignity of your birth.”

Theresa had no words to answer, but she bowed her head in acquiescence of the arrangement; and the elder Marchioness having accomplished her purpose, proceeded on her round of visits.

The young Marchioness, thus urged on by her confessor and her mother-in-law, had no further reason to fly the advances of her royal admirer; yet she trembled for the consequences;—she saw the yawning gulf below her, yet she felt like a person on the summit of a lofty cliff, with an involuntary inclination to leap from the edge, though fully aware that destruction awaited her. How bitterly did she repent that she had sacrificed her love, and stifled all the tender sentiments of her nature, to follow the rugged and dangerous paths of ambition; but there was now no power of receding left: her peace of mind, her consciousness of rectitude, had deserted her; the past was full of useless regrets; and though she felt that they were deceitful and treacherous, the dazzling temptations of the future lured her on.

It was the custom of the King, when driving out at night, to make use of the private carriage of a confidential attendant, who generally accompanied him. This man, of the name of Texeira, was of low birth; but, by various acts of a doubtful nature, had ingratiated himself into his sovereign’s favour; presuming on which, he frequently behaved in an impertinent manner towards the nobles of the Court, who, ill-brooking such behaviour, bore a determined hatred towards him. Texeira was waiting in his carriage at the private entrance to the palace for the coming of his sovereign, who proposed paying an earlier visit than usual to the young Marchioness of Tavora. As the King appeared at the door, the attendant stepped out to offer his assistance, and when both were seated, the postillion was ordered to proceed forthwith in the direction Texeira had already indicated to him.

The carriage stopped at the gateway of a palace situated in the western part of the city, when the King, wrapping his cloak closely round his features, descended and entered the building, while his attendant retained his seat. The latter had remained there some time, when he heard a voice, in a tone of authority, ordering his postillion to move onward, and another carriage drew up at the gate of the palace. Senhor Texeira, at first, forgetting himself, felt very much inclined to desire his postillion not to stir from his position, but remembering instantly that it was his duty rather to prevent the King from being discovered, he checked the expressions rising to his tongue, and allowed his carriage to proceed out of the way.

The occupant of the other carriage was the young Marquis of Tavora, who had suddenly returned from some military duty on which he had been despatched from Lisbon. As he alighted and entered his palace, none of his principal servants were in waiting; the porter alone, who, wrapped up in his cloak, had been dozing in a corner, after opening the doors with an amazed and sleepy stare, uttered some incoherent words, to which his master paying no attention, passed onward. A small lamp, suspended at the head of the first flight of steps, afforded the young lord but just sufficient light to see his way as he mounted, summoning his attendants, in an angry tone, to his presence. The porter gazed after him with a doubtful expression of countenance. “Shall I tell him he had better not go upstairs?” he thought; “but if I do, it will only make him go the faster. It is no affair of mine, and I suppose the King has a right to go where he likes; if not, what is the use of being a King? only I am afraid mischief will come of it.”

By the time the porter had got thus far in his soliloquy, his master had gained the summit of the flight of steps which led to the first floor. The young noble was advancing towards the drawing-room, wondering at the unusual silence which reigned through the palace, when suddenly a door opened, and he encountered a figure with a large cloak wrapped closely round him.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, in a voice of suddenly aroused anger, “who does me the honour of paying my palace a visit at this time of the night? Stay, Senhor Cavalhero: I allow no one to pass unquestioned.” But the stranger, not heeding his words, endeavoured to pass on his way without answering. “What! you are dumb too! Then this shall compel you to speak.” On these words, drawing his sword, he made a pass at the cloaked stranger; the latter, however, stepping back, avoided the thrust; the weapon merely grazing his cloak, and, unsheathing his rapier also, he turned aside, with considerable skill, another lunge made at him.

“Stay, senhor! you know not whom you attack,” he exclaimed. “Allow me to pass without further hindrance.”

But the passion of the Marquis was aroused to the highest pitch from the very opposition he received, it preventing him from distinguishing the voice of the stranger.

“Daring villain, no!” he answered, “speak your business in this mansion, and let your own words condemn you.”

“I allow no one to question me, so stand aside, senhor,” said the stranger, endeavouring to put aside his antagonist’s sword; but the Marquis, parrying the thrust, attacked him furiously, without deigning a further reply.

The stranger was now obliged to defend himself in earnest, for after several passes given and taken, he discovered that the young noble was the better swordsman.

“Hold!” he cried. “Beware what you do; I am the King!”

“I believe it not!” responded the Marquis, in a loud tone; “and I acknowledge no King who would thus treacherously intrude into the habitation of a subject.”

As he uttered these words, he whirled the King’s sword from his grasp, and the point of his own weapon was at his sovereign’s throat; for, as may be supposed, the stranger was no other than the King.

In a moment the life of Joseph would have been terminated, when the young Marchioness, attracted by the sound of angry voices, and the clash of swords, hastened from her apartment. She uttered a cry of horror, when, at a glance, she discovered by the light which Donna Florinda, who followed, carried, all that had occurred.

“Hold, Luis, hold! ’tis the King, indeed,” she exclaimed, throwing herself, without hesitating, before her husband; but, putting her aside—though the action saved him from being guilty of regicide—he exclaimed, “’Tis false! You would, by such a subterfuge, guilty woman, attempt to save the worthless life of your seducer; but it shall not avail you or him: he shall die.”

“I am guiltless of any crime towards you,” responded Donna Theresa, with energy, again throwing herself before her husband. “It is, it is our sovereign you have so guiltily attacked. Hear me swear to the truth of my assertion.”

While this colloquy was going forward the King had recovered his sword, and now stood holding it with the point to the ground, the light falling more strongly on his features than before, as he said, “Hear me, Don Luis de Tavora. Your wife utters naught but the truth. She has in no way betrayed your honour. Had not your first fierce attack prevented me, I would at once have informed you that I was your sovereign; but your anger is excusable, and you are forgiven.”

As the King spoke, he held out his hand for the young Marquis to kiss; but the latter, with a glance of proud disdain, pretended not to observe the action.

“Your Majesty must suppose me, forsooth, a most complaisant husband, that I should discover a stranger in my palace at this hour, and not seek to question his purpose; but your Majesty has, doubtless, full power to command all us, your humble servants, and I have now no further right to complain. I retain but the privilege of settling the affair with my lady, and in that point I shall exert a husband’s power as I think fit. By your Majesty’s leave, I will order your carriage, which waits at a short distance, to the door, and humbly conduct you thither.”

“This language sounds somewhat like the insolence of treason, young sir,” said Joseph; “though, as you might have cause to be exasperated, I will, for this time, overlook it; but let me hear no more such words.”

“Your Majesty shall be humbly obeyed,” returned the young husband, in an ironical tone; “and Donna Theresa will, doubtless, explain all matters entirely to my satisfaction. Has your Majesty any further commands?”

“No, sir! no!” said the King, turning to the Marchioness. “Lovely lady, adieu! We trust you will be able fully to pacify your lord’s irritated feelings. Now, my lord Marquis, we will beg you to lead the way to the hall; some of your servants can light us thither.”

By this time all the household had collected round the spot, eager to see the termination of the affair; the circumstance of the King’s visits being known among them all; but, supposing the Marquis was privy to it, they did not venture to speak to him on the subject.

Again bowing to the Marchioness, Joseph was conducted to the door of the palace with every outward ceremony, the Marquis leading the way, and the servants on each side holding waxen flambeaux; but could he have looked deeper into the young noble’s heart, he might have learned to tremble for the consequences of his own conduct. As it was, he had been taught to look upon his subjects as his slaves, and was astounded at the idea of their having a will of their own. He felt, however, that he had played but a poor figure in the drama, and had lowered himself materially in the opinion of the spectators, so that he was well contented to find himself once more safe in his carriage with Texeira, to whom he detailed all his adventures.

The young Marchioness stood gazing with looks of despair on her husband and the King, as they descended the stair; but, alas! she trembled more for the safety of the latter than for that of the man she ought to have loved. She knew her husband’s fierce and vindictive disposition, and she felt assured that he would hesitate at no means to accomplish his purposes of revenge.

Having escorted the King to his carriage, the Marquis returned; a dark frown on his brow marking his inward feelings. “I have humbly to thank you, madam, for procuring me the honour of a royal visit; though, another time, I beg you will give me due notice, that I may be prepared to receive so exalted a guest as becomes his rank,” he began, in a taunting tone, mingled with anger; “yet I ought to be grateful that, since you have thought fit to select a lover, you have not debased yourself with one of low degree. But know, lady, his station shall not shield him against my vengeance.”

“Oh! believe me, I am innocent!” exclaimed the Marchioness, in a voice trembling with agitation. “Your own mother is aware of the visits of the King, and she will explain all to you; but do not suspect me wrongfully.”

“Oh! doubtless, your conduct has been perfectly irreproachable,” responded her lord, in the same strain as before. “All ladies will swear the same, and hope to make their credulous husbands believe them; but, although some choose to be willingly deceived, I do not. I doubt not, Donna Florinda, whom I have the honour of saluting, will confirm all you aver. Pray, madam, is she your guest, or have you added her also to my establishment?”

“She was presented to me by their Majesties,” said Donna Theresa, glad of an opportunity of stopping the current of her lord’s passionate sarcasm.

“I shall take the liberty, then, of returning her to her royal donors,” said the Marquis. “You will take it as no disparagement to your matchless charms, Donna Florinda, that I am anxious so soon to part from one whom all admire; but I prefer that my wife should have no female counsellor who will teach her to consider her husband a tyrant and endowed with qualities inferior to all other men.”

“You forget your gallantry, Senhor Marquis, when you talk of sending me out of your house, like a roll of silks returned to the mercer as not required,” cried the sable lady, delighted to have an opportunity both of loosing her tongue, and of relieving her young mistress from the wrath of her husband. “Truly, I am surprised to hear you speak thus, whom all the Court acknowledge to be the most gallant of knights. What would Senhora Amelia, or the fair Condeça de Campo Bello say, if they heard you give utterance to such expressions? You would never speak thus to them, I feel confident; but then they are not cruel to you, it is whispered. Come, come, senhor, you have no right to complain if your lady thinks fit to receive the visits of our sovereign.”

“Silence, wretch!” thundered the Marquis. “Begone to your chamber, and let me not see your hideous countenance while you remain beneath my roof. That you claim to belong to the female sex, alone prevents me from ordering you forthwith to be put outside my doors.”

“The man is to a certainty mad, to call me such horrid names,” cried the Dwarf, judging it, however, more prudent to obey. “I trust the cool reflection of the morning will make you think better of your present determination, as I should grieve to leave my lovely mistress so soon.”

“You need enjoy no such expectations,” answered the Marquis, as the little being retired. “And now, madam,” he added, turning to his wife, “retire to your apartment, and quit it not without my permission. As it appears that the King has chosen to become the master of my palace, I shall no longer reside here. Farewell, madam, for the present; I have affairs of importance to transact. In the morning I shall return.”

“Stay, Luis, stay!” exclaimed the Marchioness; “do not leave me thus in anger. Say you do not believe me really guilty;” and she endeavoured to clasp his arm to detain him, but he tore himself angrily away.

“Oaths and prayers will avail you naught, madam,” he answered. “Obey my commands for the present; how I may think fit to act for the future you shall hear:” saying which, he turned aside from his young wife, and descended the stairs, muttering, as he went, between his closed teeth, “I might have better borne a rival with some gallant qualities to boast of; but this wretched King, who gives himself up to the power of a base plebeian,—’tis a double disgrace. My lady mother aware of it! I must see to that! Impossible! It was but a flimsy excuse to avert my anger.”

Entering his carriage, he ordered the postillion to proceed to his father’s Quinta at Belem. How dreary and long seemed the way as he passed the shapeless masses of ruins which everywhere presented themselves on the road, appearing yet larger and wilder amid the gloom of night; his mind, too, like them, torn and agitated by a thousand conflicting emotions!

When he arrived, he found that his father was from home, and that his mother had retired to her chamber; nor could he venture to disturb her. The only member of his family not yet retired to rest being his younger brother Jozé, to him he poured out his indignant griefs and vows of vengeance against the sovereign, whom he imagined had cast so great a dishonour on their name. Don Jozé, being of a far milder temperament than his brother, endeavoured to calm his anger, by pointing out to him the possibility of his wife’s having spoken the truth; that if their mother was aware of the King’s visit, at all events there was some excuse for her; but, at the same time, he pledged himself to aid him by every means in his power, if his worst suspicions were confirmed. The greater part of the night had passed in these discussions, before the young Marquis, throwing himself on a couch in his brother’s room, endeavoured to find some rest to his troubled thoughts.

Little did the Sovereign of Portugal dream of the plots against his crown and life hatching within the boundaries of his capital; nor was even his sagacious Minister aware they had advanced so far.

Early in the morning, the young Marquis sought Donna Leonora, his mother, eager to learn if she had sanctioned the intimacy between the King and his wife. She confessed that she had done so, and her motives for the act; which, although it satisfied him that his wife was not so much to blame as he had suspected, did not lessen his anger against his sovereign, or cause him to alter any of the plans of revenge he had harboured in his bosom. His conduct towards the King, when told to his mother, caused that ambitious lady to hurry on events which might otherwise have been longer delayed; for feeling that the Monarch would take the earliest opportunity to punish the insolence of his subject, she determined to use her best endeavours to prevent his having the power to do so.

The young Marquis now returned home with rather a lighter heart; for though he had neglected her, he yet loved his beautiful wife, and was unwilling to part with her. He loved her, but his love was not deep; he had soon discovered that the ardent passion he had once felt was not returned; and though a woman may yet love on through coldness, neglect, and scorn, a man never can; his love depends on its being returned, and it is the perfect confidence that it is so which will alone cause his to endure beyond the first few months of possession.

When he entered his wife’s chamber, he found her seated at the toilet, pale and wan, for sleep had not that night visited her eyes. Too clearly had her fate been revealed to her. The dread future had spoken words of awful warning to her ears, but she, alas! had determined to close her senses to both.

“Theresa!” said her husband, kindly approaching her, “I wronged you; but let this be a warning to you. Whatever others may counsel, remember first to obey your husband’s wishes; and I do not choose to be sneered at, even for the sovereign’s sake, or to win the worthless state secrets which alone Carvalho is likely to confide to his puppet. From henceforth, therefore, when the King thinks fit to come to my palace, refuse to see him. Say such is your husband’s wish; if you obey me not, the consequence be on both your heads. Speak, Theresa, do you hear me?”

At these words of her husband’s, the countenance of Donna Theresa grew yet more pallid. Her voice trembled as she answered, “I cannot promise to obey a command which I may not have power to perform; but, my lord, do not give utterance to those dreadful threats, which you cannot—you dare not execute, for destruction would inevitably overwhelm you, and all engaged with you in them.”

“Let that care be mine,” exclaimed her husband. “The cause is in your hands. Should the King again visit this abode, and you send him not forthwith away, he dies! and his blood be on your head! If I fail, you will have mine to answer for.”

These threats increased yet more the agitation of the young Marchioness. She full well knew her husband was not a man to utter empty vows of vengeance; but could she consent to see no more the man she loved? Could she give up all her long-cherished hopes of power? Yet, if she disobeyed, what a dreadful alternative was presented to her—either she must warn the King of his danger, and thus be an accessory to her husband’s death, perhaps to the destruction of his family, or she must allow the former to run every risk of destruction! Such thoughts rushed tumultuously through her mind; but, alas! pride, ambition, and a fatal contempt of the warnings of her conscience, prevented her following the only secure, because the only right, course. When her husband quitted her, he had yet failed to draw a satisfactory promise from her that she would obey his orders; but he comforted himself with the idea that his threats would have their due effect. How vain were his hopes! What would have made a weak woman tremble, caused Donna Theresa only to persevere more daringly in her course.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

In the neighbourhood of Lisbon, the Crown possessed one or two parks, of great extent, which were called Coitadas, stocked with every description of game, both to follow on horseback, or for the exercise of the fowling-piece; that of Alfitte, on the banks of the Tagus, being by far the largest, covering many thousand acres of ground. The King, who was passionately fond of the chase, was in the constant habit of resorting to a country-house he possessed on the borders of the forest, accompanied by some of his favourite courtiers, when, flinging aside all thoughts or cares of government, he gave himself up entirely to his favourite amusement. The kingdom, on these very frequent occasions, would have been allowed to take the best care it could of itself, under a less energetic minister than Carvalho; but that sagacious statesman, encouraging his sovereign in his pursuits, seized with avidity the opportunity of exercising the uncontrolled power thus delegated to him, to the yet further disgust of the haughty nobles of the land. Sometimes, however, he himself, who was a proficient in all manly and athletic exercises, would steal away from the city to join in the sport, though the same evening he might be again found at his post, deeply engaged in the many momentous and difficult affairs which occupied his attention.

It was a bright and glorious morning; the sun had just risen, tinging the topmost boughs of the forest trees, glittering with the clear drops of a gentle shower, which had fallen during the night, giving an additional freshness and lustre to the smiling face of nature. The birds sang their sweetest notes to welcome the morn, as they flew from spray to spray, rejoicing in their unrestrained liberty. The air was soft and balmy, laden with the delicious odours springing from the flowering shrubs and plants which filled the forest glades. Not a human sound was heard to disturb the harmony of nature. It was such a scene as our great poet of rural beauty loves best to describe. Through an opening in the wood, at the end of a long vista, might be seen the shining waters of the broad Tagus, flowing onward in tranquil majesty; and, in every direction, other glades led far away, now lost to view by some gentle elevation, or sinking into some narrow valley.

Suddenly a tall dark figure emerged from the thickest part of the forest, and advancing into the open ground, looked cautiously on every side. Though his step was firm, it possessed none of the elasticity of youth, as he stalked forward, unconsciously lifting his long thin arms aloft, in the energy of his thoughts. His dress, of the coarsest materials, was that of a common labourer; a broad-brimmed hat, from beneath which escaped a few hoary locks, partly concealed his emaciated and parchment-like countenance; yet, though age had there set its furrowing marks, it had not dimmed the wild lustre of his large and rolling eyes. In his right hand he bore a long staff, with an iron point; but he made little use of it to aid his steps, seeming to carry it more as a weapon of defence, than for any other purpose: at his side hung a wallet, such as is used by beggars to contain their food. What was his usual occupation it was impossible to say; for, though his costume betokened the countryman, his manner and words seemed to contradict that idea; and, indeed, from his behaviour, it appeared that he was there for some secret, perhaps no good, purpose.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as he strode rapidly onward, casting his searching glances around, “the time has arrived when the wicked shall be brought low, and the proud abased; when vengeance is about to fall on the heads of the persecutors of the prophets of Heaven! yet must the task which I am called on to fulfil be accomplished; the words of warning must be spoken ere the blow is struck. Even as the seers of old were sent to those evil kings of Israel who worshipped strange gods, and hearkened to the counsels of their idolatrous followers, so must I utter the messages of Heaven to this hard-hearted Monarch; yet will he not hear, but will continue on still in his wickedness.”

Muttering such words as these, the person continued his course, where we must leave him, to turn to a far more exciting scene, which was enacting at no great distance.

The hunting villa attached to the royal chase was a low straggling building, without the slightest attempt at architectural beauty, the lower story being devoted entirely to the use of the horses requisite for the sport, and their attendant grooms; the upper, possessing a row of windows at equal distances from each other on every side, was divided, with the exception of a few large rooms appropriated to the royal owner, into a number of small ones for the numerous guests who attended him. In front was a broad court-yard, now filled with a large assemblage of horses and their grooms, while several men held in leashes a number of dogs, who were barking loudly, in their endeavours to free themselves from thraldom; some of them, indeed, from being more tractable, probably, than their brethren, were allowed to wander loose among the steeds: the latter, too, were neighing, and pawing the ground, eager to rush forward in the exciting course, which they seemed aware was in store for them. The grooms and huntsmen, while waiting for the appearance of their masters, were laughing and hallooing to each other, cracking their jokes with unreserved freedom, none of that strict decorum usually observed in the neighbourhood of royalty being there perceptible. On a sudden, however, the noisy mirth was checked, and all eyes were directed towards the open gateway, through which the majestic person of the Prime Minister was perceived advancing, mounted on a coal-black steed, which he sat with perfect ease and command. The animal’s moistened neck and panting breath showed that he had not tarried on the road. As he drew in his rein, twenty servants sprang eagerly forward to aid him in dismounting; but, dispensing with their services, he threw himself off, and, without deigning to turn a glance towards them, entered the building.

A few minutes only elapsed, when the King, who had apparently been awaiting his arrival, issued forth in a hunting costume of green and silver, closely followed by several of his nobles, the one nearest to him being his chief favourite, the Marquis of Marialva, (Note) to whom he was addressing his observations; but there was one among the party who seemed neither to consider it an honour nor a pleasure to be in attendance,—this was the Duke of Aveiro, who had, by the Minister’s advice, received a command to accompany his master in the proposed sports of the day. He took but little pains to conceal his dissatisfaction, as he walked on with a haughty air and frowning brow, yet, at the same time, he would not yield the position in the cortège which his rank entitled him to hold, though he neither regarded nor addressed any near him.

“A fine morning we are favoured with, Senhor Marquis,” cried the King, in a joyous tone, speaking to Marialva. “We shall have some good sport, if I mistake not, and many a long-tusked boar will die to-day. Who will be the happy man to kill the first, I wonder?—’twill be your chance, my friend, I trust.”

“Your Majesty is generally the most fortunate hunter,” returned the Marquis; “for few can successfully compete with you in the chase.”

“That is because others are apt to hold back at times, I suspect,” said Joseph, laughing; for the anticipation of his favourite amusement had raised his usually grave spirit. “But to-day, remember, cavaliers, all must endeavour to do their best. We will allow no one to draw rein till they come up with the chase. Listen to my commands, Senhor Duque d’Aveiro. You are but a sluggard sportsman, I fear; but we must imbue you with some of our own fondness for the exciting pastime, and then you will vie with the best.”

“When your Majesty commands, your subjects must obey,” returned the Duke, in a tone which was far from agreeing with the obedient tenor of his words; for he neither had any predilection for the chase, nor was he famed for his proficiency in equestrian accomplishments.

“We will tarry no longer,” exclaimed the King. “To horse, to horse, cavaliers! ’Tis a sin to lose a moment of this tempting weather.” As he spoke, he laid his hand on the bridle of a steed which some grooms had been leading backwards and forwards in readiness, but which they had now resigned to several of the nobles, the Marquis of Marialva performing the office of holding the stirrup while he mounted.

No sooner was he in the saddle than the rest of the party followed his example, a fresh horse being brought out for the Minister, who seemed to enjoy the thoughts of the sport as much as the youngest or idlest among them.

The King led the cavalcade, a little in advance, with Carvalho by his side, who seemed to be communicating some matters of importance, at all events not intended for the ears of the rest. Then came the Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of Marialva, and other of the first nobles, followed by a crowd of attendants and huntsmen, among whom appeared that faithful counsellor of the Duke’s, Senhor Policarpio; for without him his master never now went abroad. That discreet personage did not seem to partake at all either in his ill-humour or dislike to the amusement, chatting and laughing familiarly with his fellows, who could not fail to regard him as a most amiable character.

Hunting parties have been before so often and ably described by far greater artists than we can ever hope to be, that it were useless and tiresome to our readers to mention the costumes of the sportsmen, and the trappings of their steeds, the numbers of attendants, with their leashes of hounds, the men with long sticks and clappers to rouse the game from their lairs, the cheering sound of the horns, the neighing of the horses, the barking of the dogs, and the shouts and cries of the human beings joining in one wild and exhilarating chorus. We defy any, except the most apathetic or heart-broken, (including some, perhaps, who experience a considerable share of fear in being obliged to sit on horseback at all,) not to feel their spirits rise, and their hearts throb with eagerness to come up with the chase, when they find themselves in such scenes as we have seen depicted.

We do not, for another reason, mention this more minutely; for we suspect that, were we to paint it exactly as it was, it would be found to fall very far short, in interest and even in magnificence, of an English meet, just as the fox breaks from cover. Boar hunting is a very fine thing, we doubt not; but it cannot beat that. The boars in question being detained within the precincts of the park, by sundry tempting baits from time to time held out to them, on condition that they would make no objection to be hunted on occasions, and killed when required, were not quite so fierce as their brethren in the forest of Ardennes, or those which the German barons hunt, as narrated in every romance the scene of which is laid in that picturesque country of rocks, woods, and castles; nevertheless they were formidable adversaries to encounter when their bristles were up, without a long spear and a sharp couteau de chasse in the hand; then an expert butcher could easily cut their throats. They were worth killing, too; for we can vouch for the very excellent hams which their descendants of the present day make, when dried and salted. But we are descending too much into common-day life, so must again mount our Pegasus, and follow the hounds.

The party rode on for some distance into the wood, at that easy pace which enabled the footmen to keep up with them without difficulty, being joined every now and then by some of the nobles who had been more sluggard in their movement.

There was, indeed, a gallant assemblage of cavaliers collected by the time they reached a broad, sylvan glade, in the neighbourhood of which it was expected that a boar, or perhaps a wolf, would be found; for both animals were equally objects of their search. Of the latter there were great numbers in the country, who, descending from their mountain fastnesses during the frosts of winter, took refuge in the forests on the lower lands, where, finding an abundance of provision, they remained till hunted and destroyed, every one waging deadly war against them.

The beaters, with the huntsmen and dogs, now went in front, the first forming a long line; and, with loud shouts and cries, striking every clump of brushwood in their way, advanced slowly forward, the royal party following them closely.

At length, a magnificent boar, of larger size than usual, started from among a mass of tangled shrubs. For a moment, he gazed at his enemies, as if he would have rushed on them, when the footmen retiring behind the cavaliers, the latter galloped their horses towards him. Instinct pointing out to him the hopelessness of contending with so large a force, he turned, and endeavoured to escape by flight. Vain were his efforts: his speed did not equal that of his pursuers; the King, by the tacit consent of his courtiers, being allowed to be the first to come up with him; for, although pretending to urge on their active steeds to the utmost, by swerving more than necessary, as if to avoid the brushwood in their way, they easily effected their purpose. The dogs rushed on him from all sides, compelling him to stand at bay; two he laid, covered with gore, upon the turf; but the others he could not shake off, when the King, plunging his spear into the brawny neck of the now infuriated animal, brought him to the ground. He uttered a loud cry of pain and impotent rage, and the Marquis of Marialva, leaping from his steed, finished the beast’s life, with a stroke of his short hunting sword. The footmen then hastened forward to take possession of the carcass, which was to be conveyed to the royal residence.

While this scene was enacting, Captain Policarpio rode up to his master, the Duke of Aveiro, who had loitered at some little distance apart from the other sportsmen.

“It would save much trouble, if one of the brethren of yonder fierce beast, were to plunge his long tusks into the side of this hunting-loving King of ours,” observed the former, in a low tone.

“You speak truly, my good Policarpio,” replied the Duke; “but such a chance, I fear, is not to be ours. He is too closely surrounded by those sycophantish nobles, who, I verily believe, would risk their own lives to save his, and these brutes have seldom the fortune to kill their hunters. We must wait our time, and trust to our own good arms, and steady aim.”

“An opportunity may offer we thought not of before, though one, we should do well not to lose, if I may so advise your Excellency. The forest we shall traverse is thick, and the probability is great that the King will be separated from the rest of the party. Let him be our game, and let our whole care be to closely follow his movements, never, for an instant, allowing him to escape our sight; then should we find him for a moment alone, and no person at hand, one well-aimed stroke would place the crown on your Excellency’s head.”

“The idea is not bad; but it is utterly hopeless. Even if the King were separated from the others, we should not be able to slay him, without a certainty of discovery,” said the Duke.

“Have no fear on that score, your Excellency; such deeds have often before been done. The bough of a tree may have thrown him from his horse; some concealed assassin may have shot him, or the very animal he was in search of may have overpowered him. We ride on, as if nothing had occurred; the hunters will have gained a long distance from the spot, before they perceive that the King is not of the party; then some time will elapse before any go in search of him, and still more before his corpse is discovered. This will fully account for the escape of the assassins: your Excellency, in the mean time, can easily overtake and ride among the foremost of the hunters, so that no one will suspect you, while I will keep among my equals, and shout, and laugh the blithest of any.”

“You are truly a valuable counsellor, my friend, and with your aid, Heaven favouring me, I may yet succeed. I will follow your advice; but keep not too much in my company, the so doing may draw suspicion on us.”

The weak Duke had just made up his mind to act according to his cunning servant’s suggestion, when a she-wolf started from a cover some way beyond where the boar had been finally brought to bay. Fresh dogs were, as soon as possible, let loose on her; but she had, in the mean time, gained a considerable start of them, making the utmost of her advantage; and giving one fierce glare at her pursuers, she directed her course towards the centre of the forest. Every one was in eager pursuit; but the trees, in some places, grew so densely, that it was impossible for the huntsmen to keep together, or in sight of the quarry. The King, the most excited of any, encouraged them with shouts and gestures to the chase, many, indeed, unintentionally having actually passed him; but the Duke and his wily attendant, holding back their steeds, kept a hawk-eyed glance on his every movement. Suddenly, to their great satisfaction, they observed their intended victim take a narrow path to the right, from supposing, probably, that it would afford a shorter road, while the rest of the party followed a broader way straight forward. The King galloped on, when he found that he had made a mistake, the path leading him at each step further from the cries of the dogs, and the shouts of the men: he perceived also, that he was followed by none of his own attendants; two horsemen only being distinguished approaching him at some little distance. He listened attentively for the sounds of the chase, and could yet clearly distinguish them on the left, in which direction he searched eagerly for an opening in the wood, through which he might proceed at a fast pace, without running the risk of being bruised among the trees. At last he arrived at a part of the wood where the trees grew further from each other; and just as the Duke and Senhor Policarpio were about to gallop towards him, the latter, with the intention of plunging his long hunting spear into his back, he disappeared among them. The King, little thinking of the treachery meditated against him, passed through what he found to be merely a narrow belt of trees, closely pursued by his intended murderers, till he found himself in a small amphitheatre; the soil soft and damp, from a bubbling stream, which issued forth from some rugged, dark rocks, which rose on every side, while the most lofty trees of the forest grew around. He had before been led to the spot, in the course of a day’s sport, and he knew it to be near the centre of the domain. There was but one path which led from it, in the direction he wished to pursue, between two overhanging rocks, and this he was about to take, when the traitors again overtook him. It was a spot fit for their fell purposes; no prying eye might observe them, nor was any huntsmen likely to be led thither. Another moment, and his life would have been ended; when a tall dark figure rose directly in his path. The woodland apparition, for so seemed the stranger to the guilty consciences of the assassins, caused them to pause in their intention. The King’s steed snorted and reared at the sudden interruption to his career, nor was his rider less amazed at beholding the strange figure, who, with wild and frantic gestures, presented itself before him. As our readers may possibly have guessed, he was the same mysterious personage whom we described as wandering about the wood in the early part of the morning.

The Monarch was the first to speak, for he conjectured that some insane peasant, probably, having wandered into the woods, had been startled from his sleep, and was not aware of the impropriety of his actions.

“Who art thou, friend, who thus venturest to intrude into our royal domain? Say, what wantest thou? but, be quick in thy speech, and impede not our progress; for we yet hear the sounds of the chase at a distance.”

“I am one whose hands thou hast kissed, and whose feet thou hast washed, proud King, in the days of thy innocence and happiness; but one whom thou hast since despised, and driven from thy presence with ignominy. Will that suffice thee? My message I give not in the presence of the vile panders to thy follies and vices I see approaching.”

And he pointed towards the Duke of Aveiro and Senhor Policarpio, when the King, now for the first time, perceived that he was not alone. While the stranger was speaking, they came up, bowing profoundly; but the Monarch had been seized with a strong desire to know what the aged man before him could possibly have to say; and, being well armed, he thought not of personal danger. He therefore desired the Duke and his attendant to ride on, and endeavour to discover the rest of the party, saying he would follow in their track, as soon as he had listened to what the peasant had to communicate. The Duke was obliged to obey, although he regarded the stranger suspiciously; for, at the first glance, he recognised in him the holy Father Malagrida, and it instantly occurred to him, that he was about to betray his own treacherous designs. At first, it flashed across his mind, that his only chance of safety would be to destroy both Joseph and the Priest at once; but his superstitious awe of the Father, prevented him from committing the deed. He rode on, therefore, followed by Policarpio, their former intention yet unaltered.

“Let us draw rein here, if it please your Excellency,” said the latter, as soon as they had lost sight of the King; “we shall have now a fairer opportunity than ever. As he passes by, we will rush at him, and strike him dead. Yonder peasant will be accused of the deed, and we shall escape suspicion.”

“Know you not who yonder seeming peasant is?” exclaimed the Duke. “He is no peasant, but the holy Jesuit Malagrida, for what purpose come hither, I know not; but I fear me much it cannot be for any good, except he seeks to take the trouble off our hands by despatching the King himself.”

“It would be a useful deed, forsooth,” said Policarpio. “Yet, no matter, if he slays him not; his very appearance will aid our purpose; for many must have seen a stranger wandering about, who will be the first suspected; and, as he will probably make his escape, he will inform no one that he saw us. Does not your Excellency think so?”

“Your sagacity is above all praise,” answered the Duke. “You deserve to be a prime minister, my good Policarpio; and you shall be if my plans are successful. They must be so, or—”

He dared not to utter the alternative.

“Fear not, my noble master; success must attend us,” interrupted Policarpio.

Such was the conversation the pair, worthy of each other, held, while concealed among some thick-growing shrubs, in anxious expectation of their victim’s arrival.

As soon as the King found himself alone with the aged peasant, he repeated his former question—“Say, what wantest thou, my friend?”

“For myself, I require naught; but I come for thy benefit, O hard-hearted and impious King; for our Lord, in his mercy, remembering the bright promise of thy youth, in the days of thy tainted father, has taken compassion on thee, and will not suffer thee to be destroyed without a given warning. Hear me, O King! while I speak the words of Heaven! If thou turn not from thy evil course; if thou ceasest not to cherish the persecutor of our holy religion, in the persons of her most faithful servants; if thou still wilt refuse to receive the fathers of the Order of Jesus into thy palace, and trustest to the vain words and counsels of the pampered and false sons of our Church, then will a speedy vengeance fall on thy head. Even now is thy name registered among those doomed to die, who will not repent of their sins: even now has the fiat of thy fate gone forth, which naught but the prayers of the faithful can turn aside. Be warned, then, O King! in time. Repent! and be saved from destruction. If not, before many suns have set, thy haughty head shall be brought low, and thou shalt mingle with the dust from whence thou sprangest. Ah! thy dying groans now ring upon mine ear. I see thy blood-stained corpse upon the ground, while the demons of hell rejoice that they have gained another victim. Thy proud race shall cease, and thy name shall be held in abhorrence by all the faithful followers of our holy religion.”

“Cease, cease, whoever thou art, mysterious man,” exclaimed the King, interrupting him, and trembling with agitation. “We tarried not to hear words like these. We fancied that thou earnest to inform us of some plot against our throne and life. Speak, who art thou? that we may know how much credence to give to thy words.”

“I am one whom thou hast persecuted—I am the Father Malagrida!”

“Ah! why, then, this strange garb? and how darest thou to approach our royal person?” cried the King.

“I dare do all that is commanded me; and for this peasant garb, it enabled me, unperceived, to enter this domain, where, living on the berries of the trees, and roots from the earth, have I long waited to meet thee thus. Wilt thou then promise to amend and turn from thy wickedness?”

“Silence! daring Priest!” cried the King. “Begone to the town appointed for thy residence, or I will command my attendants to seize thee, and commit thee to the lowest dungeon in our prisons.”

“I fear thee not, and dare thy vengeance! Thou hast set the seal upon thine own fate. From henceforth no warning voice shall meet thine ear; and rapidly shalt thou run thy course unto destruction. I would have saved thee, but thou wouldest not be saved. Wretched Monarch, we meet no more!”

Joseph, who wanted not personal courage, (indeed cowardice has never been a failing of his race,) and was above the vulgar superstitions of his country, enraged more than terrified by these daring threats, made an attempt to seize the mad Jesuit; but Malagrida, perceiving his intention, eluded his grasp, and uttering a loud laugh of derision, plunged among the rocks and brushwood, whither it was impossible for the King to follow on horseback.

In vain the Monarch attempted to cut off his retreat. After searching for him for a considerable time, he was obliged to desist; and then set off at full speed, in the hopes of quickly finding the Minister and his nobles, and despatching people to apprehend the daring Jesuit.

The Duke and his attendant watched eagerly for his approach; every instant they expected to triumph in his destruction; at last they beheld him galloping towards them through the wood, when the loud shouts of men, the sound of horses, and the barking of the hounds, broke on their ears, nearer approaching the spot where they were concealed. Onward came the King, when, as he was within a few yards of them, a wolf, closely pursued by the most active dogs, dashed by, his eyes straining, and his mouth covered with foam from rage and terror. The King, forgetful of the scene in which he had just engaged, and of everything except the excitement of the sport, turned his horse’s head, and gave chase after the wolf. The savage animal, already almost spent with fatigue, was quickly overtaken, and ere he could stand at bay, the spear of the King had pinned him to the ground, when the dogs setting on him, had almost torn him to pieces, before a party of the noble hunters, with Carvalho at their head, could come up. What was their surprise on finding their sovereign in at the death, when it was supposed that he had followed another quarry in a different direction. All, of course, were loud in praise of his skill and address; none more so than the Duke of Aveiro, who soon rode up as if he had never harboured a thought of treachery.

At last Joseph recollected Malagrida, and calling the Minister to him, he recounted all that he had said. Carvalho, inwardly cursing his master’s supineness, in not having at once informed him of the circumstance, advised him to summon all the party to aid in apprehending him. Leaving, therefore, all thoughts of further sport for wild beasts, they eagerly joined in what was, after all, far more exciting, and suited to their natures—the hunting down a fellow-creature, though none were told who was the person. They searched everywhere; not a bush in the neighbourhood was left unbeaten; but Malagrida had escaped, and, at last, in despair, they were obliged to desist, when fatigue warned the King that it was time to return home, and Carvalho immediately set off on his return to the city.

Note. This is the same worthy noble Mr Beckford so frequently mentions, and with whom he was residing while at Lisbon.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

We have just discovered that we have written five chapters of our history without once mentioning the name of one who played so conspicuous a part in the commencement: we mean our most particular friend, Don Luis d’Almeida; and, lest any of our readers should begin to suspect that we have laid him on the shelf altogether, and should, in consequence, throw down our book as of no further interest, we will again return to the narration of his fortunes.

He was seated by the bedside of his father, the old Count d’Almeida, in the country-house we have before described, near Coimbra. His eyes were directed towards the invalid, with a glance of filial affection and deep sorrow; for on his countenance too clearly had the stern hand of death set his seal to claim his victim. A great change had come over Luis; disappointment, grief, and illness, had done their cruel work on him; he was no longer the sanguine and gay youth who laughed at misfortunes as things which might strike, but could not injure him; he was now the grave and thoughtful man: he had learned the great lesson—that sorrows must visit all but the few, and those few not to be the most envied, perhaps; but he had also learned to face disappointment with fortitude and resignation. The many months which he had spent in retirement, by the side of his dying parent, he had devoted, when not in actual attendance on him, to severe study. He had discarded all frivolous or light reading, drawing his ideas alone from the pure springs of knowledge and of truth, among the authors of antiquity; and truly did he find his mind strengthened by the invigorating draughts he had imbibed. For several weeks his father had not risen from his sick couch, and both were aware that they must soon part, though the son imagined not how soon.

The old Count had been sorely afflicted at the thoughts of leaving the son in whom all his affections centred, his pride and boast, so ill-provided with a worldly inheritance. He left him his honoured name, and his title; but beyond that, except the small Quinta on which he resided, all the residue of his fortune had been lost by the earthquake. The merchant who managed his affairs, and held possession of all his monied property, had failed, owing to that dreadful event, when several houses, from which he drew a considerable portion of his revenue, were also entirely destroyed; so that Luis would, with the greatest economy, be but barely able to support the character even of a private gentleman. For this he cared but little. Of what use now to him was wealth and rank, since she for whom alone he valued either was lost to him for ever? His ambition lay buried in that living tomb which now enclosed his Clara—now doubly lost; for, had he not been supposed to be the destroyer of her brother, and should he ever find means to clear himself from that imputation, yet would her father never consent to give her to one destitute of fortune. He had long banished from his mind all thoughts of happiness through the tender sympathies of our nature. A wife’s sweet smile, issuing from her heart of hearts, he should never know; the name of father, uttered by the lips of his first-born, he should never hear: cold and solitary must be his course—yet both loving and beloved—but apart from his soul’s idol—he knew her love would endure, and that consciousness would prevent his from ever changing. Since his return from Lisbon, he had once only quitted his father’s house: it was to pay a short visit to Oporto, in the faint hopes of gaining an interview with Donna Clara. He saw her, as we shall hereafter describe; but, alas! little was gained to either, except a confirmation of their mutual constancy.

The old Count had been sleeping. As his eyes languidly opened, they met the earnest gaze of his son. “Luis,” he said, in a feeble voice, “I must deceive you no longer. I know that I have not many hours to live. Before the sun again rises, I shall be taken from you; but yet, my boy, I die contented; for, though small is the share you will possess of this world’s wealth, I leave you rich in all the endowments which conduce to true happiness. I dreamed, too, just now, that all your wishes were fulfilled—that she on whom you have set your heart was restored to you, and that wealth from an unexpected source flowed in upon you. Such, I know, are vain thoughts for one whose heart ought to be set alone upon the world towards which I am hastening; but Heaven will pardon a father for thinking of his only child.”

“My dear father, speak not thus of quitting me!” exclaimed Luis, his voice choking with grief, and with willing blindness deceiving himself; “Heaven will yet spare you to me.”

“Do not flatter yourself with false hopes, Luis, which will unfit you for the moment which must so soon come,” answered the Count. “Yet, before I go, I would speak to you on a subject which has long oppressed me. Do not judge harshly of any man till you know the motives of his actions, nor bear hostile feelings towards him because he differs from you in his opinions, unless they advocate immorality or irreligion. Alas! I wish that I had always acted as I now counsel you to do. I had a brother, some few years younger than myself, a gay and gallant youth, with impetuous feelings and headstrong passions, but possessed of a noble and generous soul, which despised danger, and could but ill bear restraint. At an early age he became imbued with the heretical doctrines of religion, then first introduced in this country. He was also strongly opposed to the system of government which has for so many years existed, and took no pains to conceal either one or the other. The expression of his religious opinions might have passed unnoticed, as he never attempted to make converts to them; but when he ventured to lift his voice against what he called the vices of the priests, the bigotry of the people, the sycophancy of the nobles, and the tyranny of the sovereign, all joined in condemning him; even I, as his brother, deemed that his presumption ought to be punished. He was persecuted on every side; his life, even, was demanded as the only recompense for his crime, and the Inquisition endeavoured to lay hold of him. He came to me for aid to escape, but I looked upon him as an infidel and a traitor, and refused my assistance, telling him as my reason, that I could not answer to my conscience for my doing so. I remember his last words: ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘I shall not cease to love you; for you act as you think right—I speak according to my judgment; though I should have been wiser to have held silence. I will not now ask you to do what you consider wrong. Farewell!’ Without uttering another word, he left me, and I saw him no more. My heart smote me for my cruelty and want of brotherly affection; but my confessor, the Father Jacinto, who had urged me so to act, assured me I had done rightly; for that it would have been participating in the sin to have aided so impious an heretic: yet I could not forget his last words, nor have I ever forgiven myself. My brother could not effect his escape: he was seized, imprisoned, tried, and condemned to expiate his crimes on the burning shores of Africa, where death would soon have finished his career, but he never reached his destination. The ship which bore him was never more heard of, and was supposed to have foundered in a violent storm, which was known to have raged in the latitudes where she was. I have never received further tidings of my unfortunate brother. Alas! my conduct towards him is the bitterest draught of death; but we shall yet meet in another world, where he will forgive me my trespass towards him.”

Exhausted by the exertion he had made to speak, the Count fell back into his son’s arms.

Luis now gazed with alarm at his father’s countenance, which had assumed the ghastly hue of death; but, in a few minutes, the Count again revived, and gave his hand a gentle pressure, to assure him of his consciousness, yet some time elapsed ere he again spoke. We need not detail more of the conversation between the father and son, nor are we fond of describing death-bed scenes, where no object is to be gained by the contemplation. We delight not to harrow up the feelings of our readers by descriptions of those mournful and inevitable occurrences with which we must all be more or less familiar, and which cannot fail of bringing back melancholy recollections to our minds, while we have a long catalogue before us of strange and terrible events, their very strangeness interesting, though persuading us that we can never be doomed to witness the like.

The conversation of the Count and his son was interrupted by the arrival of the priest to administer extreme unction to the dying man, the voice of the choristers, chanting the hymn of the dying, being heard without. How mournfully did the notes strike upon the ear of Luis! Often had he heard them before, but then they were sung to the departing soul of some person indifferent to him—now, to the being he revered most on earth.

The Count having confessed his sins, and the last sacrament being administered to him, the priest, in his gilded canonicals, took his departure, bearing in his hands the sacred emblems; his head being protected from the sun’s rays by a silken awning, supported on poles by four attendants, when the sick man was left to die in peace.

Ere another sun arose, the old Count’s forebodings were fulfilled—he had ceased to breathe, and Luis found himself alone in the world. On the following day, the body of the Count, dressed in full costume, and decorated with the orders he possessed, was laid out in an open coffin, placed on high trestles in the centre of the chapel belonging to the house. Here all the surrounding population attended, with marks of real sorrow, to take a last farewell of one who had ever been an indulgent landlord to his tenants and a friend to all.

In the evening it was carried to the neighbouring church, where was the tomb of his family. The interior of the church was hung with black, and a canopy of black cloth and silver was erected over the spot where the body was deposited during the performance of the service, the tenants, and those friends who had been enabled to arrive in time, lining each side of the building, with thick wax tapers in their hands, upwards of seven feet in length. The service being over, the lid of the coffin was closed, and the key delivered to the care of the person of highest rank present, whose duty it was to present it to the heir of the deceased, the young Count d’Almeida.

The day after the funeral, as Luis was seated in solitude, his mind dwelling with sad satisfaction on the affection and the many virtues of the parent he had lost, Pedro entered the room, and placed a letter in his hands. He examined the seal, which appeared to have been broken and again closed without much care; but he thought not more of the circumstance after he had torn open the envelope. It was from his young friend, Don Jozé de Tavora. His colour went and came, and his eye flashed, as he read on. The words were to this effect:—

“Much esteemed and dear Friend,—Knowing you to be a man of that high honour and integrity, surpassed by none, to you I write freely and openly. I have been very wretched lately, not on my own account, but on that of my brother; he has been insulted, grossly insulted, by one from whom he can gain no satisfaction, who would be above all laws, human and divine, and who would, to gratify his own evil inclinations, trample on our dearest rights and privileges—he hopes with impunity. In that he is mistaken. He forgets that his nobles, at least those who are worthy of the name, cherish their honour before their lives, and that they wear swords to protect both one and the other. His name I will not mention—you know it. You have not forgot, I know, your promise to defend, to the last drop of your blood, the fame of your cousin Theresa, my lovely sister-in-law. The time has now arrived to do so. She has been daily persecuted by the attentions of that high personage during my brother’s absence. I believe her innocent of all crime; for surely one so lovely cannot be guilty; but my brother, mad with jealousy, is not so persuaded, and has sworn to be avenged on the disturber of his happiness. No plan is yet arranged, but whatever is done will require the aid of all the high-born and pure nobles of the land to carry into effect. To you, therefore, Luis, I write, to summon you, without delay, both to counsel and to act. More I may not say, but I rely upon your not failing to fulfil your promise. Adeos, dear friend, and fortunate am I to be able so to call you.”—The letter was signed, “Jozé Maria de Tavora.”

“Theresa in danger!” he exclaimed, “the greatest danger which can befall a woman;—she I once loved so fondly! I must fly to rescue her. But how? Alas, we cannot tear her from the hands of our sovereign without being accused of treason! Even that risk would I brave to secure her innocence. No, Theresa would not, cannot be guilty!”

With a troubled mind, forgetting entirely his own cause for grief, Luis arose, and summoning Pedro, ordered him to prepare for a quick departure for Lisbon. He then set to work to perform the many duties his father’s demise had rendered necessary before he could leave his home. Pedro was in high glee at the thoughts of another visit to Lisbon. He had grown heartily weary of the monotonous quiet of his master’s home, after the bustle and activity to which he had become accustomed during his travels; and he had managed to quarrel with his country love, so that he had become very anxious to renew his acquaintance with the fair one he admired in the city, should she still remain faithful to him.

Two days necessarily passed before the young Count, for so we may in future call Luis, was prepared to quit his home. The journey was a sad and silent one; for he was far too deeply occupied to listen to the idle prating of Senhor Pedro, who considered it part of his duty to endeavour to amuse his master. Luis, though fully alive to the danger he ran by engaging in any conspiracy against the sovereign, his principles, indeed, determining him not to do so, unless driven to it by the most direful necessity, yet forgot, for the time, all the warnings he had received from his friends Captain Pinto and Senhor Mendez, also from the Minister himself, not to allow any intimacy to spring up between himself and the family of the Tavoras. This advice he had disregarded when he gained the friendship of young Jozé de Tavora, but he could not resist the amiability, candour, and high feelings of the youth, though with no other member of that once proud race had he become intimate. What further befell him we will reserve for a future chapter.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

When the Father Jacinto da Costa quitted the Quinta of the Marchioness of Tavora, he paid several visits, in different parts of the city, to forward the various plots in which he was engaged, and towards the close of the evening he approached the ruins of the church and convent of San Caetano, where, as we have described, Malagrida had, some time previously, been seized, while preaching against the authority of the King and his Minister. No attempts had yet been made to restore the buildings, so that the spot presented a wild scene of havoc and destruction, increased by the thickening gloom which pervaded the city: here a few blackened and tottering walls, there vast masses of masonry piled one on the other, among which dank plants and shrubs had begun to spring up, already eager to claim the ground so long the abode of man.

The Priest walked round to the back of the ruins, where a wall, in some places thrown down, served to enclose the garden of the convent. He here easily climbed over the fragments, and found himself on comparatively unencumbered ground. He wound his way among the moss-grown paths, impeded by the luxuriant vegetation of the geraniums and rose trees, which, long unpruned, sent their straggling branches in every direction, filling the cool night air with the sweet scents of their flowers. The once trimly-cut box trees had lost all signs of their former shapes; the fountains had ceased to play; the tanks were dry, once stocked with the luscious lamprey, and other rich fish, to feed the holy friars on their days of fasting and penance; indeed, desolation reigned throughout the domain.

The Priest heeded not these things, his eye was familiarised with them; nor did he cast a pitying thought upon the worthy friars who had been driven forth to seek another home;—they were his foes—his rivals on the field he sought to claim as his own. His mind, too, was occupied by matters of vast import to the safety of his order; yet he doubted not that he should ultimately come off victorious.

With some little difficulty he reached the centre of the garden, and, looking carefully around, he seated himself on one of the stone benches by the side of a large circular tank, now empty. He waited for some time till he heard a step approaching, when, starting up, he beheld the figure of a man closely shrouded in a cloak, emerging from among the thick-growing shrubs. He advanced towards him with an eager step, which betrayed his deep anxiety, so unlike his usually cold and calm demeanour.

The stranger threw back his cloak as he approached the Jesuit, so as to exhibit by the uncertain light the features apparently of a young and handsome man. “Father, I have come at your command,” he said, “though with great risk of discovery, if I hasten not back to my post.”

“It is well, Alfonzo. What news do you bring me?” demanded the Jesuit.

“I have naught but the worst to reveal,” answered the young man.

“Speak it without fear: no one can here listen to your words,” exclaimed the Father. “Stay, we will examine well the neighbouring bushes, to see that no lurking spy is there concealed.”

The Jesuit and his young companion, having concluded their search, seated themselves on the stone from which the first had risen. “Now, speak,” said the Father.

“I have long watched for an opportunity to ascertain what you desired,” began the stranger. “Yesterday, while the Minister was absent, I opened his bureau with the key you gave me. With trembling hands I searched each paper, and from all of importance I have made notes. At last I came to one roughly drawn out in Carvalho’s writing: it was a plan to be submitted to the King for abolishing your whole order throughout the kingdom. He proposes to implicate you in some act of rebellion, or some illegal practice; then to surround your colleges, and to embark all who are professed, on board vessels for the coast of Italy, banishing you for ever from Portugal. He advises the King to allow no delay in executing his plan; for that every day you are increasing in power and malevolence, and that you will in time sap the very foundation of his throne.”

“Ah! thinks he so?—he shall find that he is not mistaken!” exclaimed the Jesuit, with greater vehemence than he had ever before given way to. “No time must then be lost in putting our plot into execution, and we will try the success of both. Alfonzo, you have acted well, and will meet with the approbation of our general. You will, when you profess, rise rapidly to the highest rank in our order, and will become one of its brightest ornaments.”

“I merit no praise,” returned the young neophyte, for such the Father declared him to be. “I have but done my duty.”

“You might yet win far greater praise,” said the Father, scarce noticing his answer. “It would be a noble thing to destroy the great enemy of our order. It would at once free us from all further fear of danger.”

The young aspirant started. “I understand not your words, Father,” he said.

“I speak of Carvalho’s death,” answered the Jesuit, calmly. “It is said that the dagger of the assassin cannot reach him,—that often has his life been attempted, but each attempt has failed. What steel cannot accomplish, the poisoned chalice may.”

“What mean you, Father?” gasped forth Alfonzo.

“It is simple to understand, my son: now listen calmly,” returned the Jesuit, in a voice calculated to soothe his listener’s fears. “It is a law, founded on nature and on justice, that we have a right to defend our lives and properties, at every cost, against those who would deprive us of either. No one would scruple to strike the assassin dead who would take our life, or the robber who would steal our purse: then can it be a sin to destroy the man who would blast our name, who would deprive us of our lawful power, and drive us forth to beggary and to death? Can Heaven blame us that we seek to deprive him of life who would thus treat us? No, my son; be assured that the death of that man of crime would be an acceptable sacrifice to the Ruler of the Universe.”

The pupil answered not.

“Listen, Alfonzo,” continued the Master. “You have determined to become the follower of the great Loyola: you seek by that means to gain power and influence among the men you have learned to despise. The way is open to you to follow if you will; but while Carvalho lives, our order in Portugal can never flourish. In him we have the most inveterate and deceitful foe we have ever known. He must die, or we shall meet a certain destruction. Hear me, Alfonzo: I speak not to a weak and trembling child, but to a man who has boldly dared, and successfully performed, and who will yet do more!”

The Jesuit took from beneath his robes a small box, and extracted from it a paper closely folded, which he placed in the hands of his companion. “Take this parcel,” he continued. “It contains a powder, which, when mixed with a glass of water, will not dim its crystal purity. Its effects are deadly, but slow, and no antidote has power to act against it; nor will the most clever physician be able to detect its workings on the human frame. Watch your opportunity, and mix it with the first beverage you see prepared for him; but beware no one else tastes of it, nor do you lose sight of it till he has drunk it to the dregs. Now then will our mighty tyrant have become a thing to loathe!”

“Father!” exclaimed the young man, in a scarcely articulate voice, “I have ever obeyed your commands to the utmost; I have acted a part from which my heart revolts; I have betrayed the man who has confided in me,—but I cannot become a murderer. I could not live, and see the man who has taught me to admire and love him writhing in agony, and know that it was the effect of my foul act. In mercy take back the deadly powder.”

“Alfonzo, I expected not a like answer from you,” replied the Priest, quietly taking back the paper. “I trusted that you had been taught to rise above the common and false prejudices of the world,—that you had bravely conquered the weak feelings of human nature, and were each day advancing in qualifying yourself to become a professed member of our order; but I see, alas! that I was mistaken, and that you are still held back by weak bonds, which a bold man would long ere this have broken through.”

“Spare me, Father, spare me a task I cannot perform!” cried the young man, clasping his hands convulsively together; but the other gazed on him sternly.

“Alfonzo,” he answered, “you have another motive than dread of the deed for your refusal to obey the commands of your superior. I have watched you closely, when you little thought it. I know your inmost feelings. You love! Ah, you start, conscious of your guilt. The fair daughter of the Minister has drawn you from the path of duty. While you betrayed the father, you allowed your heart to be led captive by the daughter’s charms. She loves you in return, perchance; but, think you, even were you to desert the colours you have determined to follow, the powerful and haughty Minister would listen to the suit of one without wealth or family? Naught but the infatuation of madness can lead you on; yet, try your fortune, and hear his answer: he will scorn and drive you from him with derision, even if he consign you not rather to one of the lowest dungeons of his prisons; then, in darkness and solitude, except when the executioner is sent to torture you, will you spend your days, till death puts an end to your sufferings. Such will be your fate if you destroy him not.”

“Such, then, be my fate; I cannot murder,” answered the youth, in a deep tone.

“Have I not told you that self-defence is not murder?” returned the Jesuit. “On my head be the sin, if sin there be. Take your choice. If you still determine to follow our banner, obey my orders; if you seek to continue as a layman, and would gratify your passion by wedding the daughter of Carvalho, take this paper—’tis not you that give its contents, ’tis I—and no crime can be laid to your charge. ’Tis the shedding of blood alone against which the Scripture speaks. While Carvalho lives the fair girl can never be yours; if he dies, you may find means to win her; but if you pertinaciously refuse to follow my counsels, no power can avert your destruction.”

“Give me the fatal powder,” exclaimed the youth, in a faltering voice. “I will not pledge myself to administer it, but I will act as circumstances demand. You, Father, shall not have cause to taunt me with my faltering purpose.”

“Spoken like one worthy to belong to our holy order,” said the Jesuit. “Take the paper, and preserve it carefully. Meet me here to-morrow, if possible, at the same hour, and bring me all further information you can collect. Falter not in your purpose, my son, and let the high destiny which awaits you be an encouragement to perseverance in the holy course you have chosen.”

The unhappy youth took the packet containing the poison, and the Jesuit, as he delivered it, felt his hand tremble.

“Alfonzo,” he continued, “I know full well what is yet passing in your mind. You hope to escape the performance of your promise. Remember, I speak in kindness, but I warn you. An ever watchful eye notes your every action, ay, and reads your inmost heart; and should you harbour, even for a moment, a thought of treachery, an awful doom will be yours, far more terrible than any the Minister, in his most savage mood, can devise.”

“I know it, I know it,” exclaimed the aspirant, “but my task is a hard one.”

“The more glory in the performance, my son,” returned the Father. “Now go, I have detained you too long already. Farewell, and the blessing of Heaven attend your enterprise.”

The young man, without answering, bowed low before the Superior, and again shrouding his features in his cloak, took his way towards a fallen part of the garden-wall, and walking rapidly onward, found himself on the road towards the residence of Carvalho, before he allowed a definite thought to take possession of his mind. He gained the house, entering by a private door, and, mounting the stairs, eagerly examined the office he had quitted. The Minister had not returned since his departure, and his breathing became more regular—the fear of immediate detection was passed. He endeavoured to apply himself to a task he had left uncompleted, but his hand refused to obey his powerless wishes. One burning thought filled his mind; a weight like molten lead pressed down his soul; he endeavoured to exert his faculties, but the effort was vain. Again and again the one dreadful idea rushed with tenfold vividness before him; he writhed in agony, as the iron entered his soul—he cursed, bitterly cursed, the adamantine fetters with which he lay bound—break loose from them he knew too well he could not. He thought of all he had sacrificed,—youth, talents, happiness, for what? To grasp a shapeless phantom—to serve a lord unseen, unknown, more inexorable than death. Death can but command once, and must be obeyed; the stern dictates of his chief must be followed through a long life, while he must look for death as the only harbinger of freedom. He almost shrieked as he thought of the effects of the act he had undertaken to perform. He beheld the man who had trusted in him, the father of her he had dared to love to desperation, sinking in anguish by the consuming fire he must administer; that manly and majestic form reduced to a mass of inanimate clay; that mighty spirit, which held a whole people in awe, driven forth by his fell deed. He thought, too, that she who had awakened the better spirit within him would recoil with horror as she felt the impious touch of her father’s murderer; instead of love, her bosom would become filled with hatred, with loathing and disgust towards him. Remorse, bitter and eternal, must be his lot. As he mechanically bent over his paper, his pen not moving from the spot on which he had first placed it, the ink dry, a noise startled him—he looked up, and beheld the Minister sternly regarding him. In a moment his faculties were restored to wakefulness.

“You have been somewhat dilatory, Senhor Alfonzo,” said the Minister. “Are the papers I left you prepared?”

The secretary, with some confusion, acknowledged they were not.

“You have been worked hard lately, my good youth, so I will not blame you,” said Carvalho. “This is, however, no time for idleness, and you must persevere, for there are so few I can trust, that I can procure no one to aid you.”

Those few kind words saved the life of the Minister, and sealed the doom of many. In the mean time, the Father Jacinto paced the star-lit garden with slow steps. More than an hour passed away as he was thus left to his solitary meditations; what they were we cannot pretend to say, nor whether his calculating reason, or his cold philosophy, whichever it might be called, had managed to stifle all compunction for his acts—all the whisperings of conscience. Could he have been able calmly to contemplate the moment when his deeds must be tried before the awful judgment-seat of Heaven? for, if he could, he had persuaded himself that he was acting a just part. The sounds of life, which had arisen from the city, had long ceased; it was now close upon the hour of midnight, when he heard a slow and firm foot-fall approaching, and, emerging from the gloom, the tall gaunt figure of the Father Malagrida stood before him.

“I have, at your desire, ventured hither, my brother, in spite of all the dangers with which the wicked threaten me,” said the latter. “What would you of me?”

“The time has arrived for action, and I would consult with you about the means,” returned Father Jacinto. “The Minister has already formed a plan to banish every member of our order from the shores of Portugal. In a few weeks, or perhaps even in a few days, we shall be deprived of our liberty. The King has but to sanction the plan, and it will forthwith be executed.”

“Then the impious Monarch must die,” exclaimed Malagrida. “His death be upon his own head. I have warned him, and he would not listen. I will warn him no more.”

“He deserves no warning voice, holy brother,” said the Father Jacinto, not believing that Malagrida had really appeared before the King. “But haste, inform all those who are willing to become the instruments of Heaven’s vengeance that they must delay the work no longer. Let them take what means they think fit; it matters little, so that the deed be performed. Urge them to it by that mighty eloquence with which Heaven has endowed you for great purposes. Assure them that they are performing a righteous act, which cannot fail to prosper; and thus many whose fears have restrained them, will gladly join in the enterprise. One steady hand might perform the deed; but, alas! no man can be found alone to do it; they all suppose that security exists in numbers.”

“’Tis enough for me to know that it must be done,” answered Malagrida. “Fear not, my brother, I will take measures that it shall be done. By to-morrow night, I will assemble all those who are inimical to Joseph, and will so persuade them, that they shall no longer hesitate to execute my commands.”

“You will perform good service to our holy order, and to our sacred religion,” returned Father Jacinto.

“To that have I ever devoted my life and energies,” said Father Malagrida.

“Truly have you ever been the great upholder of the faith, and have gained the esteem of our community, and the admiration of the world,” answered Father Jacinto.

“A little flattery will incite this madman to the work,” he thought. “If it fails, it will be easy to persuade the world that the idea arose but from the wild workings of his disordered brain. No one will venture to suppose that we could have been the instigators.”

“Brother, I must depart to the wilderness, where the wickedness of this second Pharaoh, and his evil counsellor, have compelled me to dwell,” said Malagrida. “In three days we shall meet again, I trust triumphant; till then, farewell.”

“Farewell, my brother,” returned Father Jacinto, and they separated; the latter, after leaving the deserted garden, returning to his convent, while Malagrida sought the river’s side. He there found a boat awaiting him, with a single rower. He silently took his seat in the stern, and the man plying his oars with vigour, the small skiff shot rapidly from the shore. The Jesuit, keeping a watchful eye on every side, directed her course so as to avoid any of the boats rowing guard on the river, which might have impeded his progress.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

On the following morning, the King, accompanied by his Ministers, and the chief officers of his household, held a grand review of all the troops quartered in and about Lisbon, in an open space in the neighbourhood of Belem.

After performing various evolutions, in no very perfect manner, it must be confessed, the troops marched past him in close order. At the head of a regiment of horse, called the Chaves Cavalry, rode the Marquis of Tavora, he being their colonel. He bowed respectfully to his sovereign, and passed on to form his men in line with the other troops, before firing the parting salute.

“That man can be no traitor,” said the King, in a low voice, to Carvalho, who was close to him.

“I wish he was the only one in the kingdom,” answered the Minister; “but I fear me there are many more.”

“I trust you are mistaken, my good friend,” replied Joseph. “If there are no worse than the Marquis of Tavora in my kingdom, I shall have little to fear.”

“Some day I shall be able to convince your Majesty by clear proofs,” said the Minister; “otherwise I would not thus alarm you with reports which may seem idle.”

The Portuguese army was at this time the very worst in Europe. Through the supine negligence of former sovereigns, it had been allowed to become completely disorganised. The troops were ill paid, ill clothed, and ill fed. The officers, chiefly of the inferior grades of society, were ignorant of their duty, and illiterate, without a particle of the esprit de corps among them; nor did Carvalho, among his other designs at this period, take any measures to improve them.

The review being over, the King returned to his palace at Belem, where he received all those who had the entrée at Court. On these occasions, it was the custom for the nobles to assemble first, when the sovereign, entering the rooms, passed among them, addressing each in their turn in a familiar way.

It was the duty of Teixeira, the chief domestic of the King, and the confidant of his amours, to stand at the door of the ante-room, to see that none but the privileged entered. He had, some time before, from some insolent behaviour, seriously offended the Marquis of Tavora, who threatened him with punishment. When the Marquis now approached, Teixeira, who was standing directly in the way, pretended not to observe him. The Marquis, enraged at the premeditated insult, exclaimed, “Stand out of my way, base pander, or I will run my sword through your body.”

“If I am a pander, as your Excellency thinks fit to call me,” answered Teixeira, turning round, and eyeing him malignantly, “I am one to your wife and daughter, haughty noble.”

“Wretched slave, dare you speak thus to me?” returned the Marquis, forgetting, at the moment, that he was within the precincts of the palace; “you shall rue those insolent words;” and half drawing his sword, he made as if he would put his threat into execution.

“Your Excellency forgets where you are,” exclaimed the servant, trembling for his life.

“I do not, nor do you, when you venture to speak thus,” answered the Marquis; “but remember, insolent wretch, you will not escape punishment as easily as you expect;” and passing on, without speaking another word, he entered the principal apartment.

When the King appeared, he made his complaint of Teixeira’s insolence; but the former, assuring him that the insult was not intended, took no further notice of the circumstance.

The Levée, for so it might properly be called, being quickly over, the King retiring to his private apartments, the Marquis returned to his home. As he sat down to dinner with the Marchioness and his family, while the domestics were standing round, he complained bitterly of the manner in which Teixeira had insulted him, and of the King’s indifference to his complaints.

“The servant has but learnt to copy his master,” said the Marchioness. “Yet he deserves a severe chastisement, though it would disgrace your rank to bestow it. There are, however, many of your followers who will gladly avenge their master’s honour.”

Several of the attendants, who hated Teixeira for his good fortune, not more than for the insolence with which he had treated them, looked eagerly towards their master, as if they would willingly undertake the office; but he, either not observing them, or pretending not to do so, made no answer, and soon turned the conversation.

When left alone with her lord, the Marchioness used her utmost eloquence to persuade him to take instant vengeance for the insult he had received; for the circumstance alarmed her, lest her own plots might, by some extraordinary means, have been discovered.

“Depend on it,” she said, “if the servant dares thus to act, he knows full well that his master will not be displeased.”

“I think not thus of the King,” answered the Marquis. “He has some faults, but he has too much respect for himself to ill-treat his nobles. On another occasion, I will complain of this villain Teixeira’s conduct, and I doubt not he will be dismissed.”

“I think far differently from you, my lord,” returned the Marchioness. “The King, by the instigation of his upstart Minister, has become jealous of the power and wealth of our Puritano families. In every one of us he has been taught to suspect a foe, and he waits but the first opportunity to crush us.”

“Your feelings of indignation have exaggerated the danger, Donna Leonora. The only foe we have to fear is the Minister; and we must endeavour, by exhibiting our love and devotion to our sovereign, to counteract his evil influence.”

“It will be the very way to increase the suspicions of the King,” returned the Marchioness. “Half measures are of no avail. If we are to retain our wealth and influence, if we are to remain grandees of Portugal, we must either compel the King to dismiss his counsellor, or he himself must suffer the punishment of his obstinacy.”

“What mean you?” exclaimed the Marquis, with an alarmed expression of countenance.

“I mean, my lord,” returned Donna Leonora, with a firm voice, “that the King who dares insult his nobles, who interferes with our privileges, who is a despiser of religion, and heaps contumely on its ministers, must die.”

“Great heavens! utter not such dreadful treason!” cried the Marquis. “The very walls might hear you; and such thoughts alone might bring ruin on yourself and your whole family. From henceforth banish such an idea from your mind.”

“Never!” exclaimed the Marchioness. “I have far too great a respect for our family honour, and for our holy religion, to submit tamely to such indignities. If you forget that you are a Tavora and a Catholic, I do not forget that I am your wife.”

“I prize the honour of my family as I do my life, but it shall never be said that a Tavora became a traitor to his sovereign,” said the Marquis.

“None shall have cause to say it, my lord,” answered his wife; “it is unsuccessful treason which is alone so stigmatised, and the noble enterprise in which I would have you engage will, I have been assured by a voice from heaven, succeed.”

“Say rather, by the instigations of the evil one,” said the Marquis, with agitation.

“It was through the voice of that living saint, the holy Father Malagrida,” responded Donna Leonora. “He has ever led me in the right path to holiness, and why should I now doubt his words? Oh, harden not your heart, my lord, but put faith in that holy man, for be assured whatever he utters proceeds alone from the fountain of truth. Of what object would have been all his fastings, his penances, and his prayers, if Heaven had not more particularly selected him among men to utter the words of truth to mankind? I feel assured that those who follow his advice cannot err; then wherefore hesitate in this ease?”

“I doubt not the sanctity of the Father Malagrida, Donna Leonora, but I have reason to doubt his sanity. His enthusiastic mind has been overthrown, and what he now conceives to be the inspirations of Heaven, are but the workings of a disordered imagination.”

“Cease, cease, my lord, from giving utterance to such dreadful impiety,” exclaimed the Marchioness, interrupting him; “do not peril your immortal soul by speaking blasphemy. The holy Father Malagrida insane? The greatest prophet of modern days, the speaker of unknown tongues, a mere mad enthusiast! Oh, my beloved lord, say not thus, as you value my happiness.”

“I will not discuss the character of the Father Malagrida,” answered the Marquis. “But tell me how you would wish me to act, for against the sacred life of his Majesty will I not lift up my hand.”

“I would wish you to act like a high noble of Portugal, worthy of your Puritano descent,” returned Donna Leonora. “I would wish you to protect the high order to which you belong from the encroachments of the King and his Minister, and I would wish you to take fitting vengeance for every insult offered you.”

“In overthrowing the Minister, am I ready to hazard all; and never will I act otherwise than as becomes a high noble of the realm; nor will my sword be slow to avenge any insult offered to me or mine; but of the King have I ever been a faithful servant, and faithful will I die. Urge me then no more to engage in conspiracies which can but end in the destruction of all concerned.” The Marquis rose as he spoke, and quitted the apartment, as the most easy way of finishing the discussion.

His lady gazed at his retiring form, but attempted not to stop him. “Oh! that I were a man, to lead the faint-hearted beings with whom I am associated!” she exclaimed. “The slightest shadow of danger frightens them from the most noble undertakings; the prophets of Heaven counsel them, but they will not listen to their words; even if the dead were to arise to assure them of it, they would not believe that the deed is a righteous one, and must be successful. Yet have I still some hopes that my lord will not close his ears to the divine words of the holy Malagrida, and that he may be brought round to follow his counsels. I will pray to the Blessed Virgin that she will turn his heart to the right path.”

The Marchioness then retired to her own chamber, and, throwing herself on her knees before her private altar, she poured forth her prayers to her patron saint for the success of an enterprise, which was for the destruction of a King, the placing an usurper on his throne, the restoration of a tyrannical order of the priesthood, and the enslaving a whole people with the grossest of superstitions; yet not for a moment did it occur to her that she was performing an act otherwise than grateful to Heaven. No; she fully believed that her motives were pure and holy; and she felt assured that pride, ambition, and hatred formed no part of her incentives to action. Yet were they the chief motives, veiled from her own eyes by a fancied zeal for religion.

In the mean time, Antonio and Manoel Ferreira, two of the principal servants of the Marquis, as soon as they were released from attendance on their master, hurried off to the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro, which was at no great distance from that of the Tavoras.

“What think you that villain Teixeira deserves for thus daring to insult our lord?” said Manoel to his brother, as they walked along.

“Nothing less than his death would satisfy me, if I were in our master’s place,” answered Antonio.

“My very thought,” said the other.

“But then, you know that it would be beneath the dignity of so great a lord as our master to slay with his own hand a man of such low birth as this upstart Teixeira,” observed Antonio.

“The very thing I was going to say; but should we not be doing a service to our lord, think you, and be well paid for it too, if we were to put a piece of lead into this impudent servant of the King’s,” said Manoel. “For my part, I should have no scruples on the subject, and we should have plenty of opportunities as he drives about at night in his carriage, for no good purpose either—the base villain—I warrant. How proud he has become, too, with his fine clothes and his carriage! Why, I recollect him no better than either of us were at that time, when he was glad enough to call us his friends, and now he would not speak to us if he met us.”

“True enough, brother,” observed Antonio. “Yet, where is the difference? We are honest men, and serve a Marquis, he is a rogue, and serves a King;—so he rides inside a carriage of his own, while we ride outside our master’s.”

“The vain upstart! He does serve a King, in more ways than one; but he shall pay dearly for it,” exclaimed Manoel. “You heard what our lady said at dinner to-day, and I think it is our duty to take the hint.”

“What mean you?” asked Antonio.

“Mean I? it is clear enough—that we are bound to shoot him, of course,” returned the other. “You have grown dull, Antonio. You see we shall thus serve ourselves and our master into the bargain.”

“I understand you clearly enough now; but should we not to a certainty be discovered?” asked the less daring Antonio.

“It would matter little if we were, after the deed was done. Our master could protect us,” returned Manoel.

“We will think about it to-morrow,” said Antonio. “I wonder what Senhor Policarpio wanted with us this evening, that he insisted we must visit him.”

“We shall soon learn, for here we are at the gate. Now, he is a man I like; though he is chief servant of a duke, there is no pride or vanity about him. He is just as friendly with us as ever.”

Manoel having pronounced this eulogium on Senhor Policarpio, they entered the gates of the Quinta, and went in search of their friend. He received them with all imaginable courtesy, and conducted them to his own apartment, where a repast was spread in readiness for them by his own servant.

“Welcome, senhors,” said Senhor Policarpio. “I have done my best to entertain you; for, when such friends as you are honour me with their company, I like to be hospitable.” The two followers of the Marquis bowed at the compliment. “Ah! it is not every day I have this pleasure,” continued the host. “But never mind, we shall soon all see better days, when a certain friend of mine becomes higher than he even now is, and Senhor Don Joseph finishes his life. The sooner he does so the better, as far as I am concerned.”

We do not intend to detail the conversation of these worthy personages; indeed, it is so nearly illegible in the manuscript before us, that it would be a work of great labour to decipher it. During the time, Senhor Policarpio went to a closet, from which he produced three guns, or rather blunderbusses, praising their excellent qualities. At first sight of them, his guests seemed much alarmed by the observations he at the same time made; but, quickly recovering, he persuaded them to repair with him to a retired part of the garden, where they might exercise themselves by firing at a mark.

While they were thus occupied, the lovely Duchess of Aveiro was seated in her drawing-room, with her embroidery frame before her, gazing over the orange groves at the lovely scene which the Castle of Belem on one side, and the placid river, now shining in the light of the setting sun, and covered with vessels and boats, presented. A fine boy, of some fifteen years old, was in the room; her only son, the young Marquis of Gouvea. He was leaning against the side of the window opposite to her, regarding her with a look of affection and respect, when the Duke abruptly entered. He threw his hat on the table with an indignant air, as he exclaimed—“By Heavens! I have again been insulted by this King beyond all bearance! He has had the audacity to declare to me that my son, forsooth, cannot marry the daughter of the Duke of Cadaval; and when I demanded his reasons for the refusal, he chose to give none. I told him that they were betrothed, and that I had set my heart on the match, as one in every way suitable to both parties; when he only answered, that he had arranged it differently. What say you, my son? how do you like losing a fair bride through the caprice of a tyrant?”

“That I wish I were a man, to carry her off in spite of him,” answered the young Marquis.

“Spoken like my son!” exclaimed the Duke. “But you shall not be disappointed. His days are numbered; and then we shall see who will venture to dispute our authority.”

At these words the Duchess looked anxiously up at her husband. “I trust that you allude not to the designs you once spoke to me about,” she said. “I had long hoped you had abandoned them.”

“Why did you nourish so foolish a hope, lady?” exclaimed the Duke. “I should have thought my wife was equally interested with myself in their success.”

“I hoped so because I feel convinced that they cannot fail to bring destruction on yourself, and ruin on all your family; to drag many to the scaffold, if you are unsuccessful; and to introduce the horrors of a civil war into the country should they succeed: but such cannot be; Heaven will not favour so guilty a purpose. Oh! hear me, my lord. Abandon the dark and evil designs you have meditated. If you have any remaining love for your wife, if you regard the interests of your son, think not again of them.”

The Duke laughed scornfully, as he asked, “What! would you not wish to be a queen, and see your son a prince?”

“I would far rather be a peasant’s wife, than the queen of a blood-stained usurper; for, to become a king, such you must be,” answered the Duchess, boldly. “No, my lord, I would not be cheated of my happiness by so deceitful a phantom.”

“Silence, madam!” exclaimed the Duke, angrily. “This is but weak folly. Would not you wish to be a prince, my boy?” he said, turning to his son.

“Gladly, if my father becomes a king,” answered the young Marquis.

“Fear not, my boy. You shall be so; before long, too; but speak not of it, though I know I can trust you. Such I cannot your cousin, who would turn pale at the very thoughts of the enterprise; so utter not to him a syllable of what I have said.”

His wife rose, trembling with agitation, to make a last appeal, and laying her hand upon his arm, she exclaimed, “Let me solemnly implore you to desist from this purpose; it cannot thrive—even should the King fall, you cannot succeed to his throne; the nobles and people would rise up in one body against you, and hurl you, with your few friends, to destruction. Many who now, for their own interests, are cordial, would desert you, and, instead of a throne, you would mount a scaffold.”

The Duke turned a scornful smile on her as she spoke, but she continued boldly,—“Last night I dreamed of this, and that I saw you, mangled and bloody, upon the ground, while a rude mob stood around, gazing at you with scoffs and jeers.”

“Silence, foolish woman!” suddenly exclaimed the Duke, shaking her off, though turning pale at the thought of what she described. “I remain not to hear such mad nonsense as this. Go, and learn more wisdom;” and, with an angry frown on his brow, he rushed from the room.

The Duchess gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears, while her son threw himself into her arms with fond solicitude, endeavouring to soothe her agitation, but in vain. She saw too clearly the dreadful future.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

If the country inns of Portugal are bad, those of the cities are very little better. So thought Luis d’Almeida, as, towards the evening of a day at the very end of autumn, accompanied by his faithful Pedro, he rode into the capital. So think, also, most travellers of the present time, except when they are fortunate enough to secure rooms at the one or two tolerable hotels which Lisbon now affords.

Luis had never before been compelled to seek lodgings, having always had his father’s palace to which to resort; so that now he was at a loss whither to direct his steps; for so unfitted did he feel himself for society, that he was very unwilling to seek for the hospitality of several friends, who he knew, however, would be very willing to afford it.

At last Pedro, who was very anxious to get housed in some place or other, intimated to his master that he had the honour of claiming as a relation an old lady who lived in a small house in the suburbs; that she was of the highest respectability, for her husband had held an office under government; and, indeed, she was apt rather to look down upon the number of poor relations who insisted on her acknowledging them as nephews, nieces, and cousins, to the sixth degree. Pedro, however, felt confident that, notwithstanding her high pretensions, she would be happy to receive, as a lodger in her house, a young nobleman so highly esteemed as his master; and he undertook, if Don Luis would ride as far, to assure him of a cordial reception, provided she had not, by any chance since he heard of her, departed this life, or from any other reason changed her residence. Luis very gladly acceded to Pedro’s proposal, for he was fatigued both in body and mind, and he thought that, in so remote a part of the city, he should be better able to avoid the annoyances to which he must be subject in a more public situation.

As they reached the house Pedro had indicated, he looked up, and, to his great delight, beheld an old lady busily employed in knitting at the open window.

“There she is, Senhor Conde,” exclaimed Pedro. “That is my good aunt, and as kind an old lady as ever lived, when nothing puts her out of her way.”

The old lady, hearing horses stopping at her door, put her head out of the window to see what it could possibly mean, when Pedro, bowing most respectfully, exclaimed, “Ah! my good aunt, my master and I have come a long way to see you; now do not come down, I will run upstairs to explain matters;” and, leaping from his horse, he begged the Count to excuse him, while he performed his promise.

As may be supposed, he had no great difficulty in persuading the old lady to receive a gallant cavalier like Luis for her guest, and she forthwith hurried down to pay him due honour. Pedro, assisting his master to dismount, the hostess conducted him upstairs, when, begging him to be seated, after various little complimentary speeches, she set about preparing a repast for him: with the aid of Pedro, and a little damsel, her maid-servant, a room also was made ready for his reception.

By the time these arrangements were completed, it was too late to think of going out in search of his friends, and he was glad when he was at length able to retire to his room. He threw himself on his bed, but not to sleep; the images of the past haunted him, and sad forebodings for the future. He thought of the danger to which Theresa was exposed, indefinite, and therefore more to be dreaded, and of the aid which he had pledged himself to afford, by means uncertain, perhaps criminal. He knew full well the passionate and fierce disposition of the young Marquis of Tavora, and that no fears for the consequences would make him hesitate in proposing any measures which might rescue his wife, or, at the worst, vindicate his honour.

Early the following morning, Luis despatched Pedro to inform his young friend, Jozé de Tavora, of his arrival; for, remembering the warnings of the Minister and of his mysterious friend, Senhor Mendez, he was unwilling to become more intimate with the rest of the family than was necessary, and therefore refrained from visiting at their house except on occasions when custom required it.

Luis had just taken his morning meal, when the young Tavora rushed into the room, and embracing him with affectionate warmth, exclaimed, “I lost not a moment, my dear Luis, in hastening hither, when I heard of your arrival. Say, you have come to aid us; you have come to join the noble cause of justice and honour, arrayed against the overbearing tyranny of the plebeian Minister, and his profligate tool—the so-called King of Portugal?”

“I came to offer my aid, if necessary, in rescuing my cousin Theresa from the persecutions of the King,” answered the young Count; “but in no other scheme ought I to engage, nor will I; for I feel assured, that maintaining the peace and happiness of the people at large is of paramount importance, to avenging any slight, which we nobles, as a body, may conceive ourselves to have suffered. Beforehand, therefore, I warn you not to attempt to induce me to engage in any enterprise which will in any way cause disorder or bloodshed in the country.”

“What! can you, one of the purest of our class, speak thus?” exclaimed the young Tavora. “Is not our honour paramount to every other consideration? Surely we ought not for a moment to weigh it with the interests of the base plebeians,—the scum of the earth,—wretches beneath our notice. In that creed have I been educated, and in that will I die.”

“’Tis a creed, my young friend, which, put in practice, has already injured us, and will finally drag us all to destruction,” answered Luis. “Let us endeavour to maintain our position in the scale of society, as did our noble ancestors, by being the foremost in every danger, the most upright, and the most honourable; then no one will venture to molest or insult us; but, by following any other course, we may, in a moment, find ourselves hurled from our high posts, and trampled on in the dust damp with our gore.”

“In Heaven’s name, my dear Luis, where did you gain these extraordinary ideas?” cried his visitor. “I did not suppose such could exist in the brain of any fidalgo in Portugal.”

“They are taught by the study of every history, from the earliest times to the present day,” answered Luis, smiling at his own vehemence. “But we will not now discuss the subject. Tell me, where are Donna Theresa and your brother?”

“She is at their palace; but he,—you know his temper,—is not there. He is offended at her conduct, and vows he will not return to her till she promises never again to exchange a word with the King. This she, being equally firm, will not do; so that they are not exactly on the best terms for husband and wife; but I suppose that they will, before long, get tired of being separated, and so make up their quarrel, as other people do.”

“Alas! I regret to hear this,” said Luis. “She is thus left exposed to the persecutions of the King.”

“So I tell my brother,” interrupted the young Tavora; “but do not speak of it—my heart burns when I think on the subject. Will you come with me to-night where you can meet him, and you may be able to persuade him what is right to be done? He knows, perfectly well, since his quarrel with the King, that he hates him; so that he has thought it wiser not to appear anywhere in public, and is, at present, in a place of concealment, whither I will conduct you. Will you go with me this evening?”

Luis, without making further inquiries as to the spot where the young Marquis was concealed, promised to visit him, in company with his brother. After some time more spent in conversation, the younger Tavora agreed to call for Luis, with a horse for his use, desiring that Pedro might be in attendance, to take charge of it, while they approached his brother’s abode on foot. These arrangements having been made, his visitor took his departure; leaving Luis, for the rest of the day, to his own solitary meditations; for he felt utterly averse to moving from the house, and mixing with the noisy and careless crowd in the city below. He attempted to read, but in vain, so he threw his book aside, and paced the room for many hours, unable to concentrate his thoughts on one point. He could not divest himself of the feeling, that some indefinite disaster was hanging over him, yet that he wanted the power to avoid it. It is a sensation we have often ourselves experienced, although our forebodings have seldom, if ever, been accomplished; until, at last, we have learned to consider them as arising more from the effects of past sorrows, fears, or annoyances, than from any prescience of forthcoming events. Luis, however, had many reasons for his feelings, both from the past and for the future. His spirits were lowered by many griefs; the loss of her he loved—his father’s death—the destruction of his property,—and he was too well aware that many dangers surrounded him; for, from the language his young friend had used, in the course of their conversation, he could not help suspecting that the younger Marquis was meditating some desperate plot against the government, if not against the King himself; nor could he tell how far he might find himself compromised by his connexion with him.

Daylight had nearly departed, when Jozé de Tavora, with a servant on a second horse, rode up to the house.

“Up, mount, my dear Count!” he exclaimed, as soon as Luis appeared at the door. “I have brought you a good steed, and we have no time to lose. Our servants must follow in the best way they can on foot, and keep us in sight. I will tell you whither lies our course as we ride along.”

Luis, accordingly, desiring Pedro to follow, mounted a dark stout Spanish horse, provided for him; and at an easy pace, the fastest, however, that the execrable roads would allow of, they wound their way for a considerable distance through the outskirts of the city, to the north of Belem, passing beneath one of the vast arches of the grand aqueduct, which had, fortunately, escaped the devastating effects of the earthquake with but slight injury, and then, turning to the left, they approached the river to the westward of the castle.

“Whither are we going?” asked Luis. “Are we near your brother’s abode?”

“We are yet a long way from it,” answered his companion, “though we go not much further on horseback. I ought to have told you, that a considerable part of our journey must be by water; yet, as it is a fine night, that will be by far the most agreeable mode of conveyance, if you do not object to it.”

Luis assenting to the proposal, they soon after reached a sheltered spot beneath a high wall, where, dismounting, they left their horses in charge of the servants, and proceeded on foot to the river’s side.

The bank was in that spot high and steep, so that they were obliged to descend by a narrow and winding path to reach the water, and when there, no boat was to be seen, and not a sound was heard but the gentle ripple of the tide upon the shore, or the sudden splash of some finny inhabitant of the stream, as it leapt up from its limpid home. Jozé de Tavora, after waiting impatiently for some minutes, gave a low whistle; the silence still continued unbroken,—he again gave a second and third signal, when it was answered, at a short distance from where they stood, and a boat shot from behind a little promontory which jutted out into the river. The crew, on seeing two persons, seemed in some doubt whether they ought to approach, but the young Tavora again signalising to them, they pulled in without hesitation.

“Why were you not waiting at this spot, as I ordered you?” he asked.

“We came here first, senhor,” answered one of the two men in the boat; “but we saw two or three persons on the shore, who seemed watching us, so we pulled round beneath yonder point, where we could be out of sight.”

“You did well, though they were, probably, but chance idlers. Come, Luis, we will embark,” he added, stepping into the boat, followed by his companion. “Now, my men, bend to your oars!” he said, taking the helm, and guiding the bark down the stream.

It was a lovely night, though so late in the year: the air was soft and balmy, the water smooth as a polished mirror, reflecting the bright and glittering stars which shone from the deep blue sky. The scene and hour had a soothing effect on the spirits of Luis, as he leaned back in the boat, and gave himself up to their calm influence. Now and then they would pass through a shoal of fish, sporting on the surface, their bright scales shining in the light of some lustrous star. Far off, too, the song of the fisherman would rise in the still air, as he sallied forth to his night of toil; and in the distance might be seen the sails of the larger fishing-boats, as they slowly glided up with the current, or the canvas of some vessel looming large through the obscurity, like some giant phantom of the deep. Not a word was exchanged for some way; and at length, when Jozé de Tavora broke the silence, by addressing his friend, their conversation was carried on in low whispers, which could scarcely have been heard by the men who rowed the boat. After rowing about two miles, at a sufficient distance from the shore to be unnoticed from thence, the boat’s head was directed again towards it, at a spot where the shattered remains of some building could be seen rising against the sky. Luis demanded of his companion whither they were now going.

“To yonder ruins,” he said, “of a summer residence of the good monks of the convent of San Bento. It was once a lovely spot, but the sea destroyed the grounds, and the earthquake shattered the walls, though there are still some chambers which escaped total destruction.”

He had got thus far in his description, when the boat ran alongside the remains of a quay and jetty, from whence the friars used to embark on their fishing expeditions, or when they chose the water as a means of conveyance to the city. Stepping on shore with Luis, he ordered the men to wait their return, and led the way towards the ruins, which were at some little distance from the landing-place. They proceeded among heaps of walls overthrown, shattered pillars, formed to support the graceful vines which overshadowed the long cool walks, and fragments of broken statues, which had ornamented the sides of the tanks, once stocked with fish; but the flood had uprooted the vines, and carried away the aqueducts which supplied the tanks. Passing beneath an archway, once forming the entrance to the convent, and winding through several passages open to the sky above, they arrived at a small door, through the chinks of which a light streamed forth. The young Tavora knocked three times without hesitation, at the same time mentioning his name, and begging to be admitted.

“You will find more persons here than you expect,” he said to Luis, during the time which elapsed before the door was opened; “and many whom you will be surprised to meet in this place; but they are all friends of my family, who have come hither to listen to the exhortations of a holy and pious man, who has resided here for some time past, concealed from the persecutions of those who hate him for his virtue and zeal for religion.”

“I thought we had come hither to see your brother,” answered Luis. “If there are strangers here, whom I may not wish to meet, I will wait outside in the garden till they have departed, or till he can come to meet me.”

“There are none you can object to meet,” eagerly responded Jozé de Tavora. “See, the door opens. Come, you must enter, or our friends will be disappointed, and look upon you in the light of an enemy.” And, taking the arm of Luis, he led him forward a few steps through the portal, when the door was suddenly closed behind them.

“Your blessing, Father,” said Jozé de Tavora, to a tall figure, in the black habit of the order of Loyola, who stood before them, holding a lamp in his hand.

“You have it, my son,” answered the deep-toned voice of the Jesuit Malagrida. “And blessed are all they who follow my counsels! Who is your companion?” he added, in a different tone. “I recollect not his face among the millions I have known.”

Jozé de Tavora explained who Luis was, and that he had brought him to see his brother.

“My blessing on his head, if he joins our righteous cause!” exclaimed Malagrida.

While this conversation was taking place, Luis looked round the chamber in which he so unexpectedly found himself. It was low and vaulted, the roof being supported by rough stone pillars, and had, apparently, formed a capacious cellar to the not over-abstemious brethren of San Bento. Some rude attempts had been made to convert it into both an habitation and a chapel, it would seem; for great was the surprise of Luis to observe, at the further end, a rough altar, on which lights were burning before a figure of the Virgin, and a number of people seated on benches on each side of it; others, standing about in knots, and conversing, their glittering swords and rich dresses forming a strange contrast to the ruined and sombre appearance of the chamber. He had just finished this slight survey, when one of them, rising and advancing towards him, he perceived the young Marquis of Tavora. The latter, giving him an embrace, exclaimed, “I am, indeed, grateful for the favour you do me by coming here, though prepared for it by a message my brother sent me; and I must rejoice that there is another partisan added to the cause of honour and the privileges of the nobles.”

“I certainty, when I promised your brother that I would visit you, did not expect to find you in so strange a place as this, and with so many companions,” returned Luis.

“As for my abode, it is one selected by the Father Malagrida, where no one has ever thought of coming to search for him; so I was advised to share it with him; and for my companions, they are my nearest relations and friends, so do not be afraid of them,” answered the Marquis, in an offended tone.

As he finished speaking, the Father Malagrida addressed them. “Come, my sons,” he said, “let us not tarry here, at the portals of my abode, but straightway join the goodly company who are called together to hear my words, and to consult about the welfare of our holy Church.”

Having thus delivered himself, he led the way to the further end of the vault, followed by the young men; for, though Luis felt that he had been unfairly seduced into associating with persons whom he more than suspected were met together for some unlawful purpose, it was now, he thought, too late to withdraw. As they approached the party, who were all in earnest conversation together, Luis, to his still greater surprise, perceived a lady among them, in whom he recognised the elder Marchioness of Tavora. She was the only female among the party; but there were present, besides many members of her own family, several nobles of the highest rank, and dignitaries of the Church, with a few of inferior grades in society, attached to the houses of the fidalgos, and whose only rule of action was their masters’ will. With many of the persons assembled Luis was already acquainted; and, as he advanced among them, they rose to receive him, and welcome his return to Lisbon. The Marchioness was most particular in her attentions, thanking him for the interest he took in the welfare of her sons, and assuring him that she should be for ever grateful for what he had done.

“Why have you brought me here?” said Luis to Jozé de Tavora, as soon as he could escape from the Marchioness, and had led his young friend on one side of the vault, out of hearing of the rest of the party. “Had you forewarned me of whom I was to meet, I might have acted as I thought right.”

“I brought you here to give you an opportunity of listening and judging of the truth,” was the answer. “Had I told you that you were to meet some of the first nobles in the land, who were engaged in forming plans to protect their honour, their lives, and fortunes from destruction, you might have answered that you would engage in no conspiracy; and as I was not at liberty to reveal any of their intentions, I could not have reasoned with you. But now you are here, stay and listen to what is proposed; if you like it not, you can depart without hindrance, for I will answer for your honour.”

“I will remain, to convince those assembled here that I will not betray their place of meeting; but, except for the purpose of protecting my cousin, will I engage in no scheme whatever. My refusal arises from no fear of danger to myself individually, but from a dread of the consequences to the nation at large. Inform your friends of my opinions, and I will here await the result.”

“Such is unnecessary; they will ask none to join them who do not willingly enter into their projects; so come, we will return to our friends; for hark! the prophet is addressing the assembly, and when you have heard him, you will be convinced that his words are those of inspiration.”

Although there was, at that time, a more general belief in prophets and saints, than there is, in Portugal at all events, in the present day, Luis was surprised to hear his young friend profess faith in the inspired character of a man whom he had learned to look upon as a madman, if not an hypocritical impostor; but still greater was his astonishment when he discovered that the whole assembly placed the most implicit confidence in his declarations. On one side of the altar a sort of pulpit had been formed of rough boards hastily nailed together, and into it Malagrida now mounted, stretching forth his hands to bless his congregation. A complete silence ensued, and for some minutes he refrained from speaking, to cause a greater effect; at length he commenced, in a slow and impressive tone, to deliver a discourse, of which we shall venture only to give a few sentences.

“You have assembled here, my children, to listen to the words of one who has propagated our holy religion even in the far corners of the world, but who now, through the wickedness and impiety of the rulers of this hapless country, is compelled, like a fox, to burrow beneath the earth, and to hide his head from the bright light of heaven. Will you—can you—allow sin to be thus triumphant? Will you stand calmly by, and see our holy religion trampled in the dust, your altars profaned, your priests degraded?”

“No! no! we will die to protect them,” answered several voices.

He continued, without noticing the interruption. “Will you allow all you have considered sacred to be despised, and yourselves to be insulted by the tyrant and his Minister?”

“We will not! we will not!” repeated the voices again.

“Hear me, then. Even now a decree is about to come forth to banish all the true priests of the order of Jesus from the land. A few days, and the impious command will be executed, if our rulers are not stopped in their heaven-accursed career of crime. What say the sacred writings? ‘The judges of the earth stand up, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord, and against his anointed.’ Such do our rulers, and they will not listen to the words of warning. Thrice has the King been warned, and he has turned a deaf ear to our words; still does he persist in his wickedness. We have, then, but one course to pursue—to avenge our wrongs, and right our grievances. Boldly I speak it, for I speak what is just, what Heaven demands at our hands—the King must die! and blessed is the man by whose hands the deed is done!”

The speaker paused, and at these words fear and trembling took possession of his infatuated audience. They doubted not that he spoke the words of inspiration, but each man feared lest he himself should be called upon to perform a deed which he had longed to see executed by the hands of another. At last the young Marquis of Tavora, with much of his mother’s boldness, mingled with superstition, arose and exclaimed, “I have been the most grievously wronged, and I will undertake to avenge the cause of all. I will lead a chosen band of followers into the very heart of the palace, while others surround the building; and, while the King deems himself most secure, I will accuse him of the foul injury he has done me, and slay him on the spot. I will teach a lesson to all his successors, and sovereigns shall learn to tremble, who, presuming on their power and station, dare to insult the dearest rights and honour of their subjects.”

Some of the younger conspirators applauded the speech of the Marquis, but the older men shook their heads in disapprobation, and were silent, till Malagrida took upon himself to answer. “Alas! my son,” he said, “such plans are hopeless! By force alone can force oftentimes be repelled, but never thus openly attack power. To ensure success, commence with secrecy and caution. Let not your enemy suppose that you feel aught but friendship for him, and then strike him unawares, when none can know who did the deed: the poisoned bowl, the dagger, or the pistol, are far more certain means than such as you propose. As the injuries our foe inflicts are silent and secret, so, does Heaven decree, must be the retributive punishment.”

To these observations the older men more cordially assented, but no one proposed any definite plan. An air of doubt and uncertainty hung over all who were present, except the Marchioness, her eldest son, and Malagrida. Many whom they expected had not arrived; others had refused to join them till their plans were successful, and all danger was passed; these last were very numerous, and, in this case, the wisest part of the nobility; “others,” they reasoned, “will be found to risk the peril, while we shall equally secure the profit, if they succeed.”

“Why came not the Marquis of Tavora with his lady?” asked one of his neighbour.

“He knows not of our designs,” was the answer. “It is supposed he would not approve of them, and his sons fear to confide them to him.”

“The Duke of Aveiro ought to have been here long ago,” said another noble. “He told me that he purposed coming, and no common cause would, I am sure, detain him.”

“On the former night we met he seemed eager in our enterprise,” responded a fourth. “Can he have been suspected and apprehended? I always fear that vigilant-eyed plebeian—nothing escapes him.”

“Can the Duke, fearing detection, have repented of his intentions, and, perhaps, informed the Minister of our designs?” observed one who was cynically inclined, and had ever hated the Duke. “It would be a certain way of securing his own pardon, though at the expense of a few of us.”

“In mercy, do not put such dreadful thoughts into our heads—you quite unnerve me,” said the person he spoke to. “I wish I had refused to join the enterprise.”

“That is a pity, seeing you will probably share the fate of all, if it miscarries,” answered his friend. “Do, my dear Count, pretend to be brave, or you will frighten the rest. You will not feel comfortable, I fear, till it has succeeded.”

“You offer rather doubtful consolation. I wish some one would propose himself to kill our tyrant quietly—it would save much discussion.”

“Likely enough. What, and if he happens to have a secret enemy among us, who might be tempted to turn traitor, how completely he would be within his power without risking the safety of the rest? No, no; we have, doubtless, a good many fools among us, but not quite so great a one as you suppose.”

“You are in a severe humour this evening, my friend.”

“Have I not cause for it, when I have heard so much nonsense spoken, and our enterprise not advanced since the first day it was proposed? It provokes me: I shall lose my South American property before anything is accomplished, I very clearly perceive, so I think of embarking for France to await the result.”

Such was the style of conversation carried on in all directions round Luis, so that he began to entertain hopes that the conspirators would abandon intentions which he considered, notwithstanding the assurances of the prophet, to be both highly criminal, and dangerous in the extreme.

All were looking for the arrival of the Duke of Aveiro, who, having more to gain by the destruction of the King, was the most active leader in the conspiracy; but, after waiting a considerable time longer, some of the party expressed their impatience to depart, and the Duke came not at all.

The assembly at length broke up, Malagrida first performing a short religious ceremony at the altar, dismissing them with his blessing.

Before Luis took his departure with his young companion, he addressed the Marquis. “Tell me,” he said, “how can I aid you in the object for which I came here? How and where is Theresa?”

“Speak not of her, my friend,” exclaimed the young husband, with vehemence. “I live but for revenge! Farewell! I ask you not to share our dangers; but you will pardon what you look upon as a crime, when you know the cause which has driven me to desperation.”

Jozé de Tavora took Luis’s arm. “It is time to go,” he said. “Follow me closely, for the night is dark, and you know not the intricacies of the path. We will still trust to the river, though no one else ventures on it. The rest have departed in different ways and directions, and my lady mother passes the night at a house at no great distance, whither my brother will conduct her.”

On emerging into the open air, they found the night to have become excessively dark, there being no moon, and a thin mist obscuring the brightness of the stars; but they soon sufficiently recovered the use of their eyes, to be able to find their way among the ruins towards the landing-place, where the boat was waiting. Not a breath of wind stirred the silent night air, their footfalls alone being heard as they proceeded through the ruined garden.

Just as they were about to step into the skiff, not having exchanged a word on their way, for fear any foe might be lurking in the neighbourhood, Jozé de Tavora fancied he heard a shout in the distance: they listened attentively, but it was not repeated; and at length, being persuaded that it was but fancy, they took their seats in the stern of the boat, the crew pulling rapidly up the stream, which was now in their favour. So dark was the night, that they had much difficulty in seeing their way, and had they not kept close in with the banks, they would have found it nearly impossible to steer a direct course.

Luis was silent; for, though unwilling to blame his young companion, he felt that the latter had not acted towards him with openness and honour. Of this Jozé de Tavora seemed aware, as he was the first to speak. “Luis, I must crave pardon for what I have done; for I now see, when too late, that I ought not to have led you blindfold into the society we have just quitted, which seems not to your taste; but say, will you forgive me?”

He spoke in so deprecating a tone, that Luis could not resist his petition; and, giving him his hand, in token of forgiveness, assured him that he believed his motives, at all events, had been good.

After nearly an hour’s row, they reached the spot where they embarked, and near which they found Pedro and the other servant waiting with their horses,—Jozé de Tavora insisting on accompanying his friend to his lodgings. Thus so much time passed, that the first streaks of dawn were in the sky before the latter was seen to enter the gates of his father’s Quinta at Belem.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

We left that very respectable personage, Senhor Policarpio, entertaining two friends in the garden of the Duke of Aveiro’s residence. As it grew dark, he invited them again into the house to partake of a supper he had prepared for them. After the repast was finished, and he had plied his guests well with wine, he opened an attack which he had been meditating.

“So the Marquis complains that he has been insulted by that low-born villain Teixeira, and that the King will give him no redress,” he began. “Now, that is what I call not acting in a kingly way; and I think your master very ill-treated.”

“Your observation is a just one, Senhor Policarpio,” answered Manoel. “And this is not the only instance in which he has been ill-treated. He applied to be created a duke the other day, and the King, without any reason, refused his request, to the great indignation of the Marchioness, who had determined to enjoy the title.”

“Ah! if the Marquis would but follow the advice of my master, he might easily be made a duke,” said Senhor Policarpio; “but that he will not do, talking instead about his loyalty, and all that sort of nonsense. Now listen, my friends. It strikes me that we might arrange these affairs ourselves, without consulting our masters till the work is done, when they will reward us accordingly. We are not likely to be made dukes and counts, but we are certain to get as many purses of gold as we want, which are far better than all the titles in the world without them. As we well know, there are certain plots and conspiracies hatching, which will, if not discovered, all end in smoke. Now, when I have an object in view in which I wish to succeed, I entrust it to no one more than is necessary. You feel assured that your master would reward you, if you were to punish this Teixeira for his insolence; and I am ready to aid you, on condition that you speak to no one on the subject, or it will be certain to fail. This is my plan:—Teixeira drives out every night in his carriage (vain as he is of it) to some place or other. I propose to watch for him, mounted on good horses, when, as he passes by, we will fire into his carriage, and cannot fail to kill or wound him severely. We may then, favoured by the darkness, easily escape before any alarm is given, and you may then claim a reward from your master. For me, it will be sufficient to know that I have served you; besides that, I owe him a debt of vengeance on my own account.”

The brains of the two servants being by this time considerably confused by liquor, they willingly assented to Senhor Policarpio’s proposal, not having sufficient judgment left to perceive that he had probably other motives for the deed than their interests, or his own wish for revenge.

“Well, then, my friends, there is no moment like the present, when work is to be done,” he continued. “I have notice that Teixeira will this night visit a certain house; and I propose to waylay him on his return to the palace, and pay him his deserts. Are you agreed?”

“Agreed! agreed!” exclaimed both the men. “We are ready to do anything so honourable a gentleman as yourself proposes.”

“You flatter me, gentlemen, by your good opinion. We will not dream on the work, then—this night it shall be done. I must tell you, another friend of mine will join us; but do not speak to him, as he wishes not to be known. We will divide into two parties. You, Manoel, must accompany my friend; and you, Antonio, keep by my side; then, if the first shots do not take effect, the second ambush will be more fortunate. Come, gentlemen, we will prepare for our expedition. I have horses in readiness at a stable in the neighbourhood; for I fully counted on your assistance. Another glass to our success. Nerve your arms for the deed, and it cannot fail!”

It was an intensely dark night, when three men, with masks on their faces, (for a guilty countenance would fain hide itself even from the sight of Heaven,) sallied forth from the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro. They walked some way, when, stopping before the door of a low, solitary building, the principal of the party applied a key to the lock, and, all entering, they found three steeds ready saddled. Without uttering a word, they led forth the horses, the last closing the door; and, mounting, they rode back in the direction they had come. They had not proceeded far when they encountered a fourth horseman, dressed completely in black, with a black mask, and a horse of the same hue.

“Who goes there?” said the principal of the three, in a low voice.

“A friend of religion,” was the answer, in the same low tone.

“’Tis well,” said the first speaker. “This is the friend I expected,” he continued, turning to one of his companions. “Do you, Manoel, accompany him. Fire, when he fires, and keep close to his side. We will all again meet at the stables, where we will leave our horses, and return on foot to the Quinta. Onward, my friends, to our work.”

The stranger, accompanied by him who was addressed as Manoel, now separated from the other two, both parties, however, proceeding by different routes toward the upper part of Lisbon, to the neighbourhood of a house called the Quinta da Cima, which lay directly in the way between the residence of the young Marchioness of Tavora and the royal palace.

Antonio and his companion, who, as our readers may have suspected, was no other than Senhor Policarpio, rode on in silence whenever they passed any houses, the former, who was of a more timid disposition than his fellow-servant, already repenting of the deed he had undertaken to perform.

“Hist!” he said, drawing in his rein as they were passing between some of the high blank walls with which that part of Lisbon abounds. “Are you certain there is no one following us? Methought I heard a horse’s footsteps.”

“On, on,” muttered his companion with an oath. “The more reason for speed.”

They proceeded a few paces further, when the other again stopped.

“I am sure I heard the sounds again,” he whispered.

“Cursed fool, his cowardice will spoil all,” thought Policarpio. “’Tis but the echo of our own horses’ feet, friend,” he said aloud. “Fear not; ’tis too late now to draw back, and the work must be done.”

They again rode on, encountering no one on their way; for, at that late hour, and in those solitary roads, few ventured out, if they could avoid it, and then only in large parties, with servants and torches, to guard against the daring marauders who infested them, committing every atrocity with impunity. They at length observed a number of people advancing towards them with torches, the flames throwing a lurid glare on their figures and the surrounding walls; but Policarpio, desiring his companion to follow, turned down a lane on one side, till they had passed by. Riding a little further on, Antonio again vowed he heard the sounds of horses’ feet. Policarpio listened.

“Yes,” he said, “’tis our friends—we are near the spot agreed on.”

As he spoke, four horsemen were perceived emerging from the gloom towards them.

“How is this?” exclaimed Antonio in a tone of alarm. “There were but two!”

“They are more of our friends,” was the answer.

“What, all enemies of Teixeira?”

“All, and trusty men. Speak not again, friend. We come to act, not to talk,” whispered Policarpio.

The six horsemen rode on at a slow pace, so as to allow their horses’ hoofs to emit the least possible sound, till they arrived at a deep archway, into the recesses of which not a ray of light penetrated. Here the stranger, in sable garments, with his companion, Manoel, took their posts, their horses’ heads turned towards the road, so as to sally forth at a moment’s notice. This was the ambush nearest the residence of the young Marchioness of Tavora. A little further on, a lane between high walls turned off to the right, and towards it Policarpio and Antonio directed their course; the two other unknown horsemen passing further on to another place of concealment.

“Halt here, my friend,” said Policarpio; “we shall not have long to wait; this is the best place we could have selected. As soon as the deed is done, follow me down the lane, and we will make a circuit to the Quinta.”

“How is it there are so many engaged in the work; I thought we three only were to be privy to it?” observed Antonio.

“The man has many foes,” was the laconic reply. “Now silence.”

Slow seemed the hours of darkness to lag along over the heads of the intended assassins. It was a time of the most harrowing anxiety, of doubts and fears to them all. During the bright glare of day, or when excited by wine and conversation, they had contemplated the deed as a duty they were called on to perform; but now, on the silent watch, when the moment for action was drawing on, they felt that they were about to commit a deed such as would, if discovered, hold them up to the execration of mankind. Darkness, which serves to cloak a crime from the eyes of others, reveals it to the startled conscience of the criminal in its native deformity. In vain each man sought to banish the voice which rung in his ear—Murder! murder!—but that mocking voice would not be silenced; and yet it was a useless warning, for each had resolved to do the deed, and now it was too late to fly; besides, when one would have done so, the thought of the reward to be reaped rose up in his mind, and determined him to persevere in spite of all consequences.

Policarpio listened eagerly for the expected sound of the carriage-wheels. “Ah! he comes,” he muttered, as a low rattling noise at a distance was heard; and even he, cool and hardened villain as he was, felt his heart beat quicker, and he drew in his breath at the thought of what he was about to do; he felt almost a relief from suffering as the noise died away in a different direction. The clear ringing sound from the clock of a neighbouring church now struck; he listened attentively to mark the hour—one, two; he counted on—ten, eleven, and no more. He must have been mistaken; he thought it was much later. Another dreadful hour of suspense must elapse, for their intended victim was not expected to pass till nearly twelve o’clock, and he was sometimes much later. His doubts were soon set at rest, for another clock, at a greater distance, now gave forth the hour of eleven. Thus they waited, sometimes supposing that their enemy had not paid his usual visit; that he might have taken another road, or that, by some mysterious chance, he had been forewarned. There was one among those midnight assassins whose fierce and fiery temper could ill brook this delay, and, as he sat on his horse beneath the arch, he gnashed his teeth with impatience, and grasping a pistol in his hand, longed for the moment to use it. Twelve o’clock struck, and scarcely had the sound from the last stroke of the bell died away on the calm midnight air, when a carriage was heard rapidly approaching. Each of the assassins gathered in his rein, and more firmly grasped his weapons to prepare for action. There could be now no further doubt—another minute and their victim would be in their power!

Onward came the carriage. It approached the dark archway; it had scarcely passed it, when the stranger in black, followed by Manoel, dashed forward, discharging his pistol at the head of the postilion; but the piece missed fire, as did that of his companion.

“Curses on the weapon,” he cried, raising his carabine, as the carriage dashed by; he fired, but the ball took no effect.

“Forbear! forbear!” shouted the postilion, as he drove on; “’tis the King you are firing at!”

He had just uttered the words, when Policarpio and his companion rode furiously towards him; the former discharging a pistol, but without effect. On their approach, he was seen to turn rapidly round before Policarpio could come up with him, and to drive down a steep and rugged path, towards the river.

“Fire!” shouted Policarpio to his companion, as they galloped after the carriage. “Fire! or they will escape us!” and, at the same moment, both discharged their pieces at the back of the carriage. A loud cry was heard, but they could not further tell the effect of their shots, for the postilion, driving for his own life, as well as that of his master, if he had escaped destruction, urged on his mules at a furious pace beyond their reach, before they had time to reload their fire-arms.

“What shots are those?” cried a voice from a window above them. “Murder! murder!”

The sound struck terror into the bosoms of the guilty assassins; and, turning their horses, they galloped off from the spot, by the roads previously agreed on, fancying that they were closely pursued. Onward they dashed, the dying shriek of their victim ringing in their ears, mixed with unearthly sounds—it seemed like the mocking laughter of demons. But at that time they dreaded not the supernatural powers half so much as the anger of man; him they had made their enemy, and now detection was what they most feared. “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed,” was the rigid law to which they had become amenable. No obstacles stopped them in their course. Their steeds, as if conscious of their masters’ haste, leapt fearlessly over the fragments of ruins which, in many places, strewed the road. With bridle and spur their riders kept them up, for a fall would have thrown them into the power of their fancied pursuers. After making a considerable circuit, Policarpio and Antonio approached the stable where they were to leave their horses. Leaping from his horse, Policarpio opened the door of the stable, for they were the first arrived, and entered, ordering his companion to follow, and to take off the saddles from their steeds. Having placed the horses in their stalls, they waited the return of the other two, in anxious expectation. Some minutes elapsed, and yet they arrived not.

“Can they have been seized?” muttered Policarpio to himself; “if so, all is lost, and I must make my escape.”

“We have made Teixeira pay dearly for his insolence,” said Antonio Ferreira. “Think you he could possibly have escaped? We sent shot enough through the carriage to kill most men.”

“Think you we should have run all this risk, and taken so much trouble, merely to kill a vile wretch as he is? But talk not of it again. We aimed at far higher game than he is; he may have been within, for it was his carriage; but it was not his paltry life we aimed at. It is the King we have killed!”

“Heaven pardon me!” exclaimed Antonio, in a trembling voice; “I thought not to have done such a deed!”

“Bah! this is no time for repentance,” answered Policarpio. “What is the difference between one man’s life and another’s. You have done your master a greater service than you thought. But silence; some one may overhear us: the devil has quick ears.”

They waited some time longer for their companions.

“I fear me, Manoel and your friend have been captured,” whispered Antonio.

“If so, we shall to a certainty be betrayed; and in flight is our only chance of safety. Adeos! friend Antonio. I shall take one course, and you may take another. This country will be no longer a safe abode for either of us.”

He went, as he spoke, to the door of the stable, and was about to hasten away, when he heard the sound of horses approaching, and directly after, the masked stranger, with Manoel, rode up. The former leaping to the ground, gave the reins to Policarpio. “I shall return homeward on foot,” he said. “Let silence and discretion be your motto, my friends, and you are safe; you shall not be forgotten.” And the stranger in black disappeared in the obscurity. Having relieved the horses from their saddles, and well fed them, Policarpio, with his two friends, returned to the Quinta.

As they entered a room, where lights were burning, they gazed at each other’s pale and haggard countenances, on which guilt had already stamped its indelible marks. Conscience-struck, they scarce dared to speak of the deed they had done. Policarpio was the first to recover his usual daring.

“Come, my friends,” he cried, filling for himself a bumper of wine, “banish these childish fears. Here’s to the health of the next King who shall reign over us, and may he prove a better master than the last!” His companions endeavoured in vain to imitate his careless bearing, though, at his desire, they gladly pledged him.

“Ah!” he continued, “to-morrow the whole city will ring with this night’s work! but no one will suspect us of the deed; and if they do, it matters little—we shall be above all fear of punishment.”

“I wish it were not done,” muttered Antonio; “I thought not to kill the King.”

“I pray we have not missed doing so,” answered Policarpio. “Curses on the weapons that failed when most required.”

“Who were those who accompanied us,” asked Manoel; “they seemed not of low degree?”

“That matters not, friend,” responded Policarpio; “you will gain your reward, and seek not to know more.”

Fearful of returning home, the two servants of the Marquis of Tavora threw themselves, overcome with fatigue, on the ground; but sleep visited not the murderers’ eyes that night, their victim’s shriek still rung in their ears, and their guilty hearts still beat with fears of the future.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

In a large saloon, richly furnished with every article of luxury then invented to minister to comfort or to pride, a young lady was seated on a sofa, before a table, on which had been thrown some fancy-work, with which she had been endeavouring to amuse herself. Her face was turned towards the ground, and while, her elbow resting on a cushion, she supported with her hand her small and delicately formed head, her other arm, of beautifully rounded proportions, hung carelessly by her side. A greyhound, of the graceful Italian race, and of pure fawn colour, was leaping up and licking her fingers, in a vain endeavour to attract her attention to himself. A lamp, which hung from the lofty ceiling, (for it was night,) cast a bright light upon her high and polished brow, from which her hair, as was the fashion, was drawn back; and it seemed that those long silken eyelashes of jet, which scarce concealed the lustre of her eyes, cast down though they were, were glistening with tears. One of her small feet, on which she wore a high-heeled satin shoe, resting on a cushion, an ankle of the most slender proportions was revealed. Her gown was of the richest flowered silk; her whole costume, indeed, notwithstanding that she was thus alone and sad, was arranged with the greatest elegance and care.

More than once a deep-drawn sigh escaped her, as her bosom heaved with agitated throbbings, which in vain she endeavoured to calm. Alas! lovely and young as she was, anguish was at her heart; for an accusing conscience was already at work within. Yet were others far more guilty—traitors doubly damned, who walked abroad in the well-sustained characters of honest men; while she, the betrayed, the abandoned wife, was left to mourn alone, or to receive the treacherous consolations of the subtle seducer, a licensed prey to the slanderous tongues of the malignant.

Time passed on, yet she stirred not from her position; nor did any of her domestics enter to interrupt her solitude. Her little dog had desisted from his attempts to gain her notice, and, weary with his gambols, had lain himself down at her feet, yet anxiously watching to win a look of encouragement from her eye. A clock, on a side table, had some time given notice that it wanted but two hours to midnight, when the Italian greyhound lifted his broad falling ears, half rising from his recumbent position. In a few seconds more, the noise which had first aroused him was reiterated, and, leaping up, he ran towards the door, uttering a shrill bark, again running back to his mistress.

“Lie down, my pretty Fiel, lie down,” the dog instantly obeying her. “Ah! you will not too desert your mistress,” she said, and relapsed into her former thoughtful mood.

The next moment the door opened slowly—so silently, that the lady did not look up; but her four-footed companion bounded forward, and leapt up fawningly on a gentleman who entered, of a dignified figure, dressed in a handsome costume, with a sword with a richly jewelled hilt by his side. He allowed his hand to caress the little dog, as he advanced close to the lady, and pronounced the name of “Theresa!”

The lady starting, with marked confusion, instantly rose, making one step towards him; while he, stooping low, took her unresisting hand with respectful devotion, imprinting on it a kiss: he then led her back to the sofa, and seated himself by her side, gazing with deep admiration on her lovely countenance, now softened by an expression of melancholy which rather increased than dimmed its attractions.

“Theresa, in spite of your commands, your wishes, I could not resist the temptations of my heart again to visit you. I come to entreat you to withdraw your cruel prohibitions, which must reduce me to despair,” and the stranger knelt at the feet of Donna Theresa de Tavora.

“Rise, in mercy rise!” she exclaimed, with a trembling voice. “Your Majesty must not thus kneel to a subject.”

“I will not rise till I know from those sweet lips that I am forgiven for my fault,” answered the King, in a tone of tender passion; for he it was who thus took advantage of the forced absence of her husband to urge his criminal suit.

“Your Majesty has committed no fault which I have power to forgive,” returned the Marchioness; “’tis I alone who am to blame for having dared to cherish a sentiment—for having owned that unhappy love which has attracted your Majesty hither.—Rise, Sire, I must not see you thus.”

“Your words afford balm to my bruised heart,” answered the King, in an enraptured tone, again placing himself by her side; but she gently withdrew her hand from his clasp.

“Your Majesty mistakes my meaning,” she said, with a vain attempt at firmness; for her lips quivered as she spoke. “Hear me, my liege: it is not on my own account I speak; for myself, I have no longer the power to retract. You know too well the secret of my heart; from henceforth my lot is one of sorrow and remorse: but it is for your Majesty’s sake, I beseech you to come hither no more. There is a danger in it which I may not—I dare not reveal, so terrible that I tremble at the thought alone.”

“For your sake, sweet one, I would brave all danger,” answered the King, with a gallant bow and a smile of incredulity; then suddenly changing his tone, he added, “Surely no one would venture to lift his arm against our person? Speak lady, does your husband meditate revenge, that we have more highly appreciated those matchless charms than himself?”

“Oh! do not ask me, my liege,” exclaimed the unhappy lady. “My husband has always proved himself a loyal subject; and surely naught but the most aggravated offence would drive him to commit treason against your Majesty. I speak not of what I know, but my fears have raised up suspicions, perchance but phantoms of the brain, yet should I be far happier if I knew that you, my sovereign, would avoid the risk you run by pursuing one whose love may bring destruction on your head.”

The King seemed dissatisfied with this answer, and the recollection of his Minister’s assertions, that plots and conspiracies were constantly brewing, but were discovered and defeated by his sagacity, now recurred to his mind with full force. In his fear, he forgot the character of the lover he was playing. “You hint to me that you have suspicions of danger to my person; but you neglect to tell me how to discover and defeat it,” he said, in a far different tone to that in which he had before spoken.

A woman is quick to perceive when the lordly heart of man begins to tremble with fear, and as Donna Theresa’s discerning glance fell on the countenance of her royal admirer, for the first time a feeling nearly allied to scorn entered her breast: it was transitory, but it left an impression not easily effaced. She wished to warn, but she loved him the less that he was so easily alarmed. Such is woman. She will fondly cling to man—she will idolise him, in the full majesty of his power, even though he treat her as an inferior being, so that he exert that power to shield her from harm; but let him once show that he is equally alive with herself to the sensations of fear, which is cowardice in him, he at once sinks in her estimation to a level with herself, and she no longer regards him as her lord and protector.

The young Marchioness withdrew her eyes from the King, as she answered, “Pardon me, your Majesty, I spoke but of my own womanly fears, indefinite also, and perhaps groundless they are, yet, when once they had arisen in my bosom, I could not but speak them; then, if I possess your Majesty’s love, do not press me further. Mine is a cruel, a hard duty to perform, yet for your sake, my King, I will not shrink from it. We must part now and for ever!”

“This is a tyranny, lovely lady, to which I cannot submit,” exclaimed the King, his passion for the moment conquering his fears; “I should pine to death were I to be banished from your sight.”

“Your Majesty possesses the hearts of many other ladies, who will console you for my loss,” returned Donna Theresa, with a faint smile.

“What! ’tis but a fit of jealousy then!” thought the King. “No, lovely one, believe it not,” he exclaimed aloud. “None have enchained my heart as you have done. Tell me that you will receive me to-morrow. Let my unswerving devotion, since you first honoured my Court with your presence, plead for me: let my ardent love be my excuse if I disobey your commands,” and he again took her hand, and would have knelt, but rising from her seat, she drew back.

“Let me be the suppliant,” she said. “Do not work upon the weakness of my sex, but exert your powerful judgment, my King, and ask yourself whether the pursuit you follow will repay you for risking both life and crown. No, Sire, it cannot; and therefore I once more beseech you to desist. I should indeed be doubly guilty were you to suffer for my sake.”

Her voice faltered as she uttered the last words. Never had the young Marchioness looked so lovely as now that she stood with her hands clasped in an attitude of entreaty before the sovereign; the energy of her feelings throwing the rich blood into her hitherto pallid cheeks. It served unhappily to increase the King’s admiration.

“It is useless, lovely Theresa, thus endeavouring to dissuade me; crown, life, all, I would risk to retain your love.”

How easily are our most firm resolves turned aside,—how wonderfully is our judgment obscured, when passion intervenes! Man, with all his boasted power of intellect, in a moment sinks to the level of the soulless beings, who have but despised instinct for their guide. Let haughty man remember, secure, as he fancies himself in the strong armour of superior wisdom and calculating judgment, that he, too, is but mortal, and liable any instant to fall; and let him learn not to pass too harsh a judgment on those whose reason has been, perchance, but for one fatal moment overcome.

Donna Theresa’s rising feelings of disdain, her fears for his safety, all other thoughts were forgotten at the King’s last passionate declaration of his love; and, in a fatal moment, she consented no longer to persist in her determination to see him no more.

Having gained his point, the King soon after took his leave, with further protestations of unalterable constancy. On entering his carriage, in which Teixeira was waiting for him at the door, he threw himself back in his seat, exclaiming,—“Truly these women are wonderful creatures; changeable and uncertain in their tempers, as the vane on the topmast head! At one moment, my lovely Marchioness vowed she would enter a convent, or see me no more; and the next she was all love and affection. At one time, overcome by fears that her husband, I suppose, in a fit of jealousy, would attempt my life, and then forgetting all about the matter. The truth is, she loves me to distraction, when a woman is always full of alarms; but methinks none of my nobles are of that jealous disposition, that they would endeavour to revenge themselves for the honour I pay their wives.”

“Few, perhaps, would harbour a treacherous thought against your Majesty; but all are not equally loyal,” answered Teixeira. “The Tavoras are of a haughty and revengeful disposition, and it would be well to guard against them. I told your Majesty how, the other day, the old Marquis almost struck me in the palace, because, not seeing his Excellency approach, I was by chance standing in his way.”

“What, do you truly think there is danger to be apprehended from them?” said the King, in a voice expressive of suspicion.

“I have no doubt of their disloyalty, if such a feeling can possibly be harboured by any against your Majesty,” answered Teixeira.

“We must speak to Sebastiaö Jozé about it,” said the King. “He will know well how to discover their feelings.”

“Senhor de Carvalho is of my opinion, that they are not to be confided in,” observed the confidant, who had thus the power, with a few words, to cast the taint of disloyalty on a whole noble race.

“I thought that Donna Theresa’s fears arose from idle fancies, though I now suspect she had some foundation for her warnings,” observed the King. “Sebastiaö Jozé, however, will discover whatever is wrong.”

“The country is truly blessed, which possesses so good a King, and so wise a Minister,” said the confidant.

“Which way are we going?” asked the King, looking out of the window, though, from the darkness, it was impossible to distinguish the road.

“I ordered him to drive the usual way, past the Quinta da Cima, and down by the Quinta do Meyo,” answered Teixeira. “We are now near approaching the arch of do Meyo.”

“’Tis a night, which an assassin would select to commit a deed of blood,” said the King; the thought arising probably from his own fears, and from the observations of his servant. He had scarce uttered the words, when both were startled by a loud cry from the postilion, Custodio da Costa, and by seeing the flash of a pistol in front; the next instant two musketoons were discharged, the bright flashes from which lighted up the dark figures of two horsemen, urging their steeds towards the carriage, and several shot rattled past the window.

“Jesu Maria! what means this?” exclaimed the King, in a tone of terror.

“Foul treason! your Majesty,” answered Teixeira. “We are betrayed.”

“Stop, fool! or you die!” shouted one of the horsemen to the postilion; but he, disregarding the command, boldly galloped on his mules, crying out, “’Tis the King you are firing at!” when two other horsemen rushed out towards him from behind a high wall. With admirable presence of mind, though at great risk, he suddenly wheeled round the carriage.

“Stay, mad fool!” cried the assassins; but he heeded them not, and proceeded down a steep path to the left, nearly in the direction from whence he had come. Just as he had succeeded in turning, the report of two fire-arms was heard.

“Holy Virgin! I am slain!” ejaculated the King, falling backwards.

“My life shall preserve your Majesty’s,” cried Teixeira; and, with a heroism worthy of a better man, he forced his sovereign down into the bottom of the carriage, covering him to the utmost with his own person.

The urgency of the case added nerve to the postilion’s arm, and keenness to his sight; for, avoiding all obstacles, he galloped on through streets where it would seem almost impossible that he could pass; which, as the chronicler observes, “was one of the wonderful and miraculous works performed on the unfortunate night of that most horrid and sacrilegious insult, in order to preserve the inestimable life of his most sacred Majesty, for the common benefit of these realms of Portugal.”

The postilion, Custodio da Costa, (for he deserves that his name should be commemorated, on account of his gallantry and presence of mind), as soon as he perceived, after driving some way, that he was not followed, stopped the carriage, when his anxiety for his Majesty’s safety was relieved by hearing his voice ordering him to proceed to the palace of the Marquis of Tancos, which was close at hand.

“Say not what has occurred,” said the King to the postilion, as, descending from the carriage with Teixeira’s aid, a cloak being thrown over his shoulder, he entered the palace of the Marquis.

The noble host, wondering at the cause of his being honoured by a visit from his sovereign at so unusual an hour, hastily rose from his bed, and entered the apartment into which his royal guest had been ushered.

The King, who was seated on a chair, was pale, but perfectly calm. “I have met with an accident, my friend, though I know not its extent,” he said. “Send for Senhor Assiz, my chief surgeon, and speak to no one else of the affair.”

The Marquis immediately sent to obey the commands of the King, who, on his return desired that his chaplain might forthwith be summoned; when, all retiring except the holy man, he returned thanks to the King of kings for the preservation of his life from so great a danger, and then confessed himself of his sins at the feet of the minister of the gospel.

In the mean time, the honest Custodio could not restrain his tongue from whispering to the servants of the Marquis, under promise of secrecy, an account of the dreadful occurrence; and they, of course, repeated it to their fellows; so that, before the morning dawned, the tale, with wonderful additions and alterations, was spread far and wide.

On the arrival of the surgeon, he and the Marquis, with Teixeira, were again admitted into the presence of the King, who had concluded his religious devotions; and the horror of all may be better conceived than described, when, his cloak being taken off, his breast and right arm were perceived covered with blood, which had trickled down over the rest of his dress. Without having uttered a word of complaint since he was wounded, the King now submitted himself into the hands of his surgeon, who, to the extreme satisfaction of his friends, pronounced the wounds to be unattended with danger, although they were very severe. Several slugs had entered his shoulder and breast, tearing away the flesh from the arm, but no other injury was committed on his person.

“Another mark of the miraculous interference of Divine Omnipotence,” as again observes the chronicler, “on that night of horrors; for it cannot be in the common order of events, nor can it be in anywise ascribed to the casualty of accidental occurrences, that two charges of slugs, fired out of such pieces, should make their way through the narrow space of a carriage, without totally and absolutely destroying the persons who were in such a carriage.”

The surgical operation having been performed, the King took leave of his host, and, accompanied by Teixeira and the surgeon, returned to the royal palace; the Marquis, however, with two of his servants, riding on each side of the carriage, to protect him from a further attack; nor did he quit his post till he had aided his sovereign to descend at the private door, where he was in the custom of alighting.

Pale and agitated with the alarming occurrences of the night, the King entered his private cabinet, where the sagacious Minister was still seated, deeply immersed in business. Carvalho rose as he entered, but started back with horror as he beheld the countenance of his sovereign. “What has happened to your gracious Majesty?” he exclaimed.

“Foul treason has been at work, Senhor Carvalho; though, through the mercy of Heaven, we have escaped destruction.”

“Alas! then, my fears have not been groundless,” said Carvalho; “and your Majesty will be convinced that there are men wicked enough to seek your life. Let me now entreat you to retire to your chamber, where, if it pleases your Majesty, you can detail all that has happened.”

The King, when placed in bed, no one but the Minister, his surgeon, and Teixeira being admitted, gave an account to the former of what had occurred.

Carvalho listened with breathless anxiety, and well he might; his fame, his life, and power depended on the preservation of the King. A slight frown was on his brow, and a quivering movement might have been perceived on the upper of his closed lips, but he gave no other evidence of the thoughts passing within, till he answered, in a deep voice, “I will discover every one of the instigators and perpetrators of this atrocious outrage; and I ask but one condition of your Majesty:—Let me deal with the vile monsters as I may deem expedient, and all others shall learn such a lesson that, from thenceforth, your Majesty shall have no cause to dread a recurrence of such deeds. Will you, my Liege, grant this promise, which you owe to your own safety, and to the happiness of your people?”

“I give you the power you ask, my friend,” said the King.

“Then am I satisfied,” said the Minister.

Those words sealed the fate of the nobility of Portugal.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

On the morning after the events last described, a rumour was spread over Lisbon that something dreadful had happened; and people met each other in the streets with alarmed and inquiring countenances. Some said the King had been assassinated; others that his carriage had been overturned, and that he had been killed by the shock; others that he had died of apoplexy; while others, again, affirmed that he was still alive. The greater number, however, fully believed that he had been assassinated, several declaring that they had been aroused from their sleep in the dead of night, and looking out of their window’s had perceived the dark figures of horsemen galloping along at a furious rate. By degrees, large crowds assembled in the neighbourhood of the palace, all anxious, from many different motives, to learn the truth; but the windows were kept closed, and not a person was seen to issue forth to give the information sought for.

“I wonder who will be king now,” said a seller of lemonade, to a fisherman, who stood near him with large baskets of fish balanced at each end of a pole upon his shoulder. “Some say it will be Dom Pedro. I hope so; he encourages religion and processions, and they bring people abroad, and make them thirsty. Who’ll buy my cool lemonade?”

“For my part, I care little: one king is as good as another,” answered the fisherman. “What difference can it make to us who sits upon the throne? I hear the Duke of Aveiro is a likely man, and he is a friend of the Jesuits, who patronise fasting and fish-eating, which is all I have to look after. Fresh fish! alive and jumping!” he cried in a loud drawling tone, and passed on.

Men now inquired of each other who had committed the deed, if an assassination had been perpetrated; and several persons were seen moving among the crowds, spreading various reports. It was soon loudly declared that the Jesuits were the perpetrators of the outrage; while others whispered that the members of the Tavora family knew more about the affair than anybody else, for that their servants were the first to inform them that the King had been killed. Some, again, contradicted that report, declaring that one or two people had first heard of it when going, in the morning, to the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro; and that Senhor Policarpio had not only affirmed that the King was dead, but that, if a certain noble Duke came to the throne, he would establish some more saints’ days, encourage the ceremonies of the Church, and bull-fights, with unprecedented magnificence; that he would abrogate all taxes, and increase the pomp of their processions.

“The Duke will make an excellent king,” whispered many; “he is so religious and so generous.”

The friends of the Tavoras, though they credited the report of the King’s assassination, stoutly denied that that noble family could be in any way implicated in so atrocious a crime. Unfortunately, however, for their assertions, a little humpbacked water-carrier declared that he knew every member of them perfectly well by sight, for that he had served the palace of the Marquis with water for many years, till it had been destroyed by the earthquake, and, while in the hall, had seen them go in and out a thousand times; and that he was confident he had seen young Jozé de Tavora, at day-break on that very morning, galloping towards Belem, from the upper part of Lisbon. This story gained rapid credence, and, as it spread from mouth to mouth, various additions were, of course, made to it; so that, before many minutes had passed, it was currently believed that the old Marquis of Tavora, with his two sons, had been encountered, with pistols in their hands, rushing from the spot where the King had been assassinated.

On an occasion like the present, our friend Antonio, the soi-disant cobbler, was certain not to be absent; and, unnoticed by any, in his working costume, he moved among the crowds, collecting the various reports with indefatigable industry; though, whenever he had an opportunity of putting in a word, he cautioned his hearers not to accuse any without clear evidence of their guilt, but that if the criminals were discovered, they would deserve condign punishment. Great, however, was the surprise of all, both the friends and enemies of the Tavoras, when the Prime Minister himself appeared at a window of the palace, and, lifting up his hand to impose silence, assured the populace that not only was the King alive, but that, as far as he could learn, no attempt whatever had been made against his august life; that the report had arisen, probably, owing to some words uttered by the postilion in his alarm, when the mules of his Majesty’s carriage had taken fright; that, owing to the latter circumstance, the carriage had been thrown on one side, by which his gracious Majesty had received a slight injury in the arm.

“Long live the King!—viva, viva!” exclaimed the populace, on hearing this announcement; for they are ever ready to shout, it matters little to them for whom. The cry saluted the ears of the Duke of Aveiro, who, followed by Senhor Policarpio, rode up, with eager haste, the very first of the nobility, to make inquiries for his sovereign’s health. His cheek, perchance, turned a shade more pale, as he heard the cry; but, dashing onward, regardless of the collected rabble, he dismounted at the gate of the palace, desiring to be admitted to the presence of the King. The Prime Minister alone received him in the audience-chamber, and, with marked suavity and courtesy, assured him that the King could not then receive him, but would do so on the earliest occasion.

“I came to offer my services to sally forth, with my attendants, in search of the vile perpetrators of the dreadful outrage committed against his Majesty,” said the Duke.

“What! my lord Duke, do you give credence to the absurd story which has got about, that our beloved sovereign’s life has been attempted?” said the Minister, with a bland smile. “Calm your apprehensions: I trust so black a traitor does not exist in Portugal.”

The Duke was completely deceived.

“I indeed rejoice to hear that the report was unfounded, Senhor Carvalho,” he answered; “and pray inform me the first moment his Majesty is sufficiently recovered from his indisposition to receive me, for I long to throw myself at his feet, and express my deep loyalty and devotion.”

As the Duke took his leave, and was retiring, the Minister muttered, gazing sternly after him, “So humble and loyal already, my lord Duke? Your pride shall yet be brought lower than you think of!”

The nobility now flocked in numbers to the palace, some, perhaps, with a hope that the report might prove true, others with fears for the consequences, and, among them, the Marquis of Tavora drove up in his carriage. Carvalho received him with the most respectful courtesy, assuring him of the King’s regard; the frank expression of the Marquis’s countenance setting at fault the sagacity of the Minister, if he had entertained any suspicions of his loyalty.

“Ah, my lord Marquis, it would be happy for other countries if they possessed no worse traitors than live in Portugal!” observed the Minister. “By-the-bye, you made an application to his Majesty for a ducal title, not long ago, and I heard the King regretting he had then refused you, but observing, that he now considered your services in India entitled you to the rank. He does not forget his friends.”

“I am grateful for his Majesty’s recollection of my wishes. I shall esteem the honour greater as a gift from him,” answered the Marquis.

“I shall have much pleasure in reporting what your Excellency says,” returned the Minister, as the Marquis, pleased with the idea of at length having his request acceded to, took his leave, with a less haughty air than was his custom.

“If the report I have just heard, and my own suspicions, are correct, that man is an admirable hypocrite,” thought the Minister. “He will be a difficult person to deal with; but I think I have lulled his fears, if he entertained any.”

“I regret that his Majesty cannot see you to-day, but you are one of the first he will receive,” said the Minister to the Marquis d’Alorna, who then entered. “I trust your lovely daughter is well, for whom both the King and Queen entertain the most respectful regard?”

His hearer, who could not be otherwise than fully convinced of the truth of his words, answering briefly, retired.

What golden opinions Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho that day won from all classes of men! It was one of difficulty, though of triumph, to him; for he felt that he was now fully establishing a power no future events could shake.

He did not, however, use the same style of language towards all. When the King’s favourite, Marialva, appeared, he drew him aside.

“I know, my dear Marquis, that you can thoroughly be trusted,” he said. “It behoves all true friends of our gracious sovereign’s to be prepared for his protection. He would see you, but it would excite jealousy in others. He has been wounded, though, under the grace of Heaven, not severely; and I leave you to judge whether by traitors or not. We must exert ourselves to discover and bring them to punishment, even if they are our brothers or dearest friends. Yet speak not your suspicions to any.”

Marialva promised to follow Carvalho’s advice, and left him, with a conviction that he was the most sagacious of ministers, and the most attached servant of the King.

At last the young Count d’Almeida appeared, to make the usual inquiries, and to express his sorrow at the King’s accident.

“I am glad to see you again at Court, for you have been long a truant,” said Carvalho. “Should you wish for employment, I can now better fulfil the promise I made long ago, to give you some post worthy of your talents.”

Luis expressed his gratitude and willingness to serve the state in any capacity for which he was fitted.

“I am glad to hear you say so,” answered the Minister, adding, with emphasis, “We have need of honest men to guard the country, when treason stalks abroad with daring front. I trust never to have to number the Count d’Almeida among the traitors in Portugal.”

Luis started, and his heart beat quick, as if with conscious guilt; for he remembered the scene, in which he had been an unwilling actor on the past night. For an instant it rushed across his mind that the Minister must have been aware of the meeting of the conspirators, and he trembled for the safety of them all. The dangerous position in which he himself also stood occurred to him; for, though feeling himself innocent of any evil intent, he well knew that, in the eye of the law, he was equally amenable to punishment for concealing the conspiracy. When the first reports reached him of the assassination of the King, the dreadful thought occurred to him, had any of those whom he had met in the vault of Malagrida been the perpetrators of the act?—he could not banish the suspicion that such might have been the case. He had quitted the ruin at an early hour, and there was then time for a horseman to reach the city before midnight, when, it was said, the event had taken place. Might not even suspicion alight on him, and on his young friend, of the Tavora family, too, who were already suspected,—at that very hour they were abroad, armed, and on horseback, perhaps passing near the spot? Would not his landlady, when she heard of the outrage, suspect that he was concerned in it? Should he be once apprehended and interrogated, what plausible reason could he possibly give for having made a secret expedition at night? If he said that he had gone at the request merely of his young friend, Jozé de Tavora, he would at once condemn both himself and all he had then met. Whichever way he looked at his case, it appeared desperate; and, for the first time in his life, that sinking, that paralysing sensation of fear, struck his heart,—not the fear of death, but of dishonour and disgrace,—of seeing his hitherto proud name branded as that of a traitor and assassin; and he shuddered as he thought that his life must end on the scaffold, amid the hootings and execrations of the populace, without the slightest means of vindicating his character from opprobrium. He knew Pedro was to be fully trusted, and he wished to beg his hostess not to mention to any one his having quitted home on that fatal night; but the request itself would seem to have been made from a consciousness of guilt, so he resolved not to speak to her on the subject.

At one moment he thought of hastening to the Minister, who, having before expressed an interest in his affairs, would, he trusted, believe him, and of confessing that he had been abroad on that night on horseback, and that he had thought it wiser to say so, lest any unjust suspicions might be raised against him, resolving, at the same time, to endure every torture, and death itself, rather than betray any of those who had confided in his honour. Then it occurred to him, that the very confession itself, notwithstanding all his caution, might throw some suspicion on the young Tavora, and from him on his relations, so he quickly abandoned his purpose. Next he thought of instantly quitting the country, but then he should leave his character open to the mercy of any who might choose to blacken it; or should he not be able to effect his escape, (a difficult undertaking in those days, when every ship was searched before sailing,) the very attempt would offer a presumptive proof of his guilt. At last he came to the determination of braving the worst, and, buoyed up with the consciousness of innocence, trusting in Heaven’s protection, to repair at once to the palace, to make his personal inquiries as to the state of the King.

What was his surprise and satisfaction, then, on approaching the neighbourhood, to hear that the reports were false, and that the King had met merely with a slight accident. His confidence being thus perfectly restored, he appeared before the Minister with a calm heart and clear brow; nor had he any cause to dread the consequences of his unfortunate expedition, till he heard the last words the latter uttered.

Carvalho’s hawk-eyed glance marked the agitation Luis could not entirely conceal; a dark shade, like a cloud on the summer sky, passing across his brow; but his countenance again shone with deceitful smiles; for it was his purpose to lull in fancied security, not to alarm, the guilty ones. He had, throughout the day, marked, with unerring acuteness, every look, every variation of feature, of those with whom he had made a point of conversing when they visited the palace; and many, who fancied that they had outwitted him, had but the more completely betrayed themselves. He was still more courteous, and full of expressions of regard for Luis than at first; but from that moment he suspected him of being privy to the conspiracy; for that there was one against the King had not escaped his searching vigilance, from many facts which had come to his knowledge.

As he contemplated the dreadful punishment which awaited the young Count, he felt a regret for his fate, slight and transient though it was, and one of the few, perhaps, which ever passed through his stern, unyielding heart; for Luis was akin to a dear friend, early lost, and long mourned; but he banished the weakness, and resolved to perform his duty.

“I shall see you soon again, Count, when his Majesty has recovered, which I trust will be in a few days, when we will arrange about the post you are to fill,” he observed, as Luis took his leave, and he, with a bland smile, turned towards some of the other courtiers.

As the Count d’Almeida was quitting the palace, he encountered in the passage his former and hated rival, the Count San Vincente. The two young nobles regarded each other, as they advanced, with fierce glances, when the latter, casting a look of scornful triumph at Luis, passed onward, almost brushing him with his sword. Luis, recollecting that he was within the precincts of the palace, was unable to take any notice of the intended insult, though he longed for a day of retribution, when he might avenge himself for the deep injuries he had received at the hands of the treacherous noble. Brooding over the feelings which the meeting with the Count had raised, he returned homeward, at the same time fully satisfied that he was free from any danger on account of his unfortunate excursion with Jozé de Tavora.

Many days passed away, while many-tongued rumour was busy with spreading tales of various colours in all directions, blasting the characters of some of the highest and noblest in the land. Few, at length, there were who disbelieved that treason was on foot; the names of some were ascertained, it was said, without a doubt, and were whispered abroad in every circle, except where the true conspirators moved; for, as often happens, reports, whether true or scandalous, often reach last the ears of those most concerned. Thus, the Duke of Aveiro, whose wishes had, at all events, instigated the assassins to their deed of blood, appeared everywhere in public with an untroubled brow, and continued to be the most assiduous in his inquiries at the palace after the health of his Majesty.

The King, however, still kept himself closely confined to his chamber, to which even the Queen was not admitted; the Minister, as before, receiving all guests with the most affable courtesy, seeming to take a delight in paying them attentions, and holding them in lengthened conversations. Many an eye sunk beneath his piercing glance, though a smile wreathed itself about his lips, and his voice was softly modulated, and many a heart trembled lest he should read its inmost thoughts. Two or three nobles, from whom, not suspecting them, he had less concealed his thoughts, passed their estates in trust into other hands, being suddenly seized with a strong desire to visit other lands; not even waiting for permission to leave the country. Those who did so, had full reason, shortly afterwards, to congratulate themselves on their caution. The flight of these gave security to others; the young Marquis of Tavora being advised to return to the city, and plead illness as an excuse for his short absence,—while his father rejoiced that he himself had not acted according to the counsels of his wife, lest suspicion might have fallen upon him.

Among the visitors at the palace was our friend Gonçalo Christovaö, who had, a short time before, arrived in Lisbon. Senhor Carvalho welcomed him with even more than his usual courtesy, regretting that the King could not receive the petition, which he understood he had come to present from the city of Oporto; but assuring him, that he would use his utmost endeavours to abolish the grievances of which the inhabitants complained. He then took him aside.

“I have a subject, Senhor Christovaö, which I have long wished to broach to you. It is to make a request, which I trust you will not deny me, for it will conduce to strengthen your family interests, and add honour to mine.”

The high-born fidalgo gazed at the Minister with an air of surprise, wondering what he could possibly mean.

“You have a fair daughter, full worthy of her high name,” continued the latter, “whom my son beheld when Lisbon was honoured by her presence.” The fidalgo started, and a frown gathered on his brow. “He has ever since pined to possess her; and, as I hear she is still not betrothed, I now ask her hand in marriage for him.”

If a leper, or one of the vilest of the children of earth, had made the same request, the proud fidalgo could scarce have cast a look more full of indignant scorn towards him than he now threw at the powerful Minister, as, in a tone of mingled anger and disdain, he answered, “You strangely forget our relative positions, Senhor Carvalho; but know, senhor, that in my garden there is no room for oaks.” Alluding to his hereditary estate called the “Fair Garden,” and the name of Carvalho, which is the Portuguese for an oak.

The Minister bowed, and returned a smile, which could scarce be called treacherous, if the fidalgo had not been too much excited by his indignation to observe the withering gleam which shot from the eyes of the man whose vengeance he had thus provoked, but the latter in no other way committed himself.

“You indulge somewhat in pleasantry this morning, Senhor Christovaö,” he said, in a tranquil tone. “However, I conclude that you have good reasons for refusing my son’s suit, and I therefore withdraw it.”

“You act wisely, senhor,” answered the fidalgo, still in an offended tone. “My daughter’s hand is not to be bought and sold, and of her own free-will she has dedicated it to the Church.”

“The young lady has not professed yet?” asked Carvalho.

“No, senhor; some months must yet elapse before she takes the final vows,” said the father.

“It were better she abandoned her project,” observed the Minister. “It is one few young ladies so lovely as she is follow willingly; and remember, Senhor Christovaö, the King has determined to allow the inclinations of no lady of this realm to be forced in that respect—I must see to it.”

“I require no one to dictate to me how I am to dispose of my daughter,” answered the fidalgo, haughtily.

“Your pardon, my dear sir,” returned the Minister.

“Present my duty to the King,” said the fidalgo, taking his leave.

“I will not forget you, Senhor Christovaö,” said the Minister, bowing him out.

“Haughty fool!” he muttered, as he returned to his seat. “Dearly shall you rue your insolence. Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho never forgets his friends or his foes.”

Several weeks passed tranquilly away, so tranquilly that men began to suppose they had mistaken the character of the Prime Minister, and that, weary of bloodshed and severity, his government was to be henceforth one of mildness and conciliation. The larger number were loud in their praise of the great man; favours which had long been sought for were now granted, promises were made to others, even his former enemies appeared forgiven; the Duke of Aveiro, among others, requested leave to retire to his country seat at Azeitaö, and permission was instantly given him to do so. Some few suspected, it is true, that this mild behaviour was like the treacherous calm before the hurricane; but they were cautious, and uttered not their opinion.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

“O who would wish to be a King?” said the gallant King James of Scotland, when the fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain herd were shouting the name of Douglas; and we ask, Who would wish to be a Prime Minister? No one, surely, who has any regard for his own tranquillity or happiness; no one who cannot scorn the base revilings of the thankless crowd, in whose service he is exerting all the energies of a noble intellect, and wasting his health; no one who is not prepared to encounter the treachery of friends, and the hatred of enemies; who has not a heart of adamant and nerves of steel; unless he be a true patriot, and then the consciousness of rectitude and nobility of purpose will support him through all.

A fair girl was leaning over a balcony in the residence of the Prime Minister of Portugal, inhaling the sweet odours which rose from the garden beneath. Her light hair, not yet brought under the slavish subjection of fashion, fell in long ringlets over her fair neck, while her laughing blue eye, and lips formed to smile, betokened her German extraction, for she was the daughter of Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho and the Countess Daun; though neither in her gentle disposition, or her small and beautifully rounded figure, did she partake of her father’s qualities. She started, for a sigh was breathed near her, and she beheld a handsome youth by her side, gazing at her with a look of enraptured devotion. A blush mantled on her cheeks as she asked, “What brings you here, Senhor Alfonzo? I thought you were with my father at the palace.”

“I am about to go thither, Donna Agnes,” answered the youth, “but I sought first to see you.”

“Pardon me, senhor, I must not delay you,” said the young lady.

“Lady, in mercy save me from destruction!” exclaimed the youth, in a tone which thrilled to her heart.

“What mean you, Senhor Alfonzo? In what way can I aid you?” said the Minister’s daughter.

“In your hands is my fate, either to leave me a wretch unworthy of existence, or to raise me from despair, and grant me bliss incomparable.”

“I dare not, I must not, understand the meaning of your strange expressions,” said Donna Agnes, her hand, which rested on the balustrade, slightly trembling. “Let me entreat you, senhor, to leave me. I would not be the unhappy cause of your ruin.”

“You, you alone, can be the cause of my salvation,” exclaimed the youth, with enthusiastic passion. “Donna Agnes, I love you.”

“In mercy to yourself—to me, do not say so,” faltered the young lady.

“My spirit would not rest, when I am in the grave, had I not declared the love I bear you,” exclaimed the Secretary.

“Oh no, no; it must not be thus! Say you will not utter those words again, and I will endeavour to forget what you have said. You cannot know my father, if you think that he would let me listen to such declarations,” answered Donna Agnes.

“I know him well—he has ever been my benefactor, and I would show my gratitude,” responded the youth.

“Then, as you value his favour, do not renew this conversation. It has caused me much pain already,” said Donna Agnes.

“I cannot longer conceal the consuming love I feel for you,” exclaimed the Secretary. “Can you, in return, hate me for it?”

“Oh no, no,” responded Donna Agnes.

“Will you, can you love me, then?” exclaimed the youth. “Will you grant me but one hope to endure existence?”

The colour forsook the fair cheek of the Minister’s daughter; her bosom heaved, and her eyes sunk to the ground.

“Oh leave me, leave me, Senhor Alfonzo!” she cried. “These words are cruelty to me and to yourself. It cannot be. My father esteems you, and confides in you; but, did he suspect what you have told me, his anger would be aroused to a pitch you little dream of, and of my hand he has already determined the disposal; but I shall ever regard you as a friend.”

“Then were you free, you might, you would love me?” exclaimed the infatuated youth. “Donna Agnes, you do love me?—utter but the word, and no power shall tear you from me.”

“This conduct is ungenerous, unworthy of you,” responded Donna Agnes. “I would not speak harshly to you; but you drive me to it. From henceforth, I must fly your presence. Again I ask you to leave me. I never can be yours.”

“Then you have sealed my doom and your father’s,—his death be upon your head, cruel girl!” ejaculated the Secretary, as he rushed from the spot where they stood, and hastened to the royal palace.

“Oh stay, stay!” cried the young lady, alarmed at his agitated look, and extraordinary violence; “what mean you?” but he was gone; and, placing her fair young face in her hands, she wept bitterly.

Poor girl, she had never before been told by any one that she was beloved; and for two years past daily had she seen the young and handsome Secretary, who, grave and reserved as he was towards others, could teach his tongue to utter the softest eloquence to her; and when his eye met hers, his whole countenance would beam with animation,—yet she had performed her duty to her father, and promised to marry whoever he might select. He had made his choice, and she must abide by it.

The Secretary hastened to the cabinet in the palace, where the Minister always employed him; but the latter had not arrived. He first opened some papers on which he was employed, and then examined every corner of the room with the utmost care. His naturally pallid cheek was more bloodless than usual; his hands trembled; his eyes cast furtive glances around, even though he had convinced himself no one was present. Every instant he started,—his knees knocked together; but still he went about the work he had vowed to perform: his determination was strong, though his frame was weak. A small ewer of water, with a tumbler, stood on a table, on one side of the closet. He eyed it for some time, with his hand grasping the back of a chair, to give himself support—his breath came and went quickly. At length he approached it—for an instant he bent over it—he drew from his bosom a small packet—he tore it open, and poured a powder it contained into the ewer, then, securing the empty paper beneath his dress, he waited another minute without moving. So pale was his cheek, so rigid did he stand, that he looked more like some statue of bronze or marble, than a living man. Again he started, and seizing the ewer, he poured some of its contents into the tumbler: the liquid was pure and sparkling as crystal. He heaved a deep, long-drawn sigh, and turned away; but there was a fascination in that fatal goblet! Again and again were his eyes attracted by it, till the orbs almost started from his head—his lips were parched—there was fire in his brain, yet his heart was as ice. The first fatal step was made! the rest was easy. He endeavoured to collect his thoughts—to grow calm, and reason with himself. What had he done? He had committed no crime,—no one had suffered by his hand,—he was not a murderer! Oh no. Then why this abject fear? He attempted to smile at his first sensations,—he recalled all the rules with which he had been taught to reason at college; all the later lessons he had received from the Father Jacinto, and he was successful. He sought to reason against conviction. The struggle was severe,—intellect (he called it) against conscience; and intellect was the victor! Yes, the victor! But how long would it remain so? He knew not what an active, harassing enemy was conscience,—how it seizes on its victim in the dead of night,—how it rushes on him, when laid prostrate by disease and sickness! Then which is the victor? Then does it take ample vengeance on intellect for its former defeat.

The apt pupil of the Father Jacinto da Costa now seated himself calmly, to finish the copy of a despatch on which he had been employed. He then arose, and taking a key, which hung suspended from his neck, beneath his clothes, he approached the Minister’s private cabinet. He opened it, and searched carefully among the papers, endeavouring to replace each as he found them. At last he came to one, which he seized eagerly; and running his eye over it, he carried it to his desk, rapidly making extracts from it, and placed the paper which he had written in his bosom. With the one he had taken he returned to the cabinet, kneeling to restore it to the spot it had occupied, and to search for another. Deeply absorbed, his eye running over paper after paper, he heard not the door open. A hand was laid heavily on his shoulder; he started, as if it had been a hand of fire, and, gazing upward, he beheld the stern features of the Minister! The paper he held dropped from his grasp,—despair was marked on every lineament of his countenance, and, trembling and pale, he would have sunk on the ground, but that an arm of iron upheld him.

“Fool!” said the Minister. “Is it thus you return my confidence? Have you before betrayed the secrets of this cabinet? Speak! You answer not,—your silence is a confession of your guilt. Behold yon bright sun—’tis the last time its beams will glad your sight; for know, he who possesses the secrets of Carvalho must be surrounded by stronger walls than his own bosom affords; the deepest dungeon in the Jungueira will henceforward be your abode.” The Minister withdrew his hand.

“Stir not,” he added, as he walked towards the door, to summon some attendants who were without. At first they did not hear his voice, and he was obliged to go to the end of the passage again to call them. They rushed up hastily, and followed Carvalho to the apartment. On entering, the young Secretary was discovered stretched on the ground in a swoon, it seemed, close to the open cabinet. They raised him up, and endeavoured to restore animation, while the Minister went to his desk, and wrote a few lines.

“When he revives, bear him hence,” he said, “and deliver this paper to Senhor Fonseca;” and, without appearing to pay further attention to what was going forward, he continued writing.

The endeavours of the attendants were soon successful, for the unhappy youth opened his eyes, gazing wildly at those surrounding him. “Water! water!” he murmured.

One of the men, observing the ewer on the table, pouring out a tumbler-full, brought it to him, and placed it to his lips—he eagerly drank off the cooling draught. They threw some on his head, to cool his brow, and again gave him to drink. The water completely restored him, and, as they led him away, he ventured not to turn his eye towards the man he had deceived; but, as he passed the door, his glance fell on the fatal ewer. A thought like the vivid lightning, scorching all in its path, crossed his mind. Had he been given to drink of the poisoned water? Impossible! He felt no ill effects from it; but he dared not ask the question.

That night the young Alfonzo, the highly endowed in mind and person, lay on a wretched pallet, chained, like a malefactor, to the humid stone-wall of a low dark dungeon beneath the castle of the Jungueira. Not a gleam of light, not a breath of pure air, entered his abode; then it was that conscience triumphed over intellect. He thought of his days of childhood and innocence, before he had learned the rules of sophistry. His mother’s face appeared to him, smiling with love, but full of sadness. Suddenly it vanished, and one of dreadful scowling aspect took its place. He thought of the dark lessons he had received from his instructors, and he called on God to curse those who had blasted his heart with scorching words. The Father Jacinto, too, came before him, with a calm and benignant countenance, and voice of mellifluous softness. Suddenly he changed, and, in his stead, arose a vast serpent of glittering scaly sides, moist with slime, which coiled and twisted its enormous folds around him, hissing as it breathed forth a fiery breath upon his face. It seemed to bear him down, when the earth beneath him opened. “Oh, Heaven!” he cried, “I sink, I sink, I sink!”

The next morning the gaoler entered the cell. The prisoner stirred not, nor answered to his call. He took his hand,—it struck a chill to his heart,—he held the lamp over him,—he was dead!

One person only ever knew the cause of his death, and that very day he heard of it. “It were better so, as he had failed in his purpose,” he muttered. “He knew too many secrets of our order to be trusted. Had he been tortured, as he most assuredly would have been, he might have betrayed them. Requiescat in pace!”

The master never again thought of the pupil till he lay on his own death-bed, with his flesh lacerated and his limbs broken by the wheel; but he felt not those pains; there was another far more acute within; conscience had re-asserted its sway, he remembered him he had betrayed, and how he had died. (Note).

Note. The Father Jacinto was soon afterwards imprisoned and tortured. He died in confinement from the effects of his treatment, say the Jesuits.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

It was the middle of winter, but, notwithstanding the season of the year, the sun shone brightly forth, shedding a genial warmth upon the beggars and dogs who were basking beneath it in the streets of Lisbon. The former were stationed at the posts they had each appropriated, exhibiting every species of loathsome deformity, and imploring the charity of the passers-by in the name of Heaven, warning them of the opportunity afforded of bestowing alms for the benefit of their souls. The dogs were enjoying their time of rest, every now and then uttering a growl of defiance if any stranger encroached on their districts. The Galician water-carriers were filling their barrels at the fountains, laughing and joking among themselves, strangers as they were in the land, happy by nature, and independent of all the plots and conspiracies which agitated the natives. Some women were washing at the tanks, and striking the linen to rags against the stones, while they gaily sang in chorus; while others, sitting at the corners of the streets, were employed in roasting chestnuts in little earthen stoves, and calling on the passers to buy. Fishermen were selling the produce of their nets, or wild-fowl; country-women their poultry. Now a citizen might be seen closely muffled up in his large cloak, more to hide the dress beneath than to keep out the cold; then a gentleman would hasten along in his bag-wig, and sword by his side, long flowered waistcoat, and deep waisted coat, politely returning the salutations of all who bowed; indeed, all the world was abroad, a few in carriages or on horseback, but mostly on foot: it was not yet dinner time.

Among the pedestrians was our old friend Antonio, the cobbler, who had long since given up his former occupation, and by many was supposed to live completely on his wits—not a bad compliment to them, however. His keen eye, as he walked along, observed all that was taking place around him. He saw a beggar walk merrily to his post, kicking a dog out of his way, and then ask alms in the character of a confirmed cripple. He laughed—he was fond of laughing, somewhat bitterly oftentimes.

“There are a good many knaves in the world,” he muttered, “of all classes, from the lordly traitor, who would barter his country’s honour and safety for gold to supply his extravagance, to this loathsome wretch in rags and tatters.”

He next observed a boy stealing a coin from a blind man’s hat placed before him, when the seeming blind man, dealing a heavy blow, struck the youthful vagabond to the ground.

“Ay, we can see sharply enough when our own interests are attacked, and fight hard to defend them,” said the Cobbler, as he walked on. “That young rogue has learned a useful lesson, he will make sure that a man is blind before he tries to pilfer his property.”

Antonio passed through several streets, till he came to an open place. There a crowd was collected round a man perched on a high stool, who was selling nostrums, and making the people laugh by his wit and jokes: a real object of pity lay at a doorway, half dead with starvation and disease. A rich man passed by, looking coldly on the wretched beggar, turning aside, and refused his earnest appeal for a copper to relieve his hunger; but when he came within hearing of the quack, he stopped to listen; when the latter, uttering one of his best jokes, and paying him a well-timed compliment, he threw the knave a crown, and, laughing, passed on.

“Such is the way of the world,” thought the Cobbler. “The impudent charlatan succeeds and grows rich, while the honest and humble poor man is left to starve. The foolish rogues are soon hung; ’tis the cunning ones who live and thrive. Bah! it makes me sick to think of it. What fools men are! they will often confide in a plausible knave, when blunt honesty is kicked out of doors.”

The Cobbler saw much more in his walk, on which he made his observations. He did not seem to have a very good opinion of the world he lived in. Whether he thought worse of people than they deserved we cannot pretend to say.

He now left the city behind, and, passing through the suburbs of Belem, directed his course to the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He came under a garden-wall, in which was a window, and out of the window a pair of sparkling black eyes were gazing. He kissed his own hand, for he could not reach that of the lady, and she kissed hers in return; so he went and stood as near her as he could get.

“Oh! my pretty Margarida, how I love you!” he began. At which words, the eyes sparkled even more brightly than before. “I have many wishes, and the first is, that I was on the other side of the wall.”

“Hush! senhor, you must not say that; at least, not so loudly,” softly murmured Margarida; “some one will hear you, for people are passing constantly this way; but the window is not so very high from the ground.”

“Ah, dear one! I could leap up in a moment, if you do not run away,” said the gallant Cobbler.

“Oh! no, no, senhor! some one would see you to a certainty, while it is light,” answered the coy Senhora Margarida.

“I have many things to say to you, pretty one. When will you like to hear them?” asked Antonio.

“Cannot you say them now, senhor?”

“Some one will hear me, you know. Wait till the evening, and then nobody will see me jump in at the window. Remember to leave it open.”

“I will forget to shut it,” innocently answered Margarida. “But tell me, senhor, are you really a fidalgo?”

“I will tell you all about it, with my other secrets, when I come at night. Remember to forget to shut the window; and do not forget to come yourself, Adeos for the present, my pretty charmer! I see some one coming.” And Antonio walked away, humming a tune, while the pair of black eyes disappeared from the garden window.

If the Portuguese are fonder of one employment than of another, it is looking out of window; they all do it, from the highest to the lowest. There is so little mental or bodily exertion required for it; and there is always something moving in the streets, either men, dogs, or rats. Even watching a pig will afford amusement; and anything is preferable to reading, working, or thinking; therefore they always have looked out of windows, and always will, till their taste improves. Antonio proceeded on till he came to the side of the river, where he sat himself down on the bank, to wait till the evening, and to meditate. He thought a great deal, light-hearted and merry as he seemed, often very gravely, sometimes fiercely, as he remembered the foul wrongs and insults the race to which he belonged had for centuries endured, and for which treatment their cruel tyrants had sought every excuse which cunning hypocrisy, or the fiercest bigotry, could invent, claiming ever the authority of God for their cursed deeds. “Miscreants!” he muttered, “where in the Christian’s gospel can they find permission for the rapine, murders, and cruelties, with which their souls have been stained since the triumph of their faith? Fools! who practise not what they preach, and yet expect to be believed.” He would then think on for some time, and, giving a deep-drawn sigh, would conclude with the oft-repeated apophthegm, “What cannot be cured must be endured;” he then, growing calmer, would turn to other subjects. “Yet,” he continued, soliloquising, “it is a hard office to bide this life of concealment, of deceit, and treachery; but it must be endured till my object is accomplished. The time draws near, happily, when my toils may be at an end; and then, if faith can be placed in the word of man, I shall reap the rich reward of all. Can I confide in him? Yes, ’tis his interest to fulfil his promise. There is one thing troubles me more than all the rest; how some men would laugh to hear me, if I confessed it! My pretty Margarida! Now that girl is fully persuaded I love her to desperation; and, assuredly, I have done my utmost to make her believe so, to learn, through her, the secrets of the Tavora family. They little think how closely the meshes of the net are drawn around them, to enclose them ere long, and drag them to shore, as yonder fishermen are now doing with their prey.” As he thought this, he was watching a party of fishermen hauling in their seine. “I must try and make amends to Margarida, poor girl! I feel an interest in her. I did not think she would so soon learn to love me. I was not born to be that cursed wretch who would win a maiden’s affections for the base, cowardly satisfaction of tampering with them, and then deserting her. I leave such work to the wealthy and high-born. May they reap their reward!”

The sun was now setting over the mouth of the Tagus, casting a broad, glowing line of fire upon the smooth bosom of the stream, and tinging the tower of Belem, the gothic spires of the church, and the hills beyond, with its ruddy hue. Antonio rose, for he calculated that it would be dark by the time he reached the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He met but few people on the way, nor were any near when, without much difficulty, he clambered in at the window in the garden-wall, which Margarida had, according to her promise, left unbolted.

It was now as dark as it was likely to be in a star-light night. Antonio carefully shut to the window, and looked around, but Margarida was nowhere to be seen. He softly called her name, but she did not answer. He then observed a building, which appeared to be a summer-house, at the end of a walk. “Ah! she will probably go there to look for me; and if any one by chance comes into the garden, I shall not be exposed to view as I am here.” He accordingly advanced towards it, but when he arrived there, he found the door closed. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He just then heard a step at a distance. He listened attentively; it was too heavy for the elastic little feet of his mistress. It approached nearer, and in the direction of the spot where he stood. “I must find some place to hide in, or I shall be caught,” he muttered.

At the back of the summer-house there were some shrubs growing closely together, a window overlooking them, which spot Antonio, as he looked about, selected to conceal himself till the person who was coming near had retired. He shrunk down on the ground, under the walls of the building; and he had scarcely done so, when a person, applying the key to the door, entered. Striking a light, the man lit a lamp on the table, in the centre of the apartment, which, from the noise he made, he appeared to be placing in order. After having performed this office, he again opened the door, when, at that instant, Antonio heard a light step coming along the path, and which he fancied he could recognise as Margarida’s. Of this he was soon convinced, by hearing a voice, which he knew to be hers, exclaim—

“Oh! Senhor Ferreira, is that you? You quite frighten me! What are you doing?”

“Let me rather ask you what you are doing here at this hour of the evening, Senhora Margarida,” was the answer.

“I came out to pick some flowers for my mistress, which I forgot to do in the day-time, so, if you are gallant, you will come and assist me,” said Senhora Margarida.

“An odd time, to pick flowers in the dark,” answered the man-servant; “but I cannot assist you now; I must return to the house.”

“Many thanks for your gallantry, Senhor Ferreira,” she responded, as he turned away; “I dare say I shall find enough myself;” and she stooped over the flower-beds, as if in search of flowers.

Antonio guardedly peeped out of his concealment, and seeing his mistress alone, “Hist, Margarida, hist!” he whispered. “Come beneath the shade of the summer-house; that prying servant will be less likely to observe us.”

“Oh, Senhor Antonio, I am so glad to have found you, for when I passed by I found the window closed, and I was afraid you might not have got in,” said Margarida.

They sat themselves down on a stone bench placed against the side of the building. Antonio, while declaring his affection for the young lady, some of which he had really begun to feel, at the same time managed to draw from her various pieces of information he was anxious to gain. A few minutes had thus passed rapidly away, when the sound of approaching footsteps was again heard.

“For the love of Heaven, conceal yourself,” exclaimed Margarida, jumping up and seizing a bunch of flowers, with which she had wisely provided herself previously to coming into the garden. “They will see you, if you attempt to reach the window. Down behind the summer-house. ’Tis the young Marquis and some visitors. I must away.” And she tripped along the walk towards the house. “Who goes there?” exclaimed a stern voice, as she passed the party by a different though parallel pathway.

“I have been gathering flowers, Senhor Duque—see, here they are,” answered Margarida, quickly.

“Gathering flowers at this time of night, indeed! Say rather, looking for a lover, senhora,” exclaimed the voice; “think you we can distinguish them in this light? Go, Manoel, and watch her safely into the house—we must have no prying eyes and listening ears to what we are about.”

Manoel being despatched to follow Margarida until he saw her out of their way, the party advanced and entered the summer-house, where, fresh lamps being lit, they took their seats round the table which the servant had arranged.

Antonio, in the mean time, unable to escape, was obliged to resume his position among the bushes, expecting every instant that the party would search round the building, and feeling confident from what he had learnt from Margarida of their proceedings, that he should fall an instant sacrifice to their fears. He was somewhat relieved when he heard their feet on the floor of the summer-house, and their voices speaking in tones which showed that they had no suspicion of the presence of a spy upon their actions.

After waiting some time, the persons within the summer-house having become highly excited in their discussion, whatever it was, Antonio thought he might venture to move his position, so as to gain a view of what was going forward. The shutters of the window, which looked over the shrubbery in which he was concealed, were left partially open, so that by carefully lifting his head among the branches of the evergreens, he was able to see clearly into the room without incurring any risk of being himself observed.

At one end of the table, sat, or rather now stood, the Duke of Aveiro, who was, with vehement gestures, addressing the party: on each side were various members and connexions of the Tavora family, among them being the young Marquis and his brother, the Conde d’Atouquia, the old Marchioness, and the Jesuit Malagrida.

“Ah! ah! thou old hypocrite,” muttered Antonio, as he observed the last-mentioned personage. “Wherever thou art there is sure to be mischief brewing; but I have thee now, if I mistake not;” and, like an Indian warrior approaching his foes, he crept close to the window, placing himself behind the shutter, so that, although he could hear more clearly, he was less able to distinguish what was taking place, till he discovered a broad chink, and, by putting his eye to it, he had complete command of the greater part of the room.

“The very persons who met at the Jesuit’s vault down the river,” he thought to himself, “when they all fancied themselves so secure and unobserved; as did yon mad priest deem himself hidden from the searching eye of the Minister: yet, forsooth, he made a capital bait to catch others. Ah! I am glad to find my young friend the Conde d’Almeida is not among them, and he has certainly not fled the country, for I saw him this very morning.”

We do not intend to give the whole particulars of the conversation which Antonio overheard; suffice it to say, that he heard enough to prove that a dangerous and powerful conspiracy existed to overthrow the power of the Minister; and more, that one had existed to destroy the sovereign, fomented and encouraged by some of those now present, if indeed the actual would-have-been assassins were not among them. Antonio noted well every word they uttered, every gesture they made, words sufficient to bring the speakers, as they themselves well knew, to the scaffold, had they deemed that an ear was listening to them; but, infatuated as they were, they triumphed in fancied security, calling on Heaven to aid them in their wickedness. Now some were seen to draw their swords, and to kiss the blades, as they ratified some dreadful oath; others grasped their fire-arms, and vowed to use them to better effect than before; when Malagrida stood up and blessed the assembled conspirators and their cause.

Some movement now taking place among them, Antonio, fearful lest his face might be perceived through the casement, stole back to his leafy shelter; and fortunate was it for him that he did so, for some one, perceiving that the shutter was unclosed, sent Manoel round to fasten it. Antonio held his breath, hiding his face beneath his cloak, for the man’s feet almost touched his as he passed; and had not the eyes of the latter been dazzled by the light within, he could not have avoided perceiving him; as it was, the man performed his orders, and quickly returned to hear what his superiors were saying. Suddenly the lights were extinguished, and Antonio heard the party hurrying from the building towards the house. He waited some further time, with eager anxiety to bear the important information, for which he had so long toiled, to his employer, till the sound of voices and footsteps had died away. He listened attentively—not a sound was heard. He started from his lair towards the garden window, which afforded the easiest means of escape; for, if found in the grounds after what had occurred, he well knew he must expect nothing short of death from the conspirators. As he gained the front of the summer-house, what was his horror to perceive two men standing beneath the porch before it, so earnestly engaged in a whispered conversation, that they did not perceive him! He stepped back cautiously a couple of paces, so as to be out of their sight, but was afraid to retreat further, lest he might attract their notice. The movement was not, however, entirely unremarked.

“Did you not hear a noise, Senhor Policarpio?” said one of the persons.

“Stay! listen, Manoel. I hear nothing. Oh, it was but the wind rustling the leaves,” answered Senhor Policarpio, and they continued the subject of their discussion, but in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish what they said.

Antonio waited, intending to dodge round to the back of the summer-house as soon as Policarpio and his companion moved, when the sound of their footsteps would conceal his own. He wished they would hasten, for he longed to be off, to give the information he had gained; but minute after minute passed by, and still they continued in the same place. His impatience prompted him to make a bold push for the window, but his prudence withheld him. At last they moved away, taking the walk leading past the window, and he slid behind the summer-house; but what was his vexation to hear them stop at the only outlet for escape that he was aware of, one of the men exclaiming, “Curses on this window, ’tis the second time it has blown open to-night; I will secure the bolts well this time;” then followed a noise as if the bolts were driven down by a stone.

The footsteps of the men receding, he again advanced from his hiding-place, and, seeing no one, hurried to the window. It was securely closed. He tried to force up the bolts, but they resisted his efforts. He then groped about for the stone which had served the purpose of a hammer to the others, and, after some time, having discovered it, he attempted to drive up the bolts. He knocked away till one only remained to set him at liberty, when suddenly a gleam of light fell on the shutter before him, and, turning his head, to his dismay, he beheld the two persons who he thought had entered the house hurrying towards him. Not a moment was to be lost, if he would escape with his life. He knocked away at the bolt, but it had been driven deep down.

“Death to the cursed spy!” shouted the voice of Senhor Policarpio, as he rushed forward, with his sword gleaming in his hand. The threat did not the less cause Antonio to endeavour to loosen the obstinate bolt. The point of the sword was within a few paces of him, when the bolt gave way. He threw open the shutter, and leaped on the window-sill. Policarpio made a thrust with his rapier at him; but, jumping fearlessly down, he alighted safely on the ground. Stopping not to see if any followed, and diving among the narrow lanes in the neighbourhood, he was soon safe from pursuit.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

The Prime Minister was seated in the private council chamber of the King, to which we have frequently before introduced our readers. A lamp stood on the table, throwing its light on numerous packets of papers strewed around, and on the sheet on which he was earnestly employed in writing.

Who would, we again ask, seek to occupy such a post as he filled? What can make a man sacrifice his health, his strength, peace, happiness, and safety,—to toil for hours while others sleep,—to bear the abuse of his adversaries, the revilings of the mob, the obstinacy of coadjutors, and the caprices of the Monarch,—but ambition? The ambition of some leads them to noble ends; for others, it wins but the hatred of mankind. It is ambition which excites the warrior to deeds of heroism,—the merchant to gain wealth,—the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, to win fame; and it is ambition which causes us to spend day after day, secluded in our study, employed on this work—the ambition of gaining the approbation of our countrymen.

Carvalho wrote on, unmindful of the lateness of the hour, when he heard a knock at the door, and, ordering the person who knocked to enter, a page appeared, informing him that one waited without who sought an audience on some important matter, which would admit of no delay.

“Let him be admitted,” said the Minister; and before a minute had elapsed, Antonio stood before him. The attendants who had conducted him thither, to guard against treachery, were ordered forthwith to retire.

“What information do you bring me, my friend?” inquired the Minister.

“That which you have long sought, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio.

“Ah! let me hear it without delay,” said Carvalho, eagerly.

“I have learned the whole of the plot against the lives of your Excellency and his Majesty, and discovered many of those engaged in it;” and he gave an exact account of all which had taken place in the summer-house, and the names of the persons assembled there, of which the Minister took notes as he proceeded in his description.

“Now, then, ye haughty nobles, I have ye within my power!” exclaimed Carvalho, exultingly. “Sooner will the vulture abandon his prey than I will allow you to escape my grasp! Friend, you have well won any reward you may please to ask,—the treasury shall supply you—”

“Stay, your Excellency,” interrupted Antonio. “I before said, I serve you not for money. I am, as you well know, of the race of Abraham; but I am not, therefore, of necessity, mercenary. Think you that any gold you can bestow could repay me for all I have endured to serve you,—for the degradation, the toil, the dangers I have undergone,—the deceit, the disguises, the watchfulness I have practised, for many years past, because you assured me you could find no other to do the work you required, in whom you could confide? Think you that it was for gold I abandoned my home and my kindred, to mingle with the most base and vile on earth, to curb their passions, and to guide them according to your will?—that for this I introduced myself into the palaces of the rich and powerful, to learn their secrets, and to act as a spy on their actions? No! your Excellency has known me long, and knows me better. What I ask, you have power to grant. I demand freedom for my people! We have in all things conformed to the customs of those among whom we dwell; to their religion, in every outward observance, which is all you can require; we pay tithes to your priests; we give alms to the poor; our manners, our language, have become the same; we obey the King and the law; and yet have we not been allowed to enjoy the rights of citizenship in the land which we enrich by our industry and our commerce. A mark has been set upon us; and wherever we move, still is the stigma of being New Christians attached to us. I demand, then, as my reward, that you should abolish that invidious distinction, and that, from henceforth, if we conform to the worship of your Church, we may likewise enjoy all the privileges of the other subjects of his Majesty.”

“Your demands, my friend, are somewhat extravagant,” returned the Minister, taken rather by surprise by Antonio’s unexpected harangue; “but I will consult his Majesty on the subject, and be guided by his decision: if unfavourable to your wishes, you must make some other request. You know well that, of myself, I have no power to grant this one.”

“Pardon me, your Excellency, I know well the power, both to will and act, rests with you, and you alone,” answered Antonio, vehemently. “And this is the only reward which I seek, or will receive. If you grant it me not, my labour has indeed been labour in vain.”

Carvalho was secretly pleased with the disinterested, and, more than that, the dauntless spirit of the speaker, so like his own, and perhaps also with the confidence he placed in his power to fulfil his wishes. The measure was, indeed, one he had before contemplated, and which he was anxious to bring about, though he was too good a diplomatist to acknowledge his intentions, or to commit himself by making any definite promise to perform what he might afterwards have reason to wish left undone; he therefore gave Antonio a vague answer to his petition.

“The matter you propose, my good friend, is one of vast importance, which will require mature deliberation before I can give you any hopes favourable to your wishes; but, believe me, I will do my utmost to gain that justice for your people which has so long been denied them: in the mean time, you may perform for me many more important services; for to crush this vile conspiracy at present demands all my attention.”

“I would willingly serve your Excellency and the state yet another year, to gain justice for my people,” answered Antonio. “In your word have I trusted, and in that do I still trust. Has your Excellency any further commands?”

“None, my friend; for this night you may retire. Call here to-morrow morning, and I shall claim your services.”

As the door closed upon Antonio, the Minister, securing most of his papers in the bureau, took in his hand the notes he had made from Antonio’s information, and, late as was the hour, repaired to the chamber of the King.

Joseph was about to retire to his couch when the Minister entered: his cheek was thinner and paler even than usual, from sickness and confinement, though he moved his arms without difficulty, as if perfectly recovered from the wounds he had received. Re-seating himself in a large, high-backed arm-chair, before a table on which his supper had been spread, he desired, in rather a querulous tone, to be informed why business was thus brought before him.

“It is a matter of the utmost importance, which will admit of no delay, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “I have, at length, the strongest evidence of who were the perpetrators of the sacrilegious outrage against your Majesty.”

The King’s tone and manner instantly changed. “Ah! and you can prevent any like attempt for the future, my good friend,” he answered eagerly. “Let me hear the particulars.”

On this the Minister laid before him several papers, with the notes he had taken of Antonio’s account, and a long list of the persons he had cause to suspect; many of whom Antonio had also mentioned. As the King read on, Carvalho leaned over him, making his observations on the different points of the case.

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Joseph, his voice trembling with agitation as his eye glanced down the long list of names. “Here are many of the most powerful and wealthy nobles of my land. It is impossible that they can all be traitors. Some of them I have ever deemed the most loyal and obedient of my subjects.”

“Still greater, therefore, is their treachery, Sire; and greater must be their punishment,” returned Carvalho, firmly.

“But what cause can they have to seek my death?” said the King. “Have they not already all they can desire? Do they not enjoy the highest rank, and fill all the posts of honour I have to give?”

“As their ambition and pride are boundless, they would create yet higher ones,” answered Carvalho. “If your Majesty would again enjoy security and repose, these guilty persons, without distinction of their rank or station, must suffer the penalty of their crimes.”

“Alas! I fear it must be so,” said the King, hesitatingly; “but I had never supposed my nobles could have been guilty of so great a crime. Surely the assassins must have been villains of a lower order. Aveiro, the Tavoras, never could have done the deed.”

“There are strong proofs of their guilt; and on their trial there will yet appear stronger,” answered the Minister. “On my head be their blood, if they be innocent. I must request your Majesty to sign these warrants for their apprehension, and I will issue them when I see a favourable opportunity. We must proceed with caution, for they have a powerful party in their favour. Unless this is done, I cannot, Sire, answer from day to day for the security of your life or crown.”

The King unwillingly took the blank warrants which the Minister had brought, and signing them, returned them to him, as he wrote on each the name of some person from the list before him.

“According to the information I receive, I may have occasion to apprehend some of these criminals before your Majesty rises to-morrow morning; but perhaps it may be advisable to allow some days further to elapse, that any others who are engaged in the conspiracy may further commit themselves,” observed Carvalho, collecting the warrants.

“You have on your list the name of the Marquis of Tavora; but he is not mentioned as having been present at any of the meetings with the others,” said the King.

“But most of his family were, Sire,” returned the Minister. “They must inevitably suffer, as being the most guilty; and he must not be allowed to escape, lest he endeavour to avenge their deaths. He, also, in the eye of the law, is equally criminal, for he might have prevented their guilt; and the safety of the state demands his punishment.”

“Be cautious that none but the guilty suffer,” said the King.

“That shall be my care, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “Your Majesty’s sacred life has been, and will be still, in jeopardy, if their punishment is not severe; but I will make their fate such a lesson to others, that, from thenceforth, treason shall be unknown in the land; and these proud fidalgos shall no longer insult your Majesty with their haughty bearing. Have I, Sire, your full authority to act as I deem requisite on this momentous occasion?”

“You have, you have, my friend,” answered the King. “Your judgment is always right.”

“Then, haughty fidalgos, you are mine own,” muttered the Minister, as he retired from the presence of the King.

The meanest subject in those realms slept more calmly that night than did King Joseph and his Prime Minister.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

The young Count d’Almeida had, since his arrival in Lisbon, been leading a life of complete retirement, at the quiet abode Pedro had selected for him. He had withdrawn himself from the society of the Tavoras, even from that of young Jozé de Tavora, whom he could not entirely forgive for the deceit he had practised on him, in leading him into the meeting of the conspirators on the fatal night of the attempted assassination of the King. He could not banish from his mind the suspicion that some of the persons he had there met were, in some way or other, connected with that diabolical outrage; and he felt assured, from knowing the character of the Minister, that it would not, as people supposed, be overlooked; so that, notwithstanding the apparent tranquillity which reigned in the city, the culprits would, sooner or later, be discovered. Of his own safety, though innocent of any criminal design, he was not at all satisfied; and each day that he rose he felt might be the last without the walls of a prison.

His friend, Captain Pinto, was at sea in the frigate he now commanded; and she was not, it was said, expected in the Tagus for some time.

When he inquired for Senhor Mendez, he was informed that, as soon as his health had been restored, he had sailed for England, nor did any one know when he was likely to return; so that Luis found himself deprived of the advice of the two persons in whom he could most confide. For his cousin, the Father Jacinto, he had long conceived the most complete distrust; and had not, therefore, even informed him of his return to Lisbon, nor did he believe the holy Jesuit was aware of the circumstance.

Our fair readers will naturally inquire if he had forgotten Donna Clara. He would have been unworthy of the pen of an historian if such could have been possible. He loved her as devotedly as before their separation, even though the last glow of hope was almost extinguished in his heart; but the spark still existed, for the fatal vow had not yet been pronounced, which, like death, must tear her from him for ever, and, till then, he would hope on: his love, he felt, could end but in his grave.

After some months of quietude, Lisbon was aroused from a lethargy (into which she was, in those days, rather more apt to fall than at present, when, every six months or so, she undergoes the excitement of a revolution) by the marriage of the eldest daughter of the Prime Minister with the Count Sampayo, to celebrate which important event preparations on a grand scale were made throughout the city. The King, who had not yet appeared in public, would, it was said, give a grand ball at the palace, to which all the first fidalgos were invited; and the foreigners had also issued invitations for a magnificent fête, which they purposed giving on the occasion, at their own ballroom, which might vie with any other in the kingdom.

The fidalgos, unsuspicious of danger, flocked into Lisbon from all parts of the country; some really anxious to pay their respects to their sovereign, and perhaps their court to his Minister; others, from very different motives, afraid of absenting themselves.

The Count d’Almeida had determined, on this occasion, to enter for the first time into society, since the death of his father. Late in the day, he rode out into the country, as was his usual custom; and, after proceeding some distance, he observed a large body of cavalry advancing rapidly towards the city. To avoid them, he turned his horse into a cross road, which led him into another highway, when he found himself in the rear of a regiment of infantry. By making a still larger circuit he hoped to escape the annoyance of having to pass them; but, to his surprise, he again encountered another body of troops.

At last, he determined to return homeward, wondering for what purpose the garrison of Lisbon was thus so suddenly increased; and, as he approached the barriers, he found each avenue to the city strongly guarded; he being allowed to enter, but several persons, who seemed anxious to go out, were detained without receiving any explanation.

We often blame ourselves that ideas should not have occurred to us, when after circumstances have proved the great advantage we might have derived from them; and so Luis had cause to think before he closed his eyes in sleep on that eventful night. He arrived at his solitary home without meeting any one from whom to inquire the cause of the sudden movement of the troops. While dressing for the fête, he inquired of Pedro if he had heard anything on the subject; but the latter, whose mind was full of the magnificence of the preparations, could only inform him that it was reported, a few more military had marched into the city to attend a review which the King was to hold on the following day.

Satisfied with this answer, Luis drove down to the palace, in front of which a large body of guards were drawn up, while carriages in great numbers were thronging to the spot. As he entered the hall of the palace, his eyes were dazzled by the brilliant illumination which met his view from hundreds of lights suspended from the roof, and above the broad staircase in front, glancing on the polished arms of the guards, who filled every part except a narrow passage for the guests between them. A military band, stationed on each side, was playing some loud and martial airs, which drowned the voices of any who attempted to speak. Luis passed on, and had reached the foot of the stairs, when two officers stepped forward.

“The Senhor Conde d’Almeida,” said one, politely bowing.

“The same,” answered Luis.

“You will please step this way, senhor, by the order of the King,” returned the officer, opening a door on one side, through which Luis was obliged to pass, and which was closed directly after them. His attendants then conducted him down a long passage, which appeared truly gloomy after the blaze of light he had quitted, and to his inquiries as to where they were going, they held an ominous silence. He could not but feel alarmed at the extraordinary circumstance, though he had but short time for reflection, before he reached the opposite side of the palace, when his former conductors delivered him into the custody of two others, who seemed prepared to expect him.

“What is the meaning of this, senhores?” he asked.

“You are our prisoner, Senhor Conde, by order of the King,” answered one of his new guards. “Please to accompany us, a carriage awaits you.”

The men placing themselves one on each side of him, so that escape was impossible, led him down a flight of steps to a small door, on the outside of which more soldiers were stationed, and where a coach was in waiting. The soldiers then formed round the coach, keeping all spectators at a distance, while his guards desired him to enter it, seating themselves, with drawn weapons, opposite to him. The coach then drove quickly away, while another appeared to take its place.

“Ah!” thought Luis, “I am, alas! not the only wretch who will this night be deprived of liberty.”

He was anxious to learn of his attendants whither they were conducting him, but the only answer he could draw from them was far from satisfactory.

“Silence, senhor,” said one. “Our orders are to treat you with every respect but, if you attempt to speak, or to cry out for assistance, we are to run our swords into your body.”

After this, he deemed it the more prudent plan to keep silence, lest they might think it necessary to obey their orders to the letter.

As he was driven along through the dark and narrow streets, he knew not whither, without the remotest chance of escape, his meditations were melancholy in the extreme. He could not doubt that he was going to that dismal bourne from which so many travellers never return—a dungeon, or from which, too probably, he might be led forth but to the scaffold. After driving for a considerable distance, he again ventured to ask his destination, but a gruff “Silence, senhor! remember!” was the only answer he received. At length the carriage stopped. He heard the heavy sound of bolts being withdrawn, and chains dropped, when the mules again moved onwards a few paces. He could hear the gates, through which he had passed, again close with a loud grating and clanging noise, which struck a chill to his heart, and he was presently afterwards desired to alight. As he stepped from the vehicle, he looked round him, to endeavour to discover to what place he had been conveyed, and, by the glare of a torch which one of the under-gaolers held, it seemed to him that he was in a small court-yard, surrounded by lofty walls, and in front of a small door thickly studded with iron bolts. His attention was, however, quickly directed to other subjects, by the door opening, and the appearance of a personage who announced himself as the Governor of the prison, and to whom, with the most polite bows, his former attendants now delivered him. He was a small man, habited in a complete costume of black, with a placid expression of countenance, and a mild, conciliating tone of voice, more suited to a physician than the keeper of a prison, it appeared, on the first glance, as many of those unfortunate persons who came under his government supposed; but, on a further acquaintance, a most ominous gleam was observed to shoot from his cold grey eye, when the smile which usually played round his lips would vanish, and a frown, in spite of himself, would gather on his brow, betokening too clearly his real character.

The Governor’s first address was cordial in the extreme, though Luis would willingly have dispensed with his hospitality.

“You are welcome, Senhor d’Almeida, to my abode, and all which it contains is at your service,” he began. “I see you still wear your sword. I beg your pardon, but I must request you to deliver it up to me. None here wear arms but the guards, nor will you need it for your protection. We take very good care of our guests.”

Luis, as he was desired, unbuckled his sword, and, without speaking, delivered it into the hands of the Governor.

“Thank you, Senhor Conde,” continued the latter personage. “It is a pretty weapon, and I will take the greatest care of it for you. I will now, by your leave, conduct you to your apartment. It is rather small, and somewhat damp; but, to say the truth, we have but little room to spare, for we are likely to be crowded soon, and you will have plenty of companions. However, I am of a hospitable disposition, and I like to see my mansion full; yet I know not if you will be able to enjoy much of each other’s society, for our rules are rather severe in that respect.”

While the Governor was thus running on, he was conducting Luis through several arched passages, a man preceding them with a lantern, while four others followed close after, armed with drawn swords, as a slight hint to the prisoner that his only course must be obedience to orders. They then descended a flight of stone steps to regions where, it seemed, the light of day could never penetrate, so damp and chill struck the air they breathed.

“We lodge you on the ground-floor, Senhor Conde,” observed the facetious Governor. “It has its advantages and disadvantages. You will find some amusement in hunting the rats and toads, which are said to be rather numerous, though I confess that, in winter, the climate does not agree with some constitutions—perhaps it may with yours. Oh, here we are.”

Producing a large bunch of keys, he ordered one of the men to unlock a door, before which they stood.

“Enter, Senhor Conde. You will not find many luxuries, and, as for conveniences, I must supply those you require.”

Luis felt it was useless striving against fate, so he unresistingly walked into what was, in truth, a wretched dungeon, with little more than sufficient height to stand upright, and about eight feet square. It contained a pallet, destitute of any bedding, a single chair, and a rough deal table, with a pitcher to hold water. The only means of ventilation was through a narrow aperture, sloping upward, far too small to allow a human body to pass, even had it not been closely barred both inside and out.

“I have other guests to attend on, Senhor Conde, so I must beg you to excuse my rudeness in quitting you so soon,” said the Governor, as one of the under-gaolers lighted a small lamp which stood on the table, while the others withdrew. “I will send you such bedding as I can procure. However, for your consolation, I can assure you that some of your friends will be worse lodged to-night than you are. I wish you farewell, senhor!”

And, before Luis had time to make any answer to these rather doubtful expressions, the polite Governor had disappeared, and, the door being closed, barred, and bolted, he found himself alone, and a state prisoner. We need not describe how he felt. Most people, in a like situation, would have felt the same—deprived of liberty, which, with the greater number of men, next to life, is dearer than all else. To some, life, without it, is valueless, and eagerly do they look forward to the moment when, released from all mortal bonds, their fetterless souls may range through the boundless regions of a happier world, in wondering admiration of the mighty works of their Creator. Such has been the dream of many a hapless prisoner, for many years doomed to pine on in gloom and wretchedness, waiting, in anxious expectation, for the time of his emancipation, which, day after day, has been cruelly deferred, till hope and consciousness have together fled.

As the sound of the falling bolts struck his ear, Luis stood for some minutes gazing at the iron door, like one transfixed. He then took several rapid steps the length of his narrow prison, and, at last, throwing himself on the chair, and drawing his cloak, which he had fortunately retained, around him—for his gala costume was but ill-suited to protect him against the cold and dampness of the season—he gave way to bitter and hopeless thought.

The predictions of the Governor were but too correct. During the greater part of the night, Luis could plainly hear the arrival of carriage after carriage. Then came the sound of many feet, the barring and bolting of doors, the fall of chains, and all the accompanying noises to be expected in a prison. After about an hour, his own door opened, when he observed a guard of soldiers drawn up in front, and two attendants entered, with a mattress and coverlids, which they threw on the bedstead, placing some coarse bread and fish before him on the table; and then, without uttering a syllable, they again withdrew.

In the mean time, the gaieties in the city continued unabated, though all people felt a more than usual degree of restraint on their spirits in the palace. To the great displeasure of many, the King did not make his appearance. Indeed, some suspected he had never intended to do so, though his Minister took upon himself to perform the necessary honours, and, moving among the crowd, he allowed no one of importance to pass without a word or so of compliment. One witty nobleman, indeed, whispered to another,—“If King Joseph is dead, King Sebastian has come to life again!” Before many days were over, he had cause to repent his words. Several persons who were expected by their friends did not make their appearance, though it was affirmed some were even seen on their way thither.

“Where is the Conde d’Atouquia?” asked the young Count Villela. “He owes me two hundred crowns; the dice were unfortunate to him, but I wish to give him his revenge, or I may, perhaps, double the sum.”

“He followed me through the hall of the passage, but I saw no more of him,” was the answer.

It was an admirable device of the Minister’s to prevent a disturbance, had he dreaded one; for all those whom he had reason to suspect were, like Luis, requested to walk on one side, when they were quietly apprehended, and driven off to prison, without any of their friends suspecting what had become of them.

The residences of the various members of the Tavora family were surrounded by troops, so that none could escape. The old Marchioness was one of the first seized. She had retired to her chamber, where her attendants were unrobing her, when a party of men burst into the palace and, without ceremony, entering her room, the chief of the police commanded her to accompany them without delay. Allowing her scarcely time to resume her gown, she was hurried to a carriage in waiting for her, and, without permitting her to communicate with any one, was driven to the Convent of Grillos, at some little distance from Lisbon. This convent was one belonging to the most rigid of all the monastic orders in Portugal; and tales were told of the deeds done within its walls, which make one shudder at their bare recital. It possessed damp and gloomy passages, and subterraneous chambers, into which the light of day never penetrated. The only garment which the hapless recluses wore was one of the coarsest cloth; their food, which they ate off plates of rough earthenware, was vegetables, without salt; and the singing of hymns, and the monotonous service of the Church, was their only employment. In this lugubrious retreat every warm affection of the heart was chilled—the thoughts of all its inmates were sad and mournful; for no one would have willingly entered it, unless impelled by the remorse of conscience, for some heavy crime, in hopes of gaining forgiveness from Heaven, by penance and fasting. The unfortunate Donna Leonora was committed to the charge of the Lady Abbess of this establishment, with strict orders to allow her no possible chance of escape, to ensure which a guard was also stationed outside the building. Here she was left, after being informed that every member of her family was likewise imprisoned.

When the officers sent to apprehend the Marquis arrived at his palace, they found that he had quitted home, and was supposed to be at the house of his sister, the Countess of —, whither they immediately proceeded. He was engaged in conversation with that lady, when a servant entered, with alarm on his countenance, to inform him that some persons were inquiring for him below, who were evidently emissaries of the Minister.

“Oh! do not venture down, then,” exclaimed the Countess. “Conceal yourself here till you can fly elsewhere for safety; for, depend on it, the Minister contemplates some injury to you.”

“I feel myself guiltless of any crime against the state, and fear not his malice,” replied the Marquis. “I will see what the persons require, and return to you directly.”

“Oh, in mercy, do not go, my brother,” reiterated the Countess, endeavouring to detain him. “I have lately had sad forebodings that some danger was impending over you, and now, alas! they are about to be fulfilled.”

The Marquis having with difficulty, for the moment, calmed his sister’s fears, proceeded down stairs, when, no sooner had he reached the hall, than he was surrounded by armed men, the leader of whom peremptorily demanded his sword.

“I shall give that to no one but my sovereign, to whom I shall this instant go, to learn the cause of this insolent outrage,” answered the Marquis, endeavouring to pass on. “Let my carriage be brought to the door this instant.”

“My orders are peremptory,” returned the officer. “I must conduct you forthwith to prison.”

“To prison!” said the Marquis, starting, “of what crime am I accused?”

“Of high treason,” answered the officer. “Thus much I am permitted to inform you; the other members of your family are already in custody, and I am ordered to conduct your Excellency to the same prison—this is my warrant;” and he presented a paper, which the Marquis took, glancing his eye over it.

“I see it possesses his Majesty’s signature, and that I never disobey,” he answered. “Do your duty, senhor; I am ready to accompany you; but I should first wish to change my dress at my own palace.”

“I have no power to permit it: your Excellency must repair forthwith to the prison.”

The Marquis, without deigning further reply, stepped at once into his carriage, which, surrounded by a body of cavalry, drove quickly away. It stopped at length before a building lately repaired by orders of the Minister,—no one had been able to understand for what purpose; where, before the earthquake, wild beasts had been confined, as objects of curiosity; but at the time of that event it had been thought necessary to destroy them, for fear of their getting loose. He was here unceremoniously ordered to alight, and conducted, between guards, into the interior, where a person who acted as governor of the new prison—a creature of the Minister—led the way, without speaking, to a cell, the last occupant of which had been an untamed lion. It contained no other furniture than such as had served the wild beast of the forest, a bundle of straw scattered on one side forming the only couch. Into this place the unhappy nobleman was thrust, the door was closed upon him, and he was left to ruminate on the cause of his apprehension, and the probable fate he might expect, judging from the barbarous treatment he now experienced.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Our history carries us once more to the country-house of the Duke of Aveiro at Azeitaö, where the noble owner had arrived the morning after the family meeting at the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora, of which Antonio had so unexpectedly become a witness. The Duke, who was supposed to be still in the country at that time, had secretly visited Lisbon for the occasion, where he had now left his confidant, Senhor Policarpio, to watch the progress of events, and to give him timely notice of what was taking place. So confident was he of the success of their plans, and of the Minister’s entire want of suspicion that he was in any way connected with the attempt on the life of the King, that he would listen to none of the warnings which some of his more sagacious friends had lately sent him. One contained but the following lines:—“Beware of the tiger and the lion!—if, perchance, you fall into their den, they will devour you.” Another letter was rather more explicit:—“I fear that our meeting will be rather more numerous than it ought to be. A secret is out when many people know it, and on these occasions a man requires three heads under his cap.”

These letters arrived by the post, and had the infatuated Duke examined them well, he would have discovered that the seals had been previously broken. After reading them, he threw them aside, with an exclamation of disdain. “My worthy friend truly seems to have a mighty fear of this Sebastiaö Jozé; but we will soon show him which is the tiger to be dreaded,” he observed.

The very day previous to the apprehension of the Marquis of Tavora and his family, the Duke received notice from a friend that a vessel was prepared, and would sail that evening, recommending him to escape in time from the storm which was then brewing; but, with the most extraordinary infatuation, he refused to take advantage of the offer, declaring his conviction that no injury could possibly be done him. His Duchess, in whom he had not ventured to confide, and who had long suffered from dreadful suspicions that he was implicated in the conspiracy, in vain also urged him to fly the country.

“What! fair lady, and quit these realms which may soon be my own?” he answered. “No!—I put more confidence in the prophecies of the holy Father Malagrida than to do so—his promises will not fail me.”

His friend set sail without him, and escaped. We shall see how far Malagrida’s words were made good. Yet, reader, condemn not the mad Jesuit alone; there are many of his class, in the present day, who would equally lead their deluded followers to destruction, did they not, fortunately for themselves, live in happier times, and under a more enlightened government, without having their own wisdom, we suspect, to thank for their safety.

The Duke had just risen, and was seated, in his morning-gown, in the room he usually inhabited, when his son, the young Marquis of Gouvea, entered, with a gun in his hand, equipped for a shooting expedition. The youth was in high spirits at the thoughts of his day’s sport; and the father, with his many faults, was proud of his noble boy, and blessed him as he parted from him.

Scarcely had the young Marquis quitted the house, when Senhor Policarpio, with disordered dress, and covered with dust, rushed into the presence of his master. “Fly, my lord!” he exclaimed,—“we are betrayed, and all is discovered! There is not a moment to lose: the Marquis of Tavora and all his family were apprehended last night, and the moment I heard of it I hurried off here to warn you of your danger.”

“Whither can I fly?” exclaimed the Duke. “It is useless; besides, no one will dare to injure me. Even that bold plebeian, Sebastiaö Jozé, would not venture so far.”

“Pardon me, your Excellency, then,” answered Policarpio; “I feel very certain that he will venture to hang me, if he can catch me, so I must take care of my own life.” And, without waiting to hear anything his master might wish to say further, he hurried from the apartment.

His first care was to go to his own room, and to collect in a bag all the money he had hoarded up. He then threw off the garments he wore, and dressed himself in some ragged ones, which he had brought under his cloak. The latter garment served to conceal his new costume, as, seizing his bag of coin, he hastened from the house, unnoticed by any one. He took the least frequented way across the estate, stopping every now and then to listen and to look around, lest any guards might be approaching. He then, after quitting his master’s property, hurried across the country, and halted not for many miles, till he arrived in the centre of a pine-forest, through which ran a clear and tranquil brook. Having looked carefully around, he sat himself down on the bank, and, drawing a knife from his pocket, he deliberately cut off every particle of his hair, throwing it, as he did so, into the water. His next operation was to scratch the entire surface of his face and neck, and the greater part of his legs and hands, with his knife, rubbing them over at the same time with an ointment he had provided. With this application the skin became swollen and discoloured to a frightful degree, so that, after a few minutes had passed, it would have been utterly impossible, even for the most intimate acquaintance, to have recognised him. He next tore and dirtied still more the garments he wore, and, cutting a rough staff from a branch of a fallen tree, he left the spot with the exact appearance of a loathsome and wandering beggar. For many years was that wretched figure seen roaming from spot to spot, expecting every instant to be recognised, daring to confide in no one, without a friend in the world, conscience-stricken and miserable, yet clinging to life—no one suspecting that beneath those rags was hidden the atrocious criminal, Joseph Policarpio.

We must now return to the Duke of Aveiro. For some time he would not believe the account Policarpio had given him; but sat waiting, every instant expecting his return, to give him further information, when his servant, Manoel Ferreira (who, at the particular desire of Policarpio, had, for obvious reasons, transferred his services from the Marquis to him), rushed into the room with the information, that an officer of justice, and a considerable body of armed men, were approaching the house.

He now, for the first time, showed some symptoms of comprehending his danger; and, when his Duchess, entering the apartment, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to fly, he no longer hesitated to comply with her urgent prayer. He hastened to the window, which commanded a view of the entrance to the grounds, and there, at a few paces off only, he beheld a body of cavalry, advancing rapidly up the avenue. He stood for a moment, irresolute what course to pursue.

“Come, my lord, we must not stay here to be taken like rats in a trap,” exclaimed Manoel, whose impatience had become excessive. “We have yet time to escape into the woods, where we may remain concealed till we learn the worst that is likely to happen to us.”

“Oh! follow Manoel’s advice,” added the Duchess. “I will stay, and endeavour to delay the police.”

“Close every door and window in the house,” she cried to the other servants, who crowded in to learn what was the matter. “Haste, haste! not a moment is to be lost—your master’s life depends on your alacrity. We may hold out for some time, before they suspect we are deceiving them.”

While the servants hurried off to obey her orders, she took her husband’s hand, and led him to a small door, at the back of the building, whence he might escape across a field, into the woods which surrounded the Quinta. She here resigned him to Manoel; for so completely had terror now mastered him, that he seemed incapable of guiding his own steps, while she retired to an upper window to watch his progress.

The Duchess gazed anxiously from the window. She saw her husband pass through the garden, without being observed; and he had already crossed more than half way the field which separated it from the wood, when the tramp of horses sounded in the paved court, in front of the building. No one yet followed him. A loud knocking was now heard at the hall-door, and a voice, in an authoritative tone, demanded admittance in the King’s name. She longed to watch, until he was in comparative safety; yet she feared, lest the servants, becoming alarmed, might open the door to his pursuers, when his capture must be inevitable; for, exposed to view, as he now was, from every upper window at the back of the house, they could scarcely avoid seeing him, as they hurried through the rooms in search of him. Casting a last glance in the direction he was pursuing, she hastened down stairs, where she found most of the servants collected in the hall, consulting as to the prudence of admitting the emissaries of justice. The blows on the door were repeated with greater violence; the old major-domo, trembling with alarm, had his hand on a bolt, about to withdraw it.

“Would you murder your master?” she exclaimed, seizing the old man’s arm. “If you are men, protect him to the last; I will be answerable to these people for all that may happen.”

With prayers and commands, she then persuaded the domestics to retire to the upper part of the house, whither she followed them; and, throwing open a window, she inquired, in a calm voice, the object of the visit of the military.

“We come to demand the body of Don Jozé de Mascarenhas, Duke of Aveiro,” answered the Desembargador, the officer of justice, who had charge of the party. “If he does not forthwith deliver himself up to our lawful authority, we shall instantly proceed to force open the door.”

“Let me first see the warrant for his apprehension, and I will then obey your commands, if I find you speak the truth,” returned the Duchess, anxious by any excuse to gain time.

“That cannot be,” answered the officer. “Either at once open the door, or we must find some other means to make an entrance.”

“Do so at your peril,” said the Duchess, firmly. “The Duke does not feel disposed to allow any stranger to enter his house; but, if you will wait, I will go and consult his wishes with regard to our proceedings;” and, closing the window, she hurried away to the back of the house, leaving her enemies under the belief that the Duke was still within.

The servants were running backwards and forwards, wringing their hands, and sobbing with alarm, as they entreated her to allow them to throw open the door. Again insisting on their obeying her orders, she looked forth towards the wood.

“Oh! Heaven protect him!” she exclaimed, as she saw the Duke and his attendant, still at some short distance from the wood. “In two minutes more he will be hidden from their view.”

Scarcely had the Duchess uttered these words, when again the loud blows on the door resounded through the house. Again they were repeated; a crashing noise, as of wood rent asunder, was heard. The women shrieked, and fled in all directions to hide themselves, followed by the men-servants, except a page of the Duke’s, who, seizing a sword, seemed determined to defend his mistress from insult. The door was thrown down, the tramp of feet echoed through the hall, heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, but the Duchess heeded them not; her gaze was fixed on her lord. A few paces more and the trees would have concealed him, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and several men rushed in. She could endure no longer, and uttering a cry of despair, she sank, fainting, on the ground. The page in vain attempted to prevent the soldiers from approaching the window; he was soon disarmed and bound, when, at that moment, the officer of justice entering, his keen eye caught sight of the persons of the fugitives in the distance. He at once guessing who they were, and the reason of the Duchess’s refusal to admit the party, despatched some of his followers in pursuit.

The Duke’s courage had revived on finding that no one followed, and he was congratulating himself on his chance of escape, when, as he and Manoel had just entered the wood, the latter, turning a glance towards the house, beheld, to his dismay, several persons emerging from the garden.

“On, on, my lord! we are pursued!” he exclaimed.

“Then all is lost!” cried the Duke, abandoning himself to despair.

“Not so, your Excellency. By plunging deeper into the wood, we may find some spot where, throwing ourselves on the ground, we may remain concealed till the soldiers have passed by,” the servant answered.

The Duke caught at the idea as a drowning man will at a straw; and, his courage once more reviving, they ran forward among the trees, completely screened from the view of those who were on the other side of the field. They ran for life and liberty, straining every nerve, and exerting every faculty, to escape, while their pursuers were urged on in the chase by the hopes of the reward they expected to receive, and the excitement of hunting a fellow-creature. We leave the case to moral philosophers to determine which have the most powerful incentive, the hunted, or the blood-hounds thirsting for their blood; though we should be inclined to award it to the latter. The first can but, at the worst, be captured and slain, while the hunters may gloat over their prey, and talk in after times of the deeds they have done.

The Duke and his servant now reached a deep dell, to cross which was absolutely necessary; yet, on mounting on the opposite side, they must be exposed to observation.

“We are lost!” cried the Duke again.

“No, no, your Excellency,” returned Manoel. “Quick! quick! it may prove our salvation. See those piles of wood heaped up at the bottom, which the wood-cutters have left, we may crawl beneath some of them, and the soldiers will, probably, in their haste, not think of stopping to search for us.”

This being the only feasible plan, they hurried down the bank towards the piles of wood. They could hear the shouts of their pursuers, just entering the forest, as they reached their place of refuge. A quantity of branches and brushwood had been cut down, and lay scattered about. These they hastily collected together against the piles of newly-cut wood, when, an instant before the foremost pursuer had reached the summit of the bank, they crept beneath the heap. Onward came the hunters in full cry. They rushed down the glen.

“He has gained the opposite bank,” cried one.

“Yes, I just now caught sight of his dress among the trees,” shouted another.

“Hurra for the reward of the lucky one who captures him!” echoed several.

“Courage, comrades! Onward, on!”

The Duke trembled with alarm, as these sounds reached his ear. The tramp of feet was heard hurrying close by the place of their concealment—they passed—they mounted the bank,—their voices grew less distinct, and at greater distances from each other, as if they had extended their line. Gradually the noises altogether ceased, and the Duke and his companion breathed more freely. Manoel ventured to look out, and, as far as he could see, no one appeared.

“What shall we now do, my good Manoel?” asked his master.

“We must remain quietly here till the night,” was the answer; “we may then with some degree of safety be able to reach the interior of the country before the morning breaks; but never must we allow ourselves to be discovered by daylight on the road.”

“This is a very uneasy posture I am in,” observed the Duke.

“It is better than your Excellency would enjoy on the scaffold,” pithily answered the servant; and the master made no further complaints. “Hark! what sound is that? Footsteps approach—silence, for our lives!” whispered Manoel.

When the Desembargador had despatched the soldiers in pursuit of the fugitives, he had also ordered the Notary, Senhor de Leiro, to accompany them, an office that respectable personage was not very well qualified to perform, seeing that, although his fingers, from constant practice, were active and pliant, his legs, as for many years they had never moved faster than a sedate walk, were very far from being so. He had also read that the van of an advancing army was a far more dangerous post than the rear; and, as it was said that the terrible Duke had fired at the King, he felt that he would make very little ceremony in shooting him outright; he therefore allowed the fighting party to precede him, while he advanced in a more dignified way in the same direction. By the time, however, that he reached the side of the dell, the soldiers had already run completely out of sight. He sighed as he thought of the toil before him; but his duty peremptorily called on him to proceed; or it might have been that he dreaded the loss of his situation if he neglected it; so he managed to reach the bottom of the glen, and to scramble again up the opposite side. Here, however, fatigue overpowered him, and he was obliged to seat himself down on the bank to rest. While there, hoping that the soldiers would quickly return with the prisoners, and thus save him further exertion, and, bemoaning his hard fate, he observed a heap of dried boughs at the bottom of the glen begin to move, and a man’s head protrude beyond it.

“Ah!” he thought, “that head belongs to one of the criminals, to a certainty. Now, if I were a strong man, I would capture him myself; but as I am not, I had better not attempt it, for he may think fit to give me a quietus instead.”

The Notary having come to this judicious resolution, kept a vigilant watch on the heap of branches, in the hopes that some one would pass that way to afford him assistance in capturing the prey; nor had he long to wait before chance led a farmer and his servant to cross the wood at no great distance from where he sat. On his beckoning to them, they immediately came up to him; when, in a few words, he explained that he was on the watch for an atrocious criminal, and promised them a reward if they would assist in capturing him. They immediately assented, when they all three set forward towards the spot where the wretched Duke was concealed.

“Seize the traitor, alive or dead!” exclaimed Senhor de Leiro, in a loud voice, as he pointed to the underwood.

On hearing these words, Manoel, finding further concealment was hopeless, sprang up, determined to make one struggle for life, the Duke following his example, with the intention of flying. The appearance of two desperate men somewhat staggered the valour of the Notary, particularly when Manoel, rushing towards him, seized the sword from his side, and would have run him through with his own weapon, when a cry from the Duke drew off his attention for the moment. On turning round, he beheld his master dragged away by the farmer and his servant.

“Release him, villains!” he cried; “he is the Duke of Aveiro!”

“We know that well enough,” answered the farmer. “He shot at our gracious King!”

Manoel was about to avenge his master, or endeavour to release him, when the shouts of the soldiers, returning through the wood, struck his ear. He now saw that all further attempts to save the Duke would be hopeless; so, abandoning him to his fate, he rushed past the Notary, who tried to impede him, and sought his own safety in flight. He was still in sight when the soldiers appeared on the top of the bank, and the Notary, pointing in the direction of the fugitive, some set off in pursuit, while others hastened forward to secure the greater prize.

The unfortunate Duke was dragged back to his mansion, and, without being allowed even to alter his dress, or to see his Duchess, he was hurried into a carriage, waiting ready in the court-yard to receive him. Just as he was driven off, he saw his young son brought in, vainly struggling in the grasp of the rude soldiers who held him.

No sooner had the Duke disappeared, than the Duchess was led down stairs, and desired to enter her own carriage, which was now brought round to the door. Almost fainting with grief and terror—for she had beheld her husband a prisoner, and her fears pictured his too probable fate—she requested that her son might accompany her; but this was peremptorily refused. She then entreated that she might be allowed to see him.

“Such cannot be, madam,” answered the Desembargador. “My orders are explicit to allow no communication between the prisoners. Your destination is the Convent of the Grillos; the young Marquis must accompany me.” Without waiting to hear the answer of the unhappy lady, he ordered the driver to proceed.

A third carriage was in attendance to convey the young Marquis to the prison intended for him. He was now brought out of the house in the custody of some soldiers. The news of his parent’s apprehension had come on him like a thunderbolt; but he neither shed a tear, nor uttered a complaint. On being informed that he must quit his home, he insisted on being allowed to prepare for his journey: this was refused him. He then desired to return to his room, to procure some money and necessaries.

“No, senhor,” answered the Desembargador, “you will require no money where you are going, and all necessaries will be supplied you. Come, quick, young sir; I am hurried.”

“You seem to have the power to enforce your commands, so I must obey,” said the young noble, haughtily, as he stepped into the carriage. Looking from the window, to take a last farewell of the house, destined, poor youth, never to be his own, he saw, to his sorrow, the servant Manoel dragged forward bleeding, with his hands bound, and, with his father’s page, thrown into a cart, which had been provided for the occasion. All the other men-servants were, likewise, carried as prisoners to Lisbon, while the officers of the crown took possession of the house.

The Desembargador then took his seat by the side of the young Marquis, and, as they drove towards Lisbon, he endeavoured, by a variety of questions, to gain as much information from him as possible respecting the Duke’s movements; but the son was on his guard, and refused firmly to answer a word. He was then offered his liberty, if he would agree to assume the cowl of a monk.

“No,” he answered, boldly, “I was born to be a noble of Portugal; and never will I consent to become a lazy monk. Lead me to prison: I am innocent, and fear you not.”

“We shall see, young sir, if in a few days you do not change your tone,” said the Desembargador, as the carriage stopped before the gloomy walls of the Jungueira.

“Never!” answered the young Marquis, firmly: nor could the dungeon into which he was thrown, and the barbarous treatment he received, compel him to change his determination.

Much of the above description we have extracted from a manuscript work written by the unfortunate Marquis d’Alorna, who was confined for many years in the Jungueira.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Luis d’Almeida had already spent some time in prison, each successive day expecting to be informed of the cause of his detention, and to be brought to trial; but nothing of the sort occurred. He received, it is true, several visits from the polite and complaisant Governor, who appeared to take great pleasure in his conversation, and who was most liberal in his promises of a more airy and commodious lodging, and of every luxury which he had the power to bestow; but his memory appeared to be very bad, for the prisoner found no improvement in any way in his treatment. It is true that, on the night of his incarceration, he had been supplied with bedding, which the Governor, on his first visit, assured him was procured with considerable difficulty and expense, hinting that his most advisable plan would be to pay for it at once, lest it might be required for some other person, who might possess sufficient means to purchase it. Luis at once paid the exorbitant demand, requesting, at the same time, to be furnished with writing materials, which, though they were at once promised him, never made their appearance. He begged also to be allowed to send to his lodgings for a change of linen and clothes; but this was at once refused, he being informed that his friends must not learn even the place of his imprisonment.

On the first night after his incarceration, when the outer world was hushed in silence, as he lay awake on his wretched pallet, he fancied that he heard suppressed groans, as if proceeding from the ground beneath his cell. He listened attentively, and became certain that his senses had not deceived him. “Alas!” he thought, “can a human being be confined in a yet more wretched abode than I inhabit?” The groans were continued at intervals, and proceeded, apparently, from some unfortunate prisoner suffering from pain and sickness. Day after day they continued, but Luis was left in vain conjecture as to their origin.

One day, at about the usual hour, the Governor, with a complaisant smile on his countenance, made his appearance, and bowing politely to his prisoner, he seated himself on the bed, begging him to occupy the chair near the table.

“You must excuse ceremony, Senhor Conde,” he began; “but though, to say the truth, I am rather hurried, I wished to enjoy the pleasure of a little conversation with you. I fear you must find it very solitary here, and must be getting heartily tired of your present life.”

“Indeed I am, senhor,” answered Luis; “and I shall much rejoice to find myself at liberty.”

“Very naturally. Most prisoners think the same; but do not despair; you will, in the course of time, get perfectly accustomed to it. I have heard of people living twenty years in prison very happily, so that, at last, when they were allowed to quit it, they preferred remaining where they were.”

“I trust that will not be my case,” observed Luis.

“That depends on circumstances,” said the Governor. “I might, indeed, point out a way by which you might instantly gain your freedom.”

“Pray then inform me what it is, for I would do much to be set at liberty,” said the prisoner.

“I am glad, at length, to hear you talk so reasonably,” said the Governor. “I need not tell you an execrable conspiracy has been discovered against the life of his Majesty, in which several known friends of yours are implicated; now, if you will give information on the subject to the Minister, he will not only overlook any share you have taken in it, but will reward you in any way you may wish.”

“As I have entered into no conspiracy against his Majesty, it is impossible that I should give information, which, in fact, I do not possess,” answered Luis; “but assure the Minister, that my very soul revolts against the foul crime which was almost perpetrated, and that I would gladly assist in bringing the criminals to punishment.”

“All prisoners speak much in the same strain, my dear sir; but, when once at liberty, they are very apt to forget their former promises,” returned the Governor. “Though you may, for many reasons, not like to give any information direct to the Minister, if you will confide it to my ear, you may depend on my making a favourable report of your case to him; if not—I speak as a sincere friend—I fear that you will be deprived for ever of your liberty, if a worse fate does not await you.”

Luis at once saw completely the object of the Governor’s observations, and was ready to answer them. “I must prepare, then, to meet my fate to the best of my power, for information of any sort I am unable to give,” he said.

“That is the answer many gentlemen similarly situated make at first,” observed the Governor, smiling; “we find, however, that when put to the question, their powers of recollection are wonderfully stimulated. Of course it will not be necessary with you, Senhor Conde. Heaven forbid it, for the agony few people can support. To be sure, there are occasions when but little respect is paid to persons; indeed, to tell you the truth, such is the case at present; for the Minister has determined to sift this mysterious affair to the bottom, and he is not, you know, very scrupulous about the means he employs. It is whispered about in the prison circles, that the Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of Tavora, with his sons and sons-in-law, and a few other individuals, underwent the question yesterday. The Duke suffered the most severely, and made extensive confessions; in consequence, several other persons were apprehended during the night. Oh, there is nothing to be compared to the question, for extracting the truth!” and the Governor fixed his keen grey eye upon his prisoner’s countenance; but Luis retained his composure, as he answered calmly,—

“I cannot doubt, senhor, your wisdom and experience; but I do the efficacy of the measure you propose for learning the truth. Some men will endure the most excruciating tortures rather than reveal what they have vowed to keep secret; and others, again, who are unable to bear pain, will, in the hopes of avoiding further suffering, even invent a story, and accuse others falsely to save themselves.”

“Silence! silence! Senhor Conde, this is blasphemy and treason you are talking,” interrupted the Governor. “What! dare to doubt the efficacy of the rack and the thumb-screw? Horrible sacrilege! How could a good wholesome despotism exist without them, I should like to know? Take care,—such expressions are strongly confirmatory of your own guilt. Beware!”

A cold shudder passed through Luis’s frame as his eye met the threatening glance of the Governor fixed on him, but he winced not under it, and, folding his arms on his breast, he prepared to listen in silence to whatever observations his unwelcome visitor might think proper to make.

The Governor, however, appeared satisfied that he could gain nothing from him by ordinary conversation, and therefore rose to take his leave, with his usual mock civility, after looking at him with the same sort of eye with which an experienced butcher regards the calf he has just bought, and is leading home to slaughter. “He is a tough subject, and will endure much before he utters a syllable,” he muttered loud enough to be heard, as he left the cell, though Luis fortunately did not understand the tenor of his words.

The next day passed, much to his satisfaction, without a visit from the Governor, though an under-gaoler brought him his food, and cleaned his cell, as usual. This man, whose manner and words showed him not to have been completely-hardened by the sufferings he had witnessed, would generally stop a few minutes more than his strict duty required, to offer a few expressions of comfort to the prisoner, for whom he had conceived a compassionate feeling.

Luis now took the opportunity to inquire from whence and from what unhappy prisoner the groans he had heard for several days past proceeded.

“Ah, senhor, I, am sorry they disturb you,” answered the gaoler. “There is a poor gentleman confined in the very next cell to yours, who is continually groaning with pain, and bemoaning his hard fate, at being shut up for no crime at all; but the walls are so thick, that I should have thought you could not have heard the sounds.”

“Know you his name?” asked Luis.

“I have never heard it, senhor, and never thought of asking him, but I will do so, and tell you. Poor young gentleman, I fear he will not last long.”

“Do you think, my friend, that you could manage to let me see my fellow-prisoner?” asked Luis, who felt that it was his duty to offer every consolation in his power to the sick man, besides a natural curiosity to learn more of one whose voice had sounded in his ear for so many days past; “you may trust to my discretion, and that I will not betray your kindness.”

“I am not afraid of you, senhor; but if it was by any means discovered that I allowed such a thing, I should not only lose my situation, but be imprisoned in one of the darkest cells, as a warning to my brother gaolers, though I wish that I could do as you desire, for I do not see that any harm can come of it.”

Luis was, however, determined not to be defeated in his project; and taking the opportunity to make a present, which he had before intended, to the kind-hearted gaoler, he at length induced him to promise that he would allow him to pay a visit to the neighbouring cell on the first safe opportunity; probably directly after the Governor had gone his rounds,—the time which, in all prisons, gaolers seize to afford similar favours to their captives, as our readers have no doubt observed while perusing every history or romance on the subject.

To a prisoner, the slightest variation in the monotonous routine of his life affords subject of interest; and thus Luis looked forward with anxiety to the time when he was to be allowed to pay a visit to his companion in captivity, though he was aware that but little benefit could be expected to result to either of them from the interview. The Governor at last came his rounds; Luis heard the bolts of his cell door withdrawn, but that worthy personage, merely putting his head in to see that his prisoner was safe, wished him good night, and again retired.

After he had been gone about half an hour, the under-gaoler, faithful to his promise, made his appearance, having carefully opened the door, which, by long practice, he was able to do without any noise, and telling Luis to follow, he gently opened the door of the cell in which the sick man was confined, when, desiring him to enter, he closed and bolted it as before.

The sick man scarcely noticed the entrance of a stranger, as Luis placed himself by the side of the rude couch whereon he lay; but continued his groaning and piteous cries for fresh air and liberty. A lamp, burning on the table, shed its feeble rays around the cell. Luis rose to trim it, and again seated himself, the sick man continuing with his face averted towards the wall. Luis spoke to draw his attention.

“I have come, as a brother in affliction, to offer every assistance in my power to a fellow-prisoner,” he said.

Suddenly the sick man turned round, when the light falling on his thin and emaciated countenance, Luis started with amazement, a thrill of joy shooting through his frame; for in those features, though sadly altered by disease and confinement, he beheld the long-lost brother of his beloved Clara, of whose death he had been accused,—the younger Gonçalo Christovaö. He pronounced his name.

“Who is it that calls on one long-lost to the joyous world?” exclaimed the young Fidalgo, in a feeble voice, raising himself on his arm, and gazing wildly at his visitor.

“One you have seen but seldom, who has been vilely traduced, and accused of your death—Luis d’Almeida.”

“You have been amply avenged, then, senhor, for the evil thoughts I entertained of you,” answered the young Gonçalo. “This is true charity—thus to visit, in a loathsome dungeon, one who has so wronged and injured you. Ah! It is too late now—I have but short time to survive.” And he again sunk down exhausted.

“I have never for a moment had a hostile feeling towards you,” said Luis, offering his hand, which the other took, with a grateful expression on his countenance.

“Thanks, thanks! it is a consolation to know that a friend of those dear to me will receive my dying breath, and convey my last wishes to my father and sweet sister,—or do I see in you the husband of Clara?”

“Alas! no, my friend,” replied Luis, deeply affected. “I am a prisoner like yourself, and, perchance, shall be released but by death.”

“What! have you also fallen a victim to the wiles of that vile miscreant, San Vincente?”

“I know not even of what crime I am accused,” answered Luis; and he explained, in a few words, the supposed conspiracy, and its fatal consequences. “But tell me by what extraordinary circumstances I see you here?” he continued.

“By the machinations of a villain!” returned the young Fidalgo. “But I am faint, and can scarce tell my tale. A few drops from yonder flask of wine, supplied me by the charity of my kind gaoler, will give me strength to proceed, if you will hand it to me.”

Luis brought the flask, when Gonçalo, somewhat revived by a draught of the light refreshing wine of Lisbon, commenced an account of his adventures since the fatal night when Luis had so unintentionally wounded him. His sentences were short and broken, he frequently being obliged to stop, in order to recover strength to proceed.

“I was half mad with intoxication and the excitement of revelry, when, urged on by my evil counsellor, San Vincente, I made that wanton assault upon you, for which I have been so severely punished; but I must confess, that when your sword entered my side, I felt that I deserved my fate. When I returned to consciousness,—for in my fall I must have struck my head, which, aided by the effects of wine, had rendered me insensible—I found myself borne rapidly along the streets by several men. I inquired where they were carrying me; but, though I repeated the question several times, I received no answer; and at length, from the copious effusion of blood, I again fainted. When I once more recovered my senses, I found myself in a low vaulted chamber, on a mean pallet, with the rest of the scanty furniture of the commonest description, and a wrinkled old hag, of the most sinister expression of countenance, sitting in one corner, occupied in spinning. I anxiously inquired where I was; but, putting her finger to her mouth, she pretended to be dumb, to prevent my asking further questions; nor had I the slightest means of conjecturing to what part of the city I had been conveyed. When I endeavoured to rise, I found myself too weak to stand, and was obliged to give up the attempt in despair. It now occurred to me that I had been brought to this place for some sinister motive, and, though I acquitted you of having any share in my detention, I began strongly to suspect that San Vincente was the author of the outrage. I had for some days previously entertained uneasy doubts as to his character, which, in my more serious moments, made me regret that I had favoured his suit to my sister. I recollected, also, that I had lately won from him, at the gambling-table, some large sums of money; and now, incensed against him, I deemed him capable of the darkest acts. It struck me that he supposed, if he married my sister, I should release him from his debt, or, if he could get me out of the way, he should be equally free. Subsequent events proved the correctness of my supposition. Why he did not murder me at once, when I was so entirely in his power, I have never been able, to this day, to determine. Either he is not so bad as I suspected, and felt some compunction at killing an old friend, and the brother of his intended wife, or the fear of discovery and punishment deterred him. I remained thus for two days, without seeing anybody but the old woman, who still retained her taciturnity, and even when she brought me a scanty allowance of food, did so with a morose and unwilling air.

“Never could I forget, if life were prolonged, the awful sensations I experienced when the first shock of the earthquake was felt. I was alone, unable to move,—the terrific sound rang in my ears,—the groans of the dying, the shrieks of despair, reached even that remote spot,—the walls and roof trembled and cracked,—pieces fell around and on me,—I was almost stifled by the dust; yet, utterly helpless, I resigned myself to my fate. Shock after shock occurred, yet still, to my surprise, the walls stood uninjured. I was reserved for more severe suffering.”

He ceased speaking, from exhaustion.

“Ah!” thought Luis, as this account brought back the recollection of that dire event, “at that time was I rescuing your sweet sister from destruction. Both our fates have been cruel; yet yours, poor youth, even worse than mine.”

Gonçalo, now recovering, continued. “For the whole of that day of horrors, and the following one, I continued without food, becoming each moment more weak, till I thought death must put an end to my suffering, when a tall masked figure entered the vault, a few streams of light, entering from a barred window near the roof, enabling me to distinguish him. At a glance, notwithstanding his disguise, I recognised the Count San Vincente. He looked eagerly towards the spot where I lay, and Heaven forgive me, if I wrong him in believing that he felt disappointed on discovering I was still in existence. Without uttering a word, he directly quitted the vault, and soon afterwards returned with a basket of provisions, which he placed within my reach. He remained not a moment longer than was necessary, nor did I venture to trust myself in speaking to him. I heard him lock and bolt the door after him, as he retired. The old woman never returned; and for the two following days I was left entirely alone.

“During the third night, I was aroused from slumber by a noise near me, and, looking up, by the light of a lantern I beheld several men standing round my bed; a cloth was then thrown over my head, my arms were bound, and I felt myself lifted up, and placed upon a sort of litter, as I concluded, for immediately I perceived that I was being borne along at a rapid rate, and in the open air. I was too feeble to raise my voice; but once, when I attempted to cry out, a person whispered in my ear a warning to be silent, or that death would be my fate. The motion continued for some time, till at last it stopped, and I found myself again placed upon a bed. My arms were then released, but, before I could remove the cloth from my head, my bearers had disappeared, and I found myself in total darkness and silence. Here was new matter for speculation, but I was still utterly at a loss to comprehend the reasons for my removal, or whither I had been conveyed; indeed, I have never learnt to a certainty, though I suspect it was to some house belonging to my persecutor, San Vincente. When the morning dawned, I found that I was in an apartment rather better furnished than my last place of imprisonment, but with only one small window, high up in the wall, and that closely barred with iron. A surly-looking ruffian made his appearance twice a day to bring me food and make my bed, but, like the old woman, he never uttered a word. He, however, brought me a collection of books, which solaced my captivity, and I verily believe prevented me from losing my senses altogether. Several months thus passed away, and I was at length able to rise and walk about my room. The first use I made of my renewed strength was to try the door, but I found it secured by bolts, and plated with iron. I then climbed up to the window, but the walls were thick, and a board sloping upwards from the lower part prevented me seeing aught but a broad expanse of sky. This was a grievous disappointment; indeed, my spirits sank under it, though my strength continued to improve. When my surly attendant perceived that I was strong enough to attempt to, escape, I observed that he invariably came into my room armed with a pistol and dagger, keeping a wary eye, during the time he remained, on every movement I made. This dreadful life of solitude I could no longer endure; my health gave way under it, and I again took to my bed. I entreated the ruffian to send a physician to me, or a priest, to give me the consolations of religion, but he looked at me with a grim smile, without answering, and no one appeared. Gradually I became worse and worse, till I fully believed myself to be dying, so thought also my attendant. One night I awoke from my sleep to find my eyes blinded, and my hands bound as before, when I was brought thither. I was then gagged, while a voice whispered in my ear, ‘If one sound escapes you, this dagger shall silence you for ever!’ and, at the same time, I felt its sharp point at my breast. I was now lifted up, and found myself suddenly placed in a carriage, which immediately drove on for a considerable time; when it stopped, I was once more lifted from it, and borne along till I heard the sound of bolts and bars withdrawn, when I was placed on the bed where I now lie, and from which I never more expect to rise. Here I have for months been confined, and it seems a miracle to myself that I have existed so long. Except the compassionate gaoler’s, yours is the first friendly face I have seen since you last beheld me with my sword raised against your life. Pardon me, my friend, for that deed, for I have bitterly expiated it.”

Luis assured the unfortunate youth not only of his forgiveness, but of his sincere commiseration for his sufferings.

“Soon after my arrival here, I gained a clue to ascertain the reason of my last removal,” continued Gonçalo. “The Governor of the prison came one evening into my cell, and no sooner did my eye fall upon him, than I recognised a person on whom I had once inflicted chastisement for an insult he had offered me, and whom I well knew to have been at one time an intimate acquaintance of San Vincente’s, though he had latterly pretended to have discarded him. I knew why he came—it was to gloat over my sufferings—to reap his revenge. He is a wretch capable of any atrocity—base, mercenary, and avaricious. He told me that I was a prisoner for life, accused of treason; that my name was Diogo Lopez, and that I was spared under the plea of insanity. He then quitted me with a grin of gratified malice on his countenance. I feel confident that the plot was concerted between the two. San Vincente has easily bribed him to engage in it, and gratify his own revenge at the same time; he probably feared that I should die in his custody, when he might have some difficulty in disposing of my body; or, perhaps, he was anxious to destroy me sooner, which he knew sending me here would do. Once incarcerated under a false name, as a condemned criminal, I should here remain without a hope of release, all responsibility being removed from him; and dying, as he knew I soon must, I shall be buried with the other wretches who end their lives here. This is my allotted fate, and, had you not discovered me, it would never have been known. You will, I know, inform my father, and aid him to bring the miscreant San Vincente to the punishment he deserves.”

Luis promised to obey his wishes, if he himself ever escaped from prison.

“I have one more request to make,” said Gonçalo: “I long, ere I die, to perform the last duties of religion, but I have, in vain, asked for a confessor. The Governor knows I have nothing to reveal. You may in this assist me, by desiring to see one yourself, and you may then, in the same way that you have come, conduct him hither.”

“I will use my utmost endeavours to do so,” answered Luis, “though I fear much I shall be unsuccessful.”

Gonçalo now made many inquiries about his family, to which Luis answered to the best of his knowledge; and when he told him that Clara was about to take the veil, his self-reproach knew no bounds.

“Alas, alas!” he exclaimed, “this has happened through my own mad obstinacy: had I not praised San Vincente to my father, she might even now have been your bride, and both might have been happy.”

“Heaven willed it otherwise,” said Luis, checking his rising emotion, when he endeavoured to console his unhappy friend; and so far succeeded, that he already appeared to have recovered strength—his spirits, more than his body, had suffered. The gaoler, now softly opening the door, beckoned away Luis, who, pressing Gonçalo’s hand, returned to his own cell, reflecting, that if he himself had suffered much, others had yet more to endure.

The following day the Governor thought fit to honour the Count d’Almeida with a visit. He entered, bowing and flourishing his little three-cornered hat, as usual, smirking as he seated himself on the bed. “I fear that you find your life in prison a very dull one, my young friend,” he began; “most people do, yet such is the fate of those who will disobey the laws. In the course of a year or two you will become more habituated to it, and then you will learn to like it, if—for I am sorry to say there is an alternative—you are not proved guilty of a crime of the first magnitude;—but, in the latter case, you must prepare for death! Ah, you start;—it is very sad to die, but, I wished to spare your feelings, and therefore concealed your fate from you till now; however, feeling a sincere friendship for you, I would point out the only means you have of escaping. Make a complete confession of all you know, and then, probably, a short imprisonment will be your only punishment.”

Luis watched the Governor’s eye while he spoke, and although he did not believe his assertions, he felt that they might too probably be founded on truth. Not disconcerted, however, by unmanly fears, he, recollecting his promise to Gonçalo, pretended to credit them; and, on the plea that, perhaps, his death was near, he petitioned to have the consolation of religion afforded him.

“I rejoice, my young friend, to hear you speak in so proper a frame of mind,” said the Governor, sententiously. “Even to the prisoner’s cell the Church extends her benign influence, and Heaven will be pleased if you confess your sins to the holy man I will send you. He shall visit you this very day, and, putting full confidence in him, let me advise you, as a sincere friend, to follow implicitly his counsels.” The Governor, flattering himself that he had gained the very point at which he was aiming, bidding his prisoner be of good cheer, withdrew.

The Governor was in this case true to his word; late in the evening the friendly gaoler entering Luis’s cell to inform him that a Friar waited without to see him.

“Beg him to enter,” said Luis.

The gaoler retired, and directly after returned, ushering in a cowled and bare-footed Friar.

“Pax vobiscum,” said the holy man, as he entered. “I come, my son, to bring food and comfort to your soul. Leave us,” he added, turning to the gaoler, “I would be alone with the prisoner.”

No sooner had the gaoler withdrawn, than the Friar, throwing back his hood, exhibited to the astonished gaze of his intended penitent, the rotund and ruddy countenance of the holy Frè Diogo Lopez.

“Hush!” said that worthy person, putting his finger to his lips. “I am sorry to find you a prisoner here, though I am glad that it is I who have been sent to you. Come, give me an embrace, to convince me that you retain a kindly recollection of me.”

Luis, scarcely able to speak with surprise, performed the ceremony; indeed, the face of one who, though he considered him a rogue, had always shown a friendly disposition towards himself, could not but afford him pleasure.

“Now, we will make ourselves as happy as circumstances will permit,” continued the Friar, at the same time producing from beneath his gown a good sized flask, and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table, a smile curling his lips, and his eyes glistening the while. “Stand there, my friends, till you are wanted,” he added, as he seated himself on the bed. “Now, Don Luis, I wish to convince you that, although you once thought me a rogue, I can, at all events, be honest towards you. I am sent here to pump you, to discover all your secrets, and to betray them to the Governor. Now, take my advice; do not tell them to me, or any other confessor; and as there are no proofs against you, as far as I can learn, you have a chance of escaping the punishment many others are about to suffer. This plan will prevent either of us incurring any risk, and I shall feel a wonderful satisfaction in deceiving that cunning devil of a Governor. Ha, ha! the very thought amuses me. I little thought that you were among the unfortunate prisoners shut up in this horrid place, till the Governor sent for me to-day, and informed me that one of his pets desired to see a priest, in order to make confession, desiring me to learn all I could, and let him know without delay. I have done so often before, without feeling any compunction on the subject; for there are so many knaves in the world, that I considered it as merely telling one rogue’s secrets to another rogue, besides being well paid into the bargain. I do not wish to know yours, in case I might be tempted to betray them. With me the old weakness is as strong as ever. I cannot resist temptation, though I bitterly repent it afterwards. I, by chance, inquired the name of my penitent, when, to my surprise and sorrow, I learnt it was you. However, I soon made up my mind how to act, and, providing myself with that flask of good wine, I determined to make a jovial evening of it with a clear conscience, instead of hypocritically drawing the secrets from some poor wretch, to betray him afterwards. So now, my dear Don Luis, or rather I ought to say Count, let us to business. I can give you a short shrift afterwards, if you require it, when we have finished the bottle.”

So saying, the Friar drew the table between himself and Luis, and filling both glasses with wine, he nodded familiarly to his penitent, draining his off, and smacking his lips, to set him an example. He then indulged in a low quiet chuckle at the young Count’s astonishment.

Luis first felt inclined to be disgusted with the Friar’s open acknowledgment of his contempt for the sacred office he performed; but the imperturbable coolness and thorough good nature of the latter, at last conquered that feeling, and, forgetting that he had come to perform a religious rite, he could no longer refrain from pledging him in return.

“Well, my dear Count, I am glad to find that you have at length conquered your scruples,” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “I have always said it is impossible to know what a man really is till you learn his works. Now, if I had put on a sanctimonious face, played shriver, and betrayed you, you would have considered me a very pious man; and now, because I tell you the truth, and kick hypocrisy to the devil who invented it, you, in your heart of hearts, believe me a knave. Well, it cannot be helped, such is the way of the world. Come, Count, don’t be cast down, you have many years to enjoy life yet before you, if I mistake not. Fill your glass, and drive away care. I wish I could venture to sing a stave, it would wonderfully rouse your spirits, but it would not do to be heard—even I could not pass it off as a hymn.” And the Friar hummed a few lines of a song in a low tone. “Bah! the effect is spoilt; you ought to hear it trolled forth by a jovial set of us, the roof of the old hall of our convent rings again. Oh, that would do your heart good!”

Luis, in spite of himself, could not help joining in the Friar’s merriment, which seemed to give the latter much satisfaction. “That is as it should be, my friend; I wish the gaolers were deaf, and that the rascally Governor was not likely to be prowling this way, for we might drink and sing away to our heart’s content. Come, help me to finish the bottle, or I shall not be quite in a clerical state to make a clear report to the Governor of your confession.”

There was such a laughing devil in the Friar’s eye all the time, that it struck Luis he might even then be playing off some trick upon him.

“How comes it, Frè Diogo, that I see you here in Lisbon as a professed Friar, when, the last time we met, you acknowledged you had never taken the vows?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember, that I told you, at the same time, I intended to repent of my sins, to return to the convent in which I once served, and to take the vows? I did so, and have ever since been a most exemplary Friar; so much so, that I soon rose to a responsible situation in my convent, and was sent up to Lisbon on a mission, when I was selected for my peculiar qualifications and knowledge of mankind, as confessor to the inmates of this and some other prisons in the metropolis. I was obliged to accept the office, though I cannot say I like it; for I miss my jovial brothers, and hate the hypocrisy and treachery I am obliged to be guilty of, though, to say the truth, I have saved many a poor wretch from committing himself, which is some consolation to my conscience.”

Luis had not forgotten poor Gonçalo’s request; but he was considering in his mind whether the priest in question was a person qualified to administer the consolations of religion to a dying man; but there was a sincerity in the eccentric Friar’s manner, which at last determined him, for want of a better, to confide in him. At all events, he felt that it might afford satisfaction to the dying youth. He, therefore, told the Friar of his interview with his fellow-prisoner, the young Gonçalo Christovaö, whom he had been accused of killing, recalling to his mind their fruitless search, and finished, by begging him to administer, with the utmost decorum he could assume, the rites of the Church appointed for the sick or dying.

“You seem by your words, to suppose that I am not as capable as the most rigid and sanctimonious confessor, who ever shrived a fair penitent, to put on a serious air when necessary,” said the Friar, laughing. “There you are wrong again; and I will show you that I can equal the best of them. By the way, now you mention the name of Gonçalo Christovaö, it reminds me that, in a most wonderful way, I came into possession of the very letter I gave you with the jewels in the cave, and which you lost before you could deliver it to the person to whom it was directed,—the father of this same hapless youth. You will not press me to explain exactly how I got it—suffice it to say, I found it in the pocket of a coat which, doubtless, had been yours, and which I strongly suspect had been stolen.”

“Have you the letter still?” inquired Luis, eagerly. “I have ever since had cause to regret its loss; for, though I know its contents, I have had a feeling that it might have saved much wretchedness to one I love dearer than life itself.”

“It struck me, also, at the time I found it, that it might be of some consequence, so I preserved it carefully for several months in my breviary, intending to restore it to you or Senhor Christovaö, should I meet either of you, though I had long forgot all about it; whether or no it is still there, I cannot say,” said the Friar. “I fortunately brought the book to Lisbon with me, so if the letter is in it, I will bring it to you on my next visit. I shall take care, by my account to the Governor of your confession, to be sent to you again.”

“Thanks, my kind friend,” answered Luis. “You may thus render me a great service, though, could you send it to Gonçalo Christovaö yourself, it would sooner reach him. I know not when my term of captivity may end.”

“I will endeavour to do as you wish,” answered the Friar. “Now, my dear Count, I am speaking more seriously to you than I ever did to any one in my life. I have a true regard for you, and sincerely wish to rise in your opinion. Do not think me a scoundrel, for I am better than I have too often appeared. Will you promise me this?” The Friar spoke with energy, and a tear stood in his eye, as he took Luis’s hand, and pressed it to his heart.

“I firmly trust in you,” answered Luis, “and know you to be my kind and generous friend,—one of the few I now possess on earth.”

“Thanks, Count, thanks! your words have made me a happier and better man,” said the Friar, much moved. “The knowledge that I am esteemed by one honest person, who knows me as I am, will prevent me from ever again acting the part of a knave.” He drew a deep sigh. “Ha! ha! we must not let care oppress us, so we will finish our bottle before the turnkey comes to summon me away. I will then visit your sick friend, and do what I can to comfort him. Remember, whatever happens, confide in me. If I find that your life is in the slightest danger, it shall not be my fault that you do not escape from hence.”

Luis warmly expressed his thanks to Frè Diogo, for he now felt convinced that he had gained an invaluable friend, and the dull leaden sensation he had experienced at the thoughts of his speedy execution, gave way to a renewed hope of life.

“Ah! here comes the gaoler,” exclaimed the Friar, as steps were heard in the passage; “he is a worthy fellow, and the only honest man employed in the prison. I now and then crack a bottle with him for society’s sake;—thinking of that, I must hide my friend and the glasses under my robe; so fare you well, Count, till to-morrow.” As he spoke the turnkey opened the door, when Luis, entreating him to introduce the Friar to the sick man in the next cell, he promised to comply, and the Count was left alone to meditate on his own fortunes.

Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.

Words are insufficient to describe the sufferings of the high-born captives who lay in those wretched cells, formed to contain wild beasts instead of human beings, whither the stern policy of the Minister had condemned them to be conveyed. Kept apart from each other, in darkness and solitude, though near enough to hear each other’s groans and cries, they were allowed no change of garments from those in which they were first apprehended; straw heaped in a corner on the floor, unswept since the removal of its former savage inhabitants, formed their places of rest; the coarsest food, sufficient to sustain nature, was alone supplied them, and no one but the officers of justice was allowed to visit them.

Day after day they remained thus, in anticipation of their dreadful fate; then came ferocious looking men, callous to the sufferings of their fellow-beings, whose appearance bespoke them to be the detested executioners of the law; even the guards and gaolers shuddered as they beheld them entering the prison, bearing their implements of torture. Two Desembargadors, a notary, and a surgeon followed, repairing to a large hall, round which the cells occupied by the prisoners were ranged, their fronts being now blocked up with masonry. The executioners had here erected their instruments of torture, chairs being prepared for the judges and notary, with a table for the latter to take minutes of the examination.

The first prisoner led forward was the Duke of Aveiro, but he refused to answer any of the questions put to him.

“Since you refuse to speak in any other way, we must try what effect the rack will cause,” said one of the judges. “Let the question be administered to him.”

The Duke turned pale, but answered not a word till the dislocation of his limbs commenced, when he gave way to shrieks and cries for mercy, which rang through the hall, piercing to the cells of his fellow-prisoners, and giving dreadful warning of the fate awaiting them.

“I will confess! I will confess!” at last he cried, unable longer to endure the agony; but when, on being cast loose, he again denied any knowledge of the occurrences the Desembargadors mentioned, he was once more placed upon the engine of torture, nor would they listen to his entreaties to be released till he had further felt its power.

“Mercy, mercy, mercy!” he cried, when the surgeon approached him, and his cries ceased. He had fainted. He was lifted off the machine, and carried back to his cell, where restoratives were administered, and he was left till sufficiently recovered to bear further questioning.

The Marquis of Tavora was then brought forward, and subjected to the same system of examination; but not a word, to criminate either himself or others, could be elicited from him. His sons, the Conde d’Atouquia, and the servants of both houses, followed in succession; the agony of their sufferings drawing statements from some of them which the others denied. Young Jozé de Tavora was the only one, who, like his father, boldly and firmly persisted in the declaration of his innocence of the crime laid to his charge.

“Were I guilty of the deed of which you accuse me, I would acknowledge it,” he exclaimed; “but no tortures the cruelty of Sebastiaö Jozé can invent have power to make me speak a falsehood.”

“Take him to his cell,” thundered the Magistrate; “he is obdurate. Bring back the Duke.”

The same scene of horror was again enacted, when the wretched noble, overcome by terror, made a long statement, which was eagerly committed to paper by the Notary, accusing himself, his fellow-prisoners, and numerous others of the highest nobility in the land, of conspiring against the life of the King. Whether his account was true, or whether it was the invention of his brain wrought into madness by agony, has never yet been satisfactorily determined. We leave our readers to form their own conclusions.

We do not venture to describe more minutely the dreadful scene of tyranny, injustice, and human suffering; for we have yet in store horrors sufficient to make the heart of the strongest sicken at the recital; and we would advise those who would avoid having their feelings harrowed with the tale which truth compels us to narrate, to pass over the chapter succeeding this.

At last, all the evidence which could be wrung by torture from the prisoners, or obtained from other witnesses, being collected, their trial formally took place. On the first day, the judges appointed by the Minister to preside could not come to an agreement; two of them firmly refusing to sign the process. Carvalho, probably, firmly believed most, if not all, of the prisoners guilty; and, after the violent steps he had taken, his own existence depended on their condemnation; but, owing to the absence of clear and satisfactory evidence, this was difficult to be obtained. He therefore instituted another court, taking care that the presidents should be creatures entirely devoted to his service, and the result of the trial may be anticipated.

The weak and timid Monarch yet remained a close prisoner in his palace, suspecting a traitor in each noble of his court, and starting at every sound, fancying it a signal of rebellion. His physician had just quitted him, Teixeira was absent, and the Minister had himself gone to watch the proceedings at the trial of the conspirators. He was alone—his feelings were oppressed, his thoughts gloomy; for his disposition was naturally mild, and indisposed to bloodshed; and he now knew that the blood of his first nobles was about to flow like water for his safety. Yet what injustice will not fear make a man commit! He wept.

“Alas!” he cried, “they must die. The trial must, ere this, have been concluded, and I shall then know the punishment awarded them. It must be so; I cannot feel security till they are no more.”

The King heard a suppressed sob near him, and looking round, he beheld a young page kneeling at a short distance from where he sat. He started, and rising, retired a few paces, for in every human being he had been taught to suspect an agent of treason.

“What brings you here, boy? How could you have entered unperceived?” he exclaimed rapidly, as a strange thrill shot across his bosom. “Speak! who are you?”

“A wretched suppliant for your Majesty’s clemency,” answered the Page, in a low and broken voice.

“What mean you, boy? There are too many such in our dominions,” exclaimed the Monarch, bitterly. “But rise, boy, and retire: this intrusion ought to have been prevented. Whatever petition you have to make, present it to our Minister, Sebastiaö Jozé, two or three days hence, when he will have time to attend to you. We would be alone.”

“Alas! two days hence will be too late,” responded the Page, in the same low tone as before. “It is not to that cruel unbending man I would make my prayer. It is to your Majesty’s compassionate heart alone, a miserable guilty creature would appeal. Hear me, my liege; hear me. By my guilty conduct, many of those I was bound to love and honour—my kindred and connexions—have been, like the vilest felons, imprisoned and tortured, and some have, within this hour, been condemned to an agonising death and everlasting disgrace. For them I come to plead—their lives, their honour, are in your power. Spare them, my liege, and let me be the victim; for I, and I alone, have been the cause of all their sufferings.”

“Great Heavens! Whose voice is that?” exclaimed the King, more agitated than his suppliant, towards whom he hurriedly advanced, and whom he raised from the ground. “Donna Theresa!”

“Would to God you had never known that name, my liege. I am that wretched woman,” ejaculated the seeming page, still keeping her hands in a suppliant attitude before her, while the King gazed fondly at her care-worn, though yet lovely, countenance. “I have braved all dangers and difficulties,—I have deceived your guards,—I have penetrated to your Majesty’s retirement, to throw myself at your feet, and plead for my kindred’s lives. They cannot be guilty of the foul deed for which they are condemned;—they never could have sought to injure your Majesty, though even I have been accused by some (to heap greater wretchedness on my head) of having falsely accused them of the crime. Your Majesty knows I am thus far guiltless; and, if my injured husband, incited by jealousy and indignation of his wrongs, should have harboured a thought of malice, oh! show your magnanimity, by pardoning him and his family. Disarmed by your clemency, they could not then further injure you; or let them retire to some other land, where they may repent of ever having given cause of suspicion to so good and kind a master. This act of mercy alone would put down sedition, and bind more firmly all the nobles of the land to your service, and, revered while you live, your name would descend to posterity as a magnanimous and generous prince, who feared not to pardon those who had offended him. But, if your cruel Minister requires some one on whom to vent his hatred, of the aristocracy of the land, the legitimate and noble guardians of your person, whose jealousy he well knows has been aroused at his persevering interference, let me be delivered up as the victim of his vengeance. My fatal love for my sovereign first kindled the spark which has never yet burnt into a flame, and I alone ought to be sacrificed for my crime, if so your Majesty deems it.”

The King was deeply moved at the energy of her passion, her tears, and prayers. He led her gently to a chair, and insisted on her being seated, while he stood before her with his arms folded on his bosom; but, as soon as she perceived it, she rose, and threw herself kneeling on the ground.

“This must not be, Donna Theresa,” said the agitated Monarch, again attempting to raise her, but she would not quit her suppliant posture.

“Rise, madam, rise. I have no enmity against your relations. It is not I who accuse them. They have been tried by the laws of the country, and, if guilty, I have resigned all power over them. My crown, my life, the happiness of my people, and the tranquillity of the land, require their punishment. It is by my Minister’s advice I act thus, and to him you must plead their cause.”

“Oh, say not so, your Majesty. Do not thus yield to the grasping ambition of that enemy of our race, who seeks to rise by their destruction,” exclaimed Donna Theresa. “Exert your own royal authority, and act according to the generous dictates of your heart. You have the power—exert it, and be merciful; if not, before two suns have set, such deeds of cruelty will have been perpetrated as will cause the nations of Europe to execrate the very name of a Portuguese.”

The King’s firmness was fast yielding to the entreaties of his lovely petitioner. “I will endeavour to mitigate the rigour of their sentence for your sake, fair lady,” he answered. “If clearly proved, for the sake of my successors, I have no right to overlook their crime.”

“Rather let it be supposed by posterity that such a crime was impossible in Portugal,” interrupted Donna Theresa; “or teach your successors the virtue of clemency.”

“You plead most powerfully to my heart, Donna Theresa, nor can I longer withstand the energy of your prayers,” said the King. “Rise, then, and let me rather ask pardon for the anguish I have caused you. I it was who ought to have knelt to you.”

“I cannot rise till I hear their pardon pronounced by your gracious lips,” returned Donna Theresa. “Let me, to prove my innocence of betraying them, be the bearer of your forgiveness.”

“I do forgive them,” answered the King; “yet, in so important a matter, I may not act further without consulting my Minister.”

“Then their doom is sealed!” cried the unhappy lady. “Sebastiaö Jozé has moved heaven and earth to destroy them; and unless your Majesty rescues them by a determined act, they can in no way escape death.”

The King still looked as if he was about to deny her.

“Oh! hear me, your Majesty,—by the devoted love you so lately professed to bear me, by all your tender endearments, by your vows of constancy, by the sacrifice of my name and reputation to your passion, pardon those innocent ones—at all events, comparatively innocent—and let the punishment fall upon my guilty head!”

Where is the man who can withstand a lovely woman’s prayers, when, weeping, she pleads, and pleads for justice? The King could no longer resist her entreaties; he gently raised her, and, pressing his lips to her hands, he was about to pledge his kingly promise that none should suffer—the words faltered on his tongue—the door opened, he looked up, and beheld the commanding figure of the Prime Minister! The latter stopped, gazing with amazement. Donna Theresa saw not, heard not aught but her sovereign, as she waited eagerly for the words he was about to pronounce.

“You promise, then—you promise they shall be pardoned?” she ejaculated.

The King’s eye sank before the searching glance of his potent Minister.

“Pardon me, your Majesty, for my intrusion, and will you graciously deign to explain the meaning of this lady’s presence?” exclaimed the latter, advancing rapidly, for he had heard Donna Theresa’s last words, and in a moment clearly comprehended the cause of her visit. He felt that his own power hung upon a thread, and he foresaw that, if she gained her cause, he must inevitably be the sacrifice.

In an instant he had arranged his plan. “I need no explanation,—Donna Theresa de Tavora has ventured hither against your Majesty’s commands, to impose, with a false tale of her relatives’ innocence, on your gracious clemency, and, for the sake of saving the guilty, would sacrifice your life and crown to their implacable hatred. Be not deceived, Sire, by the treacherous tongue of an artful woman. I come now from the trial of the once so-called Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of Tavora, and their associates: the judges have found them guilty of the most atrocious of conspiracies, and have condemned them accordingly. Your Majesty’s sacred life had nearly fallen a sacrifice to some unknown traitors. For months have I incessantly toiled, day and night, to discover the miscreants, and at length I have been successful, and they are about to receive the punishment of their deeds. Let not, then, all my exertions prove vain; and, above all, Sire, do not jeopard your own precious life by mistaken leniency.”

The Minister watched the King’s countenance, and saw that he had won his cause. He advanced to Donna Theresa, and grasped her arm: “Come, madam, you must no longer intrude upon his Majesty!” he exclaimed.

She started at his touch, and turned an entreating look towards the King. The Monarch’s eye was averted. “All, all is lost!” she cried, and, uttering a piercing shriek, sank senseless upon the ground.

“Pardon this seeming harshness, Sire,” said Carvalho, deprecatingly, as he raised Donna Theresa in his arms. “It is necessary for your safety.”

“You are always right, my friend,” said the King. “Let every care and attention be paid her; and let some one be with her to console her for her disappointment;” and he turned away to hide his own emotion: he longed to hide his feelings from himself.

“’Tis another step gained towards supreme power,” thought the Minister, as he bore his unconscious burden from the apartment, and committed her to the charge of his guards, with strict orders not to allow her to depart. He then returned to the King, with the fatal document in his hand,—the condemnation of the noble prisoners. His Majesty’s signature was required; nor had he now much difficulty in obtaining it.

When nearly all of the most influential in the country were interested in the preservation of the accused, and all feeling that Donna Theresa was the most calculated to persuade the Monarch to pardon them, she had experienced but little difficulty, aided by high bribes, in penetrating to the apartments of the King; though, on Carvalho’s endeavouring to discover the delinquents, every one solemnly averred that they had never seen her enter,—though, in her page’s suit, she might have passed them unobserved.

Let her fate be a warning to others. Let those consider, whom passion would lead from the strict path of duty, that not themselves alone, but many others also, whom they once loved, and by whom they were beloved, they may drag down to perdition.

When Donna Theresa returned to consciousness, she found herself surrounded by her own attendants, and when she was pronounced in a fit state to be removed, she was conveyed to the Convent of Santos, where a large income was settled on her, and a retinue appointed to attend her. Though nominally a prisoner, she had perfect liberty. She did not die:—such was too happy a lot for her. For many, many years she lived on, a prey to remorse, hated and scorned by her few surviving relatives, till age had wrinkled her brow, and no trace of her former enchanting loveliness remained. Guilty of one crime she was, but not that of which she was accused; yet none would believe her assertions, when she had failed to procure the pardon of her husband. Such was her punishment!

For eighteen years did her father, the Marquis d’Alorna, his wife, and children, languish in separate dungeons, and scarcely one of his kindred escaped the like fate.

She became deaf and blind, and at length she died. On her tomb was found inscribed, “The Murderess of her Family.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

We would gladly avoid detailing the following narrative, but no one who is writing the life of the great Prime Minister of Portugal can pass it over in silence; and while his name is mentioned in history, so will be the dreadful tragedy in which he was the principal actor, with the execrations of all who have a sentiment of pity for human suffering in their bosoms; even had the sufferers been proved guilty, which we, as Britons, and lovers of our own just laws affirm they were not. Guilty in the sight of Heaven, some of the accused too probably were, but by no law founded on common equity or humanity were they proved so.

The morning of the 13th of January broke dark and gloomy on the heads of a vast concourse of people, already assembled in a large open space on the borders of the Tagus, near the Castle of Belem.

In the background was the Quinta of Bichos, the entrance-door of which opened towards the river, and round it was now stationed a strong body of troops under arms. Here the noble prisoners since their condemnation had been confined, and thither also, during the dark hours of night, the Marchioness of Tavora had been removed from the Convent of Grillos. In front of the gateway, and close to the water, appeared a scaffold, which, since the setting of the sun, workmen had been incessantly employed in erecting, and on which the sound of their hammers was still heard. It was fourteen feet high by thirty long, and twenty broad, covered with black, without ornament of any sort; a wide flight of steps with balustrades leading up to it, on the side towards the Quinta. On the scaffold were seen two posts painted black, a chair, and a bench, on which were placed heavy iron mallets, and an instrument with a long handle, and an immense iron weight shaped like a quoit at the end of it; there were, besides, several large St. Andrew’s crosses of wood, and the same number of wheels, and many other instruments of torture. Two regiments of infantry and two of cavalry were drawn up from the gate of the Quinta to the steps of the scaffold, extending their lines also on each side of the square; the embouchure of every street leading to the spot was also occupied by troops, companies of cavalry moving up and down them continually, and allowing no one to pass who wore a cloak, or could in any way have concealed arms about his person, without examining him. Notwithstanding, however, every impediment, thousands of persons pressed eagerly forward to the scene of execution, of every rank, age, and sex, mostly excited by that vulgar curiosity which has, among all nations, and in all times, drawn people together, however revolting the spectacle might be, one would suppose, to human nature.

Here were collected, mothers with children in their arms, whom they held up to behold the black scaffold, and the glittering arms, and gaudy uniforms of the soldiers, the little wretches cooing with delight, unconscious of the meaning of the scene: here were old men leaning on their staves, and discussing the late events with stoical indifference; sturdy ruffians, who longed eagerly for the commencement of the horrid drama; boys, youths with the down still on their lips,—ay, and young maidens too, listening to their tones of courtship, and smiling as they listened; many sat in groups discussing their morning meal, regardless of which they had hurried from their homes;—yes, there was love-making, laughter, and feasting; but dark Death, with his most terrific horrors, was the great actor they came to behold—all else, like a dull interlude, was insipid and tame.

The water also was covered with boats crowded with people, many too, of the higher ranks, anxious to behold the scene, yet unwilling to be observed by the common people, as they sat shrouded in their cloaks, waiting in silence for the commencement.

There was one boat which attracted great attention; it was a barge, moored to the quay, and loaded with faggots, wood, torches, and barrels of pitch.

“What, is all that firewood for?” asked a nursing mother of her husband; “there is enough there to supply us to the end of our lives.”

“What, in that boat? Oh! that is doubtless the wood to burn the criminals.”

“Jesu Maria!” exclaimed the woman, “they are not going to burn them alive?”

“Why not?” answered the man, “the holy office does so, and what they do must be right.”

“Ay, yes, I forgot; of course, they are right,” muttered the woman.

“Burn them, to be sure they will,” chimed in a neighbour; “and will serve the regicides right. Do you know what they did? They tried to kill the King, the Queen, the Minister, and all the royal family, the wretches!”

“What! did they? Then they deserve to be burnt, doubtless,” cried the woman.

“Ay, that did they, the haughty fidalgos!” exclaimed the neighbour; “we shall, now we have got rid of them, have some chance of becoming fidalgos ourselves.”

“Oh! it will be a glorious sight!” cried another of the crowd, “full fifty fidalgos all burning and shrieking together; far better than any Auto-da-fé—the holy office never burns more than eight or ten at a time.”

“Full fifty! gracious Virgin!” cried a girl. “Who are they?”

“Ay, and more than fifty. Let me see; there are the Duke and Duchess of Aveiro, and all their household and children, the Marquis and Marchioness of Tavora, the younger Marquis, his brother and their sisters, the Marquis of Alorna, and his family; the Conde de Atouquia, and Captain Romeiro. Let me see, there are many more—oh! there are Gonçalo Christovaö, who excited the rebellion at Oporto, and the young Count of Almeida, the Count of—”

“Who did you say?” exclaimed a young man, a stranger to the party, who was standing near. “Who was the last person you mentioned to be executed?”

“The Count of Almeida,” answered the oracle of the party, coolly. “He came to Lisbon the very morning of the outrage, and has, it is said, the very look of an assassin.”

“It is a vile falsehood, and anybody who says he is guilty, is a villain,” exclaimed the young man, vehemently. “My master would never hurt a lamb, much more fire at a king.”

“Your master? then you ought to be in his company, my fine fellow,” answered the man, who was in a most loyal mood. “The masters and servants are all to be burnt together.”

“Burnt! my dear master burnt alive!” ejaculated Pedro, almost unconsciously; for it was he, having wandered about the city, daily, unable to gain any tidings of the Count, till he, at last, heard his name mentioned among the captives, and had now, with sorrow and fear, come to the place of execution, expecting to see his beloved master among the sufferers. Not knowing the precautions taken to prevent a chance of escape, he watched, with feverish anxiety, the appearance of the prisoners, in the hopes of finding some means of rescuing him. Not liking the proposal of the people, near whom he was standing, and being unable to gain any further information from them, he moved away to another group, one of whom appeared to know a great deal about the matter.

“Can you tell me, Senhor, the names of the conspirators who are to suffer?” asked Pedro, with tears in his eyes, and a faltering voice.

“Of course, my friend, I shall be happy to enlighten you to the utmost of my power,” answered the person he addressed, enumerating the same names as the former one, with a few additions.

Poor Pedro wrung his hands with agony.

“Alas, alas! are they to be burnt alive?” he asked.

“Oh, no, not all of them,” said his informant. “Some of them are, for which purpose you see those black posts erected, to fasten them to. The ladies are to lose their heads, the leaders are to be beaten to death, and the others are to be strangled. A few only are to be burnt alive, to please the people; and then the scaffold, and all the bodies, will be consumed together and thrown into the river.”

Pedro could listen to no more of the dreadful details, but, hurrying away to a distance, he sat himself down on a stone, and hiding his face in his hands, he gave way to the anguish of his feelings, in tears. Suddenly, however, recovering his presence of mind, he considered how he might yet afford some aid to the hapless young Count.

While the scene we have described was proceeding, one of violence and destruction was enacting in another part of the city. A vast mob were collected in and around the palaces of the Marquis of Tavora and the Duke of Aveiro; some employed in dragging forth the rich and valuable furniture, breaking it in pieces, and piling it in heaps to burn; some endeavouring to conceal the smaller articles about their persons; and others fighting and wrangling about the booty. A few minutes sufficed to accomplish the act of destruction, when workmen instantly commenced demolishing the entire edifices, and ere their once proud owners had ceased to breathe, already were they in ruins. When the palaces were completely razed to the ground, salt was sprinkled over their sites; and on that of the Duke of Aveiro a column was erected, on which was inscribed his crime and punishment.

To return to the former scene. At length, at seven o’clock, the gates of the Quinta were thrown open. “They come! they come!” murmured the crowd, as a body of horsemen were seen to issue forth, some in uniforms, being the chief military commanders of the kingdom, others in dark cloaks, who were the principal officers of the crown, the ministers of justice, the criminal judges, and others. The Prime Minister was not among them. He, it was said, contemplated at a distance the work he had ordered.

Forming in two lines, between them appeared a sedan-chair, painted black, the bearers dressed in the same hue, and on each side walked a friar of the Capuchin order. As they advanced towards the scaffold, the dragoons formed round them, and, at the same time, the chief executioner, with three assistants, mounted the fatal platform to receive the wretched occupant.

When the party arrived at the foot of the flight of steps, every voice was hushed, and every eye was strained to see the first victim. The door of the sedan-chair was opened, and a female form was led forward. “The Marchioness of Tavora!” ejaculated the crowd.

It was, indeed, that unhappy lady. Firm and composed, she advanced to the first step of the scaffold, where, kneeling down between her ghostly comforters, she performed the last duties of religion, employing thus upwards of half an hour, during which time some further arrangements on the dreadful theatre were being made. At the end of that time, the executioners gave a signal that all was in readiness for the first scene of the tragedy, and, rising from her knees, she mounted, without faltering, the fatal steps, appearing in the same robes of dark blue satin, her hair dressed with white ribands, and a circlet of diamonds, as when she had been apprehended. On the summit, the friars delivered her into the hands of the executioners, who first led her round to each side of the platform, to show her to the people, and then, with a refinement of cruelty worthy of the brain of an Eastern barbarian to conceive, they, according to their orders, exhibited to her the knife by which she was herself to suffer, at which she merely smiled. But when she beheld the rack, the crosses, the mallets, and other instruments of torture prepared for her husband, children, and the other partners of her fate, while the chief executioner explained their object, the intrepid spirit which had hitherto sustained her in that hour of bitter anguish, at length gave way in a gush of tears.

“As you hope for Heaven’s mercy, oh! hasten with your work,” she exclaimed.

Even the executioner was moved. “I perform but my orders, lady, and pray your forgiveness,” he answered, as he hurriedly performed the hell-invented task, and led her to the chair in the centre of the platform.

Throwing off his cloak, he appeared in a close-fitting black vest. As he stooped down to fasten her feet, he raised her clothes slightly.

“Remember who I am, and respect me even in death!” she exclaimed, proudly; but the moment after, seeing the man had done so unintentionally, as he released her hand, she took the circlet of diamonds from her head, and presenting them to him, “Take this as a token of my forgiveness,” she said, clearly. “Now Heaven receive my soul, and forgive my murderers!” These were her last words. The executioner, now securing her arms to the chair, took the handkerchief from her neck, and bound her eyes, the friars repeating the prayers of a parting sinner; he then, seizing a large knife, shaped like an eastern scimitar, took her long hair in his left hand, and lifting high the blade, gave one stroke on the back of the neck, for the sake of greater ignominy, the head falling on the bosom, a second being required to sever it from the body. The butchery being finished, he exhibited the head to the people, while his assistants untied the body, both being thrown on one side, and covered with a black cloth, from beneath which the blood flowed, trickling down the outside stage.

Thus died Donna Leonora de Tavora, once Vice-Queen of India, one of the most lovely, high-spirited, and most noble ladies of Portugal; the favourite of the former Queen, and the most admired dame of the Court! Either her own fatal ambition, or the envy and revenge of another, was the cause of her untimely end, which, no one can now determine.

During this time, the day still remained obscure, some thought, as a signal of Heaven’s disapprobation at the bloody scene which was enacting. Alas! if the sun shone but when the land was free from crime, when should we enjoy a clear day? It was at last discovered that an eclipse was taking place.

This execution being concluded at half-past eight, the ministers of justice still remaining in their places, the sedan-chair, escorted by the dragoons, proceeded to the Quinta; from whence it again returned, a friar, as before, walking on each side. From it was led forth, trembling with agitation, the young Jozé de Tavora, dressed in a suit of black; and supported by the friars, he mounted the scaffold. As he was led round to be exhibited to the people, wearing his long, light hair in curls, his youth, his graceful figure, and the sweet engaging expression of his countenance, gained him universal commiseration. He regained his courage, and spoke a few inaudible words; then petitioning pardon for his own sins, and for those of his enemies, he resigned himself into the hands of the executioners. His eyes being bound, he was fastened by the wrists and ankles to a cross, brought forward to the centre, and elevated nearly upright, the whole weight of the body hanging by the arms, increasing the agony of the sufferer, while the chief executioner passed the cord, to strangle him, round his neck, and the assistants with their iron clubs broke the eight bones of his arms and legs. His shrieks resounded through the assembly, drawing tears of pity from the eyes, and cries of sympathy from the breasts of many, even of the most hardened. The mangled corpse, being exhibited to the people, was placed on one of the wheels, and covered with a black cloth.

Poor Pedro watched this execution with the most dreadful anxiety; for in the young Don Jozé he had recognised the companion of his master during the excursion on the fatal night of the attempt against the King’s life. He turned his straining eye-balls towards the gate of the Quinta, as the third sad cortège issued forth in the same manner as the first towards the scaffold; but instead of the Count the young Marquis of Tavora appeared.

With an impatient step he mounted the stage, dressed in full court costume though bare-headed; and, walking round, he attempted, in a loud voice, to address the populace with a declaration of his innocence.

“Hear me, Portuguese!” he cried. “My kindred and I have been sacrificed to the lust of a weak King, and the ambition and hatred of a tyrant Minister; but our blood will not cry in vain for vengeance; and for centuries, war, disorder, and wretchedness are in store for our hapless country. A dying man speaks.”

“Silence, base traitor!” thundered forth the chief criminal magistrate. “Commend your soul to God, or you shall be stopped by a gag!” at the same time giving the signal to the executioner.

To spare him the agony his brother had suffered, he was seated on a chair, made fast to the cross, with his hands fastened above him, and being then strangled, and his legs and arms broken, the body was shown to the people, and placed on another wheel, likewise covered with a black cloth.

“Ah! my poor master will be the next,” cried Pedro. “I will die with him; for I shall never be able to rescue him from their clutches, the barbarians!”

The next sufferer who appeared from the sedan-chair was the Count of Atouquia. He mounted the steps with a furious and indignant air, and when he attempted to speak, he was compelled to hold silence. He was executed with the same ceremonies as his brother-in-law.

Manoel Ferreira, the Duke’s servant, Captain Braz Romeiro, of the Marquis of Tavora’s late regiment, and Joaö Miguel, the Duke’s page, then followed in the order named, dressed in ragged and scanty garments, and were executed like the previous victims.

Carpenters were now employed to make several alterations in the scaffold, and two large crosses, without a centre-post, were brought to the front.

The body of Donna Leonora, with the head, were placed on a bench in the centre, so as to meet the view of her husband, who was destined to be the next victim.

As the unhappy Marquis appeared, the muffled drums of the military bands gave forth irregular sounds, the troops whom he had once commanded with distinction and honour, and through whose lines he was now led, turning their left shoulders as he passed. He mounted the steps with a quick and firm pace; but started with horror, a death-like pallor overspreading his countenance, as he beheld the mangled, body of his wife, whom he had last seen in all her pride and beauty before their apprehension. The lacerated bodies of his sons and servants were then exhibited to him, as well as the instruments of torture with which he was to suffer death. He was next led round to be shown to the populace, whom he did not attempt to address, and returning, as soon as he was permitted, he knelt down by the side of the cross. He then humbly confessed himself to his ghostly attendants, and, when they retired, boldly extended himself upon the cross laid flat on the ground, to which he was then bound; the executioner next lifting a vast iron mallet, with a long handle, struck him three blows on the chest, the stomach, and the face, besides breaking his arms and legs,—his sobs and pitiable groans of agony being heard for some minutes ere he expired.

It was past two o’clock when the Duke of Aveiro mounted the scaffold, dressed in the morning-gown in which he had been taken, bare-headed, and holding a crucifix in his manacled hand. The anticipation of an agonising death had somewhat humbled his once presumptuous pride, though, perhaps, even at that moment, indignation at the ignominy with which he was treated was his predominant feeling, as he gazed around with looks of rage and despair. He underwent precisely the same ceremony as the Marquis; but the executioner, through nervousness, struck the first blow on his stomach, causing him the most excruciating tortures, as was known by his heart-piercing shrieks, and it was some minutes ere, by this most barbarous method, life became extinct.

Next was brought forward Manoel Ferreira, and with him an effigy of Joseph Policarpio, who had escaped,—the former habited merely in a shirt and drawers. The unfortunate wretch was bound to one of the posts, seated on an iron chair, with the effigy opposite to him, two friars administering to him the consolations of religion. The boat was then unloaded of its cargo of wood and barrels of tar, which were placed under and upon the scaffold, he being surrounded by faggots, and a pan of sulphur placed beneath him. The executioners and workmen now descended from the scaffold; a friar, prompted by zeal for the welfare of the criminal’s soul, and feeling he might afford him comfort in his moments of agony, with noble intrepidity remained to the last moment, while the former, lighting their torches, set fire to the fabric in every direction. The wind having blown till now across the scaffold, it was expected that the flames would soon put an end to the wretch’s sufferings; but, suddenly changing, it blew them directly away from him; his shrieks and groans, while he thus slowly roasted, being dreadful to hear, the good friar remaining near him till he was himself scorched, and compelled to fly for his life, hitherto regardless of the shouts of the people to call him away.

The greater proportion of the populace were horrified at this dreadful event; but some were not yet satiated with blood. “What!” cried one ruffian, “are these all? I thought we were to have many more.”

“Stay patiently, my friend, till to-morrow,” answered another; “we shall have a fresh batch then. This is far better worth seeing than a bull-fight, or an Auto-da-fé. Our Prime Minister is a fine fellow; he does not do things by halves.”

“Thank Heaven, my dear master is still alive!” exclaimed Pedro, with a deep-drawn breath, as he hastened, sick with horror, to make further inquiries for the Count.

The flames burnt brightly up, and, after twenty minutes, the shrieks of the burning wretch ceased,—death had put an end to his sufferings.

At length, by four o’clock, the bodies of the ten human beings, who had that morning breathed with life, the scaffold, and all the instruments of torture, were reduced to one small heap of black ashes. One ceremony remained to be performed. The ashes were swept together by the executioners, and scattered upon the bosom of the Tagus, so that not a vestige remained on the face of the earth of those who had once been. People gazed upon the spot of the tragedy: one blackened circle alone marked it. All that had passed seemed like some dreadful dream of a disordered brain. People rubbed their eyes, and looked again and again, to persuade themselves of the reality.

When the account was brought to the Minister—“Tremble, haughty Puritanos!” he exclaimed. “Now I have ye in my power.”

The military band now struck up a martial air, the troops moving off the ground to their quarters, and the officers of justice to their homes.

That very evening, the King, for the first time since the attack, appeared in public, holding a Court for all his nobility. None dared absent themselves; but all wore an air of gloom and fear; for, feeling as they did, it was impossible to say who might be the next victims to the Minister’s policy.

The account of the above-mentioned dreadful execution we have translated from a very valuable manuscript work in our possession, written by one who was, we conceive, an eye-witness of the scene he describes, though we have rather softened and curtailed, than enlarged upon, its horrors. He was certainly no friend of the Prime Minister’s; but there is a minute exactness in his descriptions, and an upright honesty in his observations, which gives us no reason to doubt their correctness.

The fidalgos of Portugal have never forgotten the lesson they that day learned. Alarm and mistrust entered into every social circle; no one dared write, or scarce speak, to another, for fear of treachery; and day after day the prisons were filled with fresh victims of the Minister’s despotism. The most trivial expressions were remarked and punished with rigour. One day, a nobleman, a licensed favourite at Court, was conversing with the Queen and a party of ladies, when the subject of the lost King Sebastian was introduced, one asserting that the common people firmly expected his return. “Oh, they are perfectly right,” exclaimed the Count: “King Sebastian reigns at present in Portugal.”

A few days after this speech he found himself an inhabitant of a prison, in which he lived for many years.

The King now bestowed on his Minister the title of the Count of Oyeras, nor was he made Marquis of Pombal for many years afterwards.

Though the King still drove about as usual unattended, Carvalho never appeared abroad without a body-guard to attend him, so fearful had he become of the revenge of the friends of those he had slaughtered or imprisoned. The most beneficial act of his life to Portugal was the expulsion of the Jesuits, nearly all of whom he transported to Italy, the rest he imprisoned; among the latter was the Father Jacinto da Costa, who never more appeared in the world. He was too subtle a foe to be allowed to wander loose. He is supposed to have died in one of the solitary dungeons built by Carvalho’s command.

Malagrida was also imprisoned; but three years passed before he was brought to trial. He was delivered up into the hands of the spiritual court of the Inquisition of Portugal, who found him guilty of heresy, hypocrisy, false prophecies, impostures, and various other heinous crimes, for which they condemned him to be burnt alive, having first undergone the effectual public and legal degradation from his orders. He obtained, by way of mitigation, that he should be strangled before the faggots were kindled around him. The whole ceremonial was adjusted according to the fashion of the most barbarous times. A lofty scaffold, in the square of the Rociò, was erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and richly decorated, convenient seats being provided for the most distinguished nobility, and the members of the administration, who were formally invited as to a spectacle of festivity. Fifty-two persons were condemned to appear in the procession of this Auto-da-fé, clothed in red garments and high conical caps, with representations of devils, in all attitudes and occupations, worked on them; but Malagrida, who walked at their head, was alone to furnish the horrible amusement of the day. Crowds assembled from all parts to witness the spectacle, and shouted with savage glee as the flames consumed the remains of the insane old man. Hypocrite and knave though he had been, he was then more fit for commiseration than punishment.

As his ashes were scattered to the wind—“Now!” exclaimed the Prime Minister, “I have no other foes to fear!”

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Ours is a tale of human woe and human suffering; of blighted hopes, of disappointed ambition, of noble promise, and of bright aspirations doomed never to be realised; of crime, of repentance, of despair a description of a dark and gloomy picture, with but a few green spots to enliven it—a picture of the world!

We have long lost sight of the beloved of the Count d’Almeida, the fair Donna Clara Christovaö, and we now return to her with delight, for we love to gaze upon a being young, innocent, and lovely as she was. On her return from Lisbon, her father had allowed her to remain at home for some months, to recruit her strength and spirits among the scenes of her childhood, after all the terror and danger she had undergone; nor did he, during that time, once refer to the monastic life to which he had dedicated her; indeed, he tried to forget it himself; and would, perhaps, though not addicted to changing his purpose, have deferred the fatal time from year to year till death had removed him from the world, had he not his father confessor by his side, who at length thought fit to remind him of his vow. It is needless to say, he had repented of it, though he would not acknowledge it to himself, and he strenuously endeavoured to persuade the father that he could in no way compromise his soul by deferring the commencement of the year of probation to a future period; but the latter was firm, painting the enormity of such conduct in colours so glowing, so that the unhappy father was obliged to yield, and promised to make no further delay.

For reasons known only to herself, Donna Clara had firmly refused to perform her confession before Father Alfonzo, and taking advantage of the privilege allowed to every member of a family, she had selected a venerable and worthy priest as her confessor, whose best qualification was his kind and simple heart, and his innocent and credulous belief in all the miracles, the relics, and the infallibility of his Church.

Father Alfonzo, who well knew his character, lost no opportunity of winning his regard, and thus making a tool of him in his plans on Clara, which, though delayed, he had not abandoned. No; the devil, in whatever shape he appear is ever treacherous, watchful, and persevering, and naught but the armour of innocence can turn aside his deadly shafts.

Clara had learnt to confide in the good priest, and flew to him on all occasions for consolation and advice; and now, when the fidalgo, urged on by his confessor, again proposed to her to fulfil her mother’s vow by entering a convent, she requested permission, before determining, to consult her ghostly adviser on the subject.

She hastened to the aged priest, telling him her unwillingness to give up the world, and her feeling of unfitness for a life devoted wholly to the services of the Church.

“Alas! my daughter, it is hard for an old man, broken by infirmities, with one foot in the grave, to advise a young and joyous being to abandon all her hopes of domestic felicity, and the pleasures which the world affords, for a life of ascetic seclusion,” he answered; and Clara felt her heart lighter at his words. “But,” he continued, “as a minister of religion, it behoves me to advise you to obey your father’s wishes, and to fulfil your mother’s vow. There is but one course, my daughter, marked out for you to follow—the stern one of duty; and your duty demands the sacrifice of yourself; yet weep not, my child, a few years will quickly pass away, and you will no longer regret the world you have left, with all its vanities, while an immortal crown of glory will assuredly await you, the blessed reward of your virtue and resignation. Think of this world as it truly is, a vale of tears, and place your hopes of happiness in a heavenly future.—My fair daughter, you must become a nun.”

Pale and trembling, Clara listened, and bent her head in meek resignation, while the tears stole down her fair cheeks. The advice, though good and pious, doubtless, was not such as to afford consolation to a lovely girl of nineteen, who might naturally and innocently hope to find some enjoyment in the world her aged confessor likened to a vale of tears; yet she had determined to abide by his counsel, and her fate was sealed.

She made no further resistance to the fidalgo’s commands, consenting to recommence her noviciate whenever he should think fit. A day at a short distance was fixed, and Father Alfonzo saw with malignant satisfaction the commencement of his long sought for triumph.

The Convent of Santa Clara, at Oporto, is situated on the brow of a steep hill to the east of the city, overlooking the rapid Douro. It is a lofty and handsome building of carved stone, the windows looking towards the outer side being strongly barred; the church stands on one side of the entrance, which is through a court-yard with wide oaken gates. A long and steep flight of steps leads up to it from the river, but on the other side it is approachable by a broad though winding road, with the backs chiefly of some large houses and dead walls on each side, making it altogether a most secluded situation. The garden is surrounded by a high dark wall, with pointed battlements, exactly similar to the walls of the city; indeed, one side of it is enclosed by them, and at the end furthest removed from the convent is a summer-house, likewise, alas! securely grated, from whence a beautiful view is obtained both up and down the river. On the opposite side, on the summit of a precipitous cliff, at whose foot the river rushes with impetuous force, stands the Serra Convent, with its high cupola-roofed church, then surrounded by groves of fine trees and lovely gardens, and inhabited by the most wealthy and high-born monks of Oporto, that of Santa Clara receiving none but the daughters of fidalgos. On the right is a view of the city, and the town of Villa Nova, with the heights beyond, between which the river winds its way towards the sea; while on the left, a soft and smiling scene, with rich green banks rising from the water, is beheld, beyond a narrow gorge of dark rocks.

To this convent Clara was now conveyed, and, torn from the embrace of the good Senhora Gertrudes, notwithstanding all the old nurse’s entreaties that her darling might be allowed to remain at home with her.

It must be confessed that Clara had but little to complain of during her noviciate in this lovely spot, and she had much to make her contented. She had many companions of her own age; merry, light-hearted girls, who laughed and talked all day long, hurrying over the daily ceremonials of their religion to laugh and talk again. Then their confessors would come, who never troubled them with too severe penances, entertaining them instead with many laughable stories. They would no more have thought of imposing any disagreeable task on the fair young fidalgas, than would a fashionable preacher in London of annoying the consciences of his hearers. Then the doctor would come and feel their pulses, while he detailed all the anecdotes he had collected during his professional visits, and indeed everything that was going forward in the world.

All, however, were not thus happy; the young love of some had been blighted in the bud, and they had retired thither in the expectation of finding peace and a solace for their woe in the duties of religion; others had been compelled by cajolery or threats to embrace a life they detested and despised, these invariably recompensing themselves by indulging in every license within their power, for they soon discovered “that where there’s a will there’s a way.” We well recollect the Convent of Santa Clara, the most fashionable of our day, so we must not be scandalous.

The fair flower of his garden, as her father used to delight to call Clara, found naught congenial to her feelings and thoughts in this new life, and with fear and sad forebodings she looked forward to the time when it must irrevocably become hers for ever. She pined for freedom, and she thought of the love and devotion of her poor, though high-born, lover, Don Luis. In vain she tried, for she thought it her duty to banish his image from her mind, but she had engraven it too deeply to eradicate it. Each time it returned with greater beauty than before, till at last she gave up the attempt as hopeless; so she cherished it with greater fondness than ever.

About two months of her noviciate had passed, when one evening, as she was seated in the summer-house, inhaling the fresh breeze, and gazing on the lovely view, her companions having all quitted her, she heard a low strain of music, sounding as if it came from far down the cliff below her. She listened attentively for some minutes—it ceased—when it again sounded as if from directly beneath the wall. At one of the windows a bar had been loosened, so that it could be easily removed, as the fair birds were, it must be confessed, rather frequently in the habit of doing. She soon discovered the necessary way to do it, and, looking out, she beheld a graceful figure, with a cloak over his arm and a guitar in his hand. As he gazed up towards the window of the high tower, he struck a few low notes on his guitar, as if to draw the attention of any fair captive within. The eye of love was not slow in piercing the thickening shades of evening, and her heart beat with tender emotion as she distinguished Don Luis d’Almeida. He stood evidently uncertain whether he was known, or whether it was Donna Clara herself towards whom he was looking; he feared, she thought, to pronounce her name, lest it might in any way betray her, and she equally trembled to speak his. She held in her hand a handkerchief marked with her name, “Would it be wrong?” she let it drop, and had just time to see him spring forward, seize it, and press it rapturously to his lips, when the bell for vespers rang, and she was obliged to hasten into the convent.

The following evening she anxiously watched, from the window of the tower, the return of Luis. He at length appeared, having climbed, with great difficulty and danger, the steep heights from the river; but this time he had not encumbered himself with a guitar. Clara looked hastily into the garden below her—no one was within hearing.

“Oh, Luis,” she cried, “your presence gives me both joy and pain; joy to know that you are near me, and pain that I feel it will soon be sin even to think of you.”

“Say not so, my beloved Clara; I come to tell you to hope,” answered Luis. “Resist to the utmost taking the fatal vows. Defer it in every possible way, and something may yet occur to favour our wishes.”

“Heaven grant there may!” exclaimed Clara; “but, much as I delight in seeing you, for my sake, do not venture here. Ten months must elapse before the dreaded time arrives; ere that time, return again here, and believe me, I will trust in your constancy. I have seen and heard such things within these walls as make me almost doubt whether I am bound to obey my father’s commands by remaining in them till released by death. It is treason to speak this; but thus much I must tell you, Luis. Hark! some one approaches. Farewell!”

“I will rescue you or die,” whispered Luis, yet loud enough to reach her ears; and while she watched him, as he disappeared over the brow of the cliff, a young novice entered the tower.

“What! sister Clara, ever meditating in our bower?” exclaimed the girl, laughing, “I shall begin to suspect you have some lover among the gallant friars opposite, or perhaps some one has managed to fly to the foot of the tower; for Love, we are told, has wings, though he generally uses them rather to fly away; but in no other way could a human being contrive to get there, I am sure. I quite forgot—I came to bring you a message from the Lady Abbess, to say that your father and a certain Padre Alfonzo are waiting to see you.”

“I will accompany you,” answered Clara, taking the arm of Sister Amalia; and the two young ladies entered the convent together.

More trials awaited Clara. Her father received her with an angry brow, unusual to him, and chiding her, gravely informed her that he had received intimation that Don Luis had been seen at Oporto, whither he had doubtless been attracted for her sake, insisting on her promising never, without his leave, to see him. He little suspected that she had, within the last few minutes, both seen and heard him.

“Remember, too,” concluded the Fidalgo, “that although he has not been convicted as the murderer of your brother, he has not proved his innocence, and he is without either fortune or influence; were it not so also, you are dedicated to the Church, and can never be his. Pass your word to me, therefore, that you will not see him; if not, you must, by the advice of the Lady Abbess and the good Father Alfonzo, be subjected to such a confinement as will preclude the possibility of seeing him, or receiving any account of him.”

“I trust, my father, that the love and respect I hear you, and my own honour, are a sufficient guarantee of my not disobeying your commands when they are just and right; but no further promise will I make,” answered Clara, firmly. “Pardon me, my beloved father, that I should ever have spoken thus to you; but I will not be unjust to myself, or to one whom I know truly as innocent of any crime except that of loving me.”

Clara continued firm in her determination, notwithstanding all the Lady Abbess, her father, or the priest, could say to her; and at last, wearied out, they were obliged to desist from all further attempts to make her alter it. Their system of tactics then changed. She was from henceforth never allowed to leave her chamber, or to walk in the garden without an attendant; and though at first she bore up with spirit against this irksome species of petty tyranny, at last her health gave way, and it was not till she was allowed, as before, to wander alone in the garden that she at all recovered. It certainly did not increase her taste for a monastic life. Her father at length departed for Lisbon. Three months of her noviciate only remained to be accomplished, and she had not heard from Luis. Week after week passed by, yet he came not. With all a woman’s trusting love, she felt confident he would come to see her, and bid her farewell, if not to bring proofs that her brother fell by another’s hand, and to rescue her.

At last the alarming accounts reached her of the apprehension of the conspirators, among whom the name of the Count d’Almeida was mentioned. She believed him innocent; but he was in prison, and escape was hopeless. Then arrived the dreadful description of the cruel execution. She trembled as she listened, but his name was not among the sufferers. She thanked Heaven that he was preserved, though for herself she had ceased to hope.

At last came the stunning intelligence that her father also was a prisoner on the charge of high treason. It was the very day before she was to pronounce the final vows. She longed to fly to him, to comfort him in prison, but she was told such was impossible. With tears and entreaties she petitioned the Lady Abbess to allow her to depart, yet in vain. The fidalgo had committed his daughter to her charge, and by his permission alone could she allow her to quit the convent under any pretext. His confessor, in whom he placed implicit confidence, assured her such was his wish, and by him was she guided.

Despairing, therefore, of all human aid, Clara yielded to her fate, trusting, as she did so, that Heaven would afford her peace of mind, and reward her for obeying her father’s commands and her mother’s wish.

It was a bright and lovely morning, although in winter, when she rose from her couch, whereon she had spent a sleepless night; several attendants being in readiness to robe her for the last time in the garments of the vain world. Bright flowers were braided in her fair hair, glittering jewels decked her neck, and a robe of white satin, richly ornamented with lace, clothed her graceful form. She appeared as a bride about to be led to the altar—a lovely sacrifice to Heaven; say rather to bigoted superstition and priestcraft, the worst remnant of heathen idolatry and imposture: and let us bless the era, and the true patriot, who, with one daring stroke, banished for ever those vile institutions from his country. (Note.)

Before Clara left her chamber for the last time, her future abode being a narrow cell without ornament, and with but scanty furniture, old Gertrudes was permitted to visit her. Tears and sobs almost choked the poor nurse’s utterance, as she embraced and kissed, over and over again, her young charge.

“Oh! and you look so lovely in that beautiful dress!” she exclaimed; “and they are going to cut off all that fair hair, and put you on a dull, ugly habit, which you must wear all the rest of your days—Oh dear! oh dear!” and she burst into a fresh shower of tears.

“Do not thus mourn for me, my good nurse; I care not for my change of habit,” answered Clara, smiling mournfully; “and I trust I shall be happy in the consciousness of performing my duty.”

A sister now entered to inform Clara that the procession was nearly ready to enter the church, so Senhora Gertrudes was obliged to tear herself away to witness the sad ceremony, while Clara accompanied the sister to the hall, where the whole community were assembled previous to entering the church by their private door.

Two other novices were that day to be professed, and a large assemblage of their friends, kindred, and acquaintances, besides many strangers, had collected in the church to witness the ceremony.

Preceded by the cross-bearer, with slow and measured steps, and singing the hymn, “O Gloriosa Virginum,” the procession of nuns entered the sacred edifice, and took their allotted places. The holy Father Alfonzo, also the professor extraordinary to the convent, first preached a sermon from the altar, with the postulants seated before him, giving the most glowing picture of the religious life they were about to enter, so that not one of the audience could doubt they were peculiarly blest in their choice.

The Bishop of Oporto, in his full canonicals, standing before the altar, with his chaplains on either side, the postulants were next led up the steps to him, when he severally interrogated them, first addressing Clara.

“My child, what do you demand?” he said.

“The mercy of God, and the holy habit of religion,” answered Clara.

“Is it with your own free-will that you demand the holy habit of religion?”

“Yes, my lord,” faltered forth Clara.

“Reverend Mother,” said the Bishop, turning to the Lady Abbess, “have you made the necessary inquiries, and are you satisfied?”

The Lady Abbess signified her assent.

Several other questions were asked, to which the young postulants responded satisfactorily, and they were then led forth to put off the garments of the world, and assume that of religion.

During their absence, the assembled monks and nuns broke forth in a solemn harmonious chant: “Who is she who cometh up from the desert, flowing with delights, leaning on her beloved?”

They soon returned, clothed in the habit of the order, yet wearing their long hair covered by their white veils, and again knelt before the altar, holding lighted tapers in their hands.

On one side was a bier, as if prepared for the dead, on the other a table, with the act of profession and implements for writing placed on it, while the black veil, which, once assumed, would separate them for ever from the world, lay upon the altar.

Clara trembled violently—a faintness came over her—she saw not the assembled crowd;—she heard not the rich melody, and scarcely the voice of the officiating minister. A dull, stunning feeling oppressed her—she was scarcely aware of the answers she made; but the Bishop appeared satisfied. He then, with a solemn prayer, blessed the black veils, and sprinkled them with holy water. A rich melody pealed through the church, while sweet scented incense ascended to heaven.

The eldest postulant then, led forward by the Lady Abbess, after further questions from the Bishop, pronounced her vows, while he held upraised the holy sacrament, and the organ sent forth its most solemn tones. With a trembling hand the young girl signed her renunciation of the world, and a tear-drop blotted out the mark of the cross she made.

The Bishop then severing a lock from her hair, the professed sisters advanced, and placed her on the bier, and while the black veil was thrown over her, the organ now sent forth a mournful dirge for the dead. For three minutes did she thus remain, all standing round as if mourning her dead, and when the veil was again raised, the sisters, lifting her hand to aid her to rise, it fell powerless by her side. A thrill of horror crept over them—for they thought her dead indeed; yet it was not so; the solemn mummery had overcome her—she had fainted; but the organ ceasing, and then changing to a triumphant air, she gave signs of returning animation. She was lifted from the bier, and borne from the church.

It was now Clara’s turn. The Lady Abbess, taking the lighted taper from her hand, led her forward, giving her the act of confession. Almost fainting, she then knelt, the richest tones of human voices floating round the building, while the Bishop bore towards her the adorable sacrament. A dimness came over her sight—her voice faltered as the moment to pronounce her final vow had arrived. Scarce had she uttered the first word, when a voice—it sounded like that of human agony—rung through the church. “Stay, in mercy stay!” it cried; and at those tones Clara sunk senseless to the ground.

Note. Dom Pedro, the father of her present Majesty of Portugal.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.

We left the Count d’Almeida an inmate of the Jungueira prison, from whence the stern policy of the Prime Minister allowed few captives to depart, except to the scaffold and to death. Many an unfortunate victim of this iron despotism remained there year after year, demanding to be brought to trial,—to be told of his crime,—to have the witness of his guilt produced, but his petitions were unheard or disregarded; he might, if free, become dangerous, so he was allowed to pine on in chains, till death, more kind than man, released him.

Luis sat disconsolate and sad in his narrow cell, with few happy remembrances of his past life to dwell on, and without a book to withdraw his mind from the melancholy present. For his own fate, come what might, he was prepared; but he thought of Clara, and there was bitter anguish. He could now prove himself innocent of her brother’s death, but he was a prisoner, without a hope of escape, and within a week, at furthest, perhaps at that very time she might be pronouncing the fatal vow which would tear her from him for ever! The thought almost drove him to madness—his feelings may be more easily pictured than described. He felt that he was shrieking, but his voice gave forth no sound,—that he could dash himself against the door, but yet he sat, his hands clasped before him, without moving,—a statue of manly grief.

His meditations were interrupted by the opening of his prison door, and his worthy friend, Frè Diogo Lopez, stood before him.

“Ah! my dear Count, you see I have not delayed long in fulfilling my promise,” began the Friar.

“I saw your young friend, and offered him such consolation as was in my power, and now I have brought you a fresh bottle of wine, to keep up your spirits. I offered him a little, but he could scarcely drink a drop. I fear he is going, poor youth.”

“I much fear so too,” answered Luis. “But tell me, have you found the letter to his father, you spoke of? It has been so wonderfully preserved, that I fain would think it of importance.”

“I have it here. Is not this it?” answered the Friar, producing a much soiled packet. “Read the superscription, for my eyes are dim, and cannot well decipher it.”

“The same. Now will you undertake to forward this to Senhor Gonçalo Christovaö,” said the Count.

“It will not have far to go, then, for he is a prisoner within these walls,” answered the Friar.

“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Luis. “Then I may prove to him that I am not the murderer of his son. Does he know that the poor youth is here?”

“I have not myself spoken to him, though it is almost impossible he should discover it,” replied the Friar.

“Then, in pity to all, contrive to let him see his dying son, and I, too, long to converse with him. It is the greatest favour you can afford me, next to one which I scarce dare hope for, to aid me in my escape.”

The Friar shook his head—“Your last wish is impossible; the first I will endeavour to accomplish. You know not all the precautions taken to prevent escape. Were your life in danger, it might, perhaps, be done at the risk of both our lives, or of perpetual imprisonment in some loathsome dungeon, to which, in comparison, this is a palace.”

“For the purpose I have in view, I would risk death, torments, and imprisonment!” exclaimed Luis, vehemently. “Unless I succeed, all I value in life is worthless. Within a few days from hence, Donna Clara de Christovaö will be compelled to assume the veil, if I do not contrive to rescue her from the convent at Oporto, where she is confined. I vowed to her to attempt it, and if she hears not of me, she will deem me faithless, and yield without a struggle to her fate.”

Frè Diogo smiled, as he shook his head. “You might as well attempt to rescue the lamb from the talons of the eagle, as to carry off a fair girl from the clutches of those who have her in their power,” he answered. “In any possible plan I would, if in my power, aid you gladly. But consider a moment. If you could escape from hence, which is next to impossible, you manage to reach Oporto, though the chances are, that you are recaptured before you arrive there;—you demand the young lady;—you are refused even an interview. You then contrive to let her know you are in the neighbourhood;—she sends you word she is shut up, and cannot get out. Or suppose you have surmounted all difficulties, and you have managed to carry her off; whither would you fly? In each direction the Minister has his spies, who would soon restore you to your present abode, if not to a worse, and the lady to her convent. No, my dear Count, be advised by me, do not attempt an impossibility. You have but one course to pursue; practise your patience: when a man is at the bottom of a well, he cannot go lower.”

“No, but he may be drowned, though, when the water flows in,” said Luis, despondingly.

“Not if he knows how to swim,” answered the Friar; “and then the water, which would destroy another, will be his preservation. Let that be your consolation.”

“Alas! I fear your observations are too correct, and I must submit to my fate,” said Luis. “Can you, however, contrive to let me see Gonçalo Christovaö?”

“There will be no great difficulty, for since the execution, in some parts of the prison, the captives are allowed to communicate with each other.”

“Of what do you speak?” inquired Luis; and the Friar recounted to him the dreadful tragedy which had taken place. “Alas!” he exclaimed, “and has that gay and bold youth been a victim?” and while he shuddered, as he recollected the risk he had run of sharing their fate, he thought how nobly young Jozé de Tavora had behaved in not betraying him; for, as he heard, torture had been administered to extract confession.

“Come now with me,” said the Friar, interrupting his thoughts. “The turnkey waits without, and will, under my responsibility, allow you to visit this old fidalgo, for his cell is close to this, I heard as I came hither.”

“Then no delay!” exclaimed Luis, starting up; “I will this instant accompany you.”

The turnkey, on the representations of the Friar, was easily persuaded to allow them to pass, and enter the fidalgo’s cell.

The old man started with terror, as he beheld them, fancying that they were officers come to lead him to trial, or to death.

“Lead on, ye myrmidons of tyranny! I am prepared!” he exclaimed, rising.

“You are mistaken, senhor,” said Luis. “I come as an old friend, a fellow-prisoner, to offer such consolation as is in my power.”

“Thanks, senhor, for your courtesy, but your name has escaped my memory,” said the Fidalgo, scanning him closely.

“Luis d’Almeida.”

“What! the murderer of my son?—the destroyer of my daughter’s peace?”

“Certainly not the murderer of your son, for he yet lives; and rather would I die a hundred deaths than cause one pang of grief to your fair daughter.”

“My son lives, say you?” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Bring him hither, then, that I may embrace him before I am led forth to death.”

“He lies himself upon a bed of sickness; but I trust, Senhor, to be able to conduct you to him,” answered Luis.

“In mercy then, without delay, let me hasten to my long-lost boy,” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Is he within these cruel walls—a prisoner like ourselves?”—“He is, senhor, alas! and this good Friar will arrange an interview, which will require some precaution,” answered Luis; and turning to Frè Diogo, he requested him to learn from the gaoler, when they might visit the cell of the unfortunate youth.

“Pardon me, for the want of courtesy with which I received you, Senhor Conde,” said the Fidalgo, as soon as they were left alone. “I owe you much for the news you bring me; and my poor boy, does he know I am near him? and what crime has he committed to be confined within these walls?”

Luis described, in as few words as possible, the dreadful treatment his son had suffered, and the fatal results he apprehended. We need not describe the father’s grief, or his regrets for the manner in which he had treated his guest; but his emotion was far greater, when, on Luis presenting the long-lost packet, he tore it open, and his eye hurried over the contents.

“Great God! how have I been deceived in that man!” he cried, in a tone of agony. “My child, my sweet child! and thou hast been the sacrifice! Oh, for freedom, that I might hasten to rescue her from the bondage she detests! A week hence, and her fate will have been sealed, when I, alas! shall have no power to release her. And I—oh, how cruelly have I treated her! Curses on the stern tyrant who thus detains me. He is a father, and did he know the cause, he would release me. No, the base upstart would but smile the more to see the high-born fidalgo’s agony. May Heaven’s anger blast all the works in which he prides himself! May—ah! I am raving—oh! God, support me!”

Luis stood amazed at this sudden outbreak of the usually sedate and dignified fidalgo, though scarcely himself less agitated in his eagerness to learn the contents of the letter, the purport of which the fidalgo’s words appeared to intimate. The old man saw his inquiring gaze. “See,” he continued, extending his hand with the paper. “Read that, and see how I have been deceived; and alas! my poor child has been sacrificed;” and he sunk into his chair, covering his eyes with his hands, while Luis read the letter. It was to the following effect:—

“Heaven has thought fit to summon me from this world, during your absence, my beloved husband, and already do I feel the near approach of death. Alas! I have no one to whom I can confide my dying wishes, and a secret which I would entrust but to your ears alone. I therefore write with faltering hand this paper, which I trust may be seen by our sweet Clara, and given to you. It is for her sake I am anxious; for I see perils surrounding her course through life, which will require all a mother’s care to guard against.

“Do not, as you value her happiness or your own, confide in the Father Alfonzo. He is a wretched hypocrite; yet till lately I discovered it not. For many days past has he been endeavouring to persuade me to devote our Clara to the service of the Church; but I know too well the misery and wretchedness it will entail on her, and firmly have I refused to sanction his plan. While I spoke, he smiled scornfully in return, nor do I doubt his purpose. He has long hated me, for he knew I was not deceived in him. As you love me, as you prize our child’s happiness, let her select her own lot in life; but warn her against the dangers of a convent. She will never insist on wedding one beneath her in family; but never insist on her marrying one she cannot learn to love. My eyes grow dim, my hand weak, yet do I exert myself, during the absence of Frè Alfonzo, to finish this, lest he should return before I have concealed it. Adieu! my beloved husband! ere you can reach your home, I shall have ceased to breathe; and, as you have loved me in life, forget not my dying prayer.”

The last lines were faint and almost illegible. Luis returned the paper with a look of despair, and, for a minute, the father and the lover stood gazing at each other, without uttering a word.

“What hope is there?” at last exclaimed the Fidalgo.

“Alas, none!” was the dejected reply of Luis; then, suddenly rousing himself, he exclaimed, “Yes, there is hope! I will escape from hence, and save her, or die in the attempt! Give me but your written order to the Lady Abbess, to prevent your daughter’s taking the veil, and I will bear it to her, and also a note to Donna Clara, to assure her of her mother’s real prayer, and of your consent to her following her own inclinations.”

“Alas, I fear such is but a hopeless chance,” said the Fidalgo. “We must confide the order to some one who is at freedom.”

“No one can be found who would hasten as I will; for no one has the same excitement,” answered Luis.

“Remember you are still a captive,” said the Fidalgo, mournfully.

“Alas! too true,” ejaculated Luis.

Just as he spoke the door opened, and the gaoler, whispering to them to walk carefully, beckoned them to follow him, while he led the way to the cell of the young Gonçalo. The son uttered a cry of joy, as he rose to embrace his father, and then sunk down languidly on his couch. For many minutes they remained in earnest conversation; the fidalgo seeming to forget his daughter in the joy of recovering his son, while Luis, in the mean time, explained to Frè Diogo the importance of the paper he had preserved, beseeching him to lend his assistance, either in aiding his escape, or in forwarding the fidalgo’s despatch to Oporto.

“I am happy to do all I can to mitigate the irksomeness of your imprisonment, my friend; but it is more than I can do to risk my neck in aiding your escape, or carrying any communication beyond the walls of the prison, which would, most certainly, be discovered, and punished with almost equal severity. Think better of it, Count; there is no use running so much risk for the sake of any girl under the sun. Let her take the veil, she will be happy enough; and, when you get out of this place, you can easily find another to make amends for her loss.”

“You have never been in love, to speak thus,” exclaimed Luis.

“No, thank Heaven, I never have,” answered the Friar. “I never saw any good come of such folly.”

“Then, have I no hopes of your assistance?” asked Luis.

The Friar shook his head.

Meantime the fidalgo rose from his son’s couch, over which he had been leaning, and took the Count’s hand—“Pardon me, for all the wrong I have done you!” he exclaimed; “but you see how severely I have been punished. My poor boy!” and he pointed to young Gonçalo, and his voice faltered—“and my fair daughter. Have you persuaded the good Friar to forward the letter I will write to the Lady Abbess?”

“He refuses to aid me,” answered Luis, again appealing, in vain, to the Friar.

“Then I have no hope!” exclaimed the unhappy father, sinking into a chair.

The bolts, as he spoke, were heard to be withdrawn, and a stranger entered the cell.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.

The day following the execution of the Duke of Aveiro and his unhappy companions, a fine merchant ship was seen to glide slowly up the broad Tagus, dropping her anchor within a short distance of a frigate, which lay off Lisbon. A person of some consequence seemed to be on board the former, for a boat quickly pushed off from the sides of the frigate, bearing her Captain; and approached the merchantman. He eagerly stepped on board, and hastened towards a venerable and dignified-looking man, who was pacing the deck, with short and hurried steps, casting anxious glances towards the city, while several attendants stood round, and various chests and packages lay about, as if ready for speedy disembarkation.

No sooner did the stranger see the Captain of the frigate, than he advanced to embrace him, with an expression of satisfaction, “Ah! my kind friend, Captain Pinto,” he exclaimed, “this is kind indeed! The last to see me off, and the first to welcome my return to Portugal, no longer a wanderer and an outcast, but at length with my toils at an end, and my property secured.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” answered our old friend, Captain Pinto, “though I have some sad news to give in return, which I will communicate as we pull on shore, if you are now prepared to accompany me.”

“Gladly! I long once more to tread my native land,” returned the stranger, as he descended with the Captain into the boat. The distance to the landing-place was not great; but, during the short time occupied in reaching it, many important matters were discussed; and, for the first time, the stranger learned of the conspiracy, and the dreadful punishment of those supposed to be the chief leaders, and the imprisonment of many hundreds of others implicated in it.

“Poor boy! it wrings my heart with grief to hear it!” exclaimed the stranger, as they neared the shore: “I cannot believe him guilty.”

“Nor I neither,” said the Captain. “I have in vain endeavoured to discover the place of his imprisonment, and would risk all to save him. It is reported that the Minister has determined to punish many more, either by banishment to the coast of Africa, or by death; but, without interest, as I am, I could do nothing till your arrival, for which I have anxiously waited. Our only chance of success is by an appeal to the Minister himself.”

“To the Minister we will appeal, then,” said the stranger; “I have some hope through him. He will scarcely refuse the first petition of an old and long-lost friend.”

“We have not a moment to lose; for Sebastiaö Jozé is a man both quick to think and to execute, and even now my young friend may be embarking for Angola,” said the Captain, as the boat touched the shore.

A smile of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features, as he once more landed in his native country, but it quickly vanished as he thought of all the miseries that country was suffering; and, accompanied by Captain Pinto, whose well-known person enabled him to pass without the interference of the police, he hurried towards the residence of the Minister. As they arrived in sight of the house, they observed a strong body of cavalry dashing down the street at full speed, who halted in front of it, and, from among them, the commanding figure of Carvalho was seen to dismount from his horse, and enter the building.

“What means this?” asked the stranger. “Does the preserver of his country require a body-guard?”

“The corrector of abuses, we should say, or the despotic tyrant, as his enemies call him, does,” observed the Captain, cautiously. “Alas! by such means only can our countrymen be governed.”

When they arrived, they found a guard drawn up in the entrance-hall; and after Captain Pinto had sent up his name, requesting an audience, they were compelled to wait a considerable time in an ante-room, before they were admitted.

The stranger smiled,—“Times have changed since we parted,” he said.

The great Minister rose to receive them, with his usual courtesy, as they entered, desiring them to be seated, while his piercing eye glanced sternly at the stranger with an inquiring look, as he demanded of the Captain the cause of his visit.

“I came, your Excellency, to introduce one, whom, with your permission, I will now leave to plead his cause with you,” and, bowing profoundly, he withdrew.

The Minister rose, as did the stranger.

“I cannot be surprised that you should not recognise in these furrowed and care-worn features the countenance of him who was the friend of your youth,” said the latter.

“My recollection is not liable to be deceived,” said the Minister, scanning the stranger still more earnestly. “They recall the likeness of one long since dead, and truly mourned—one to whom I owed a debt of gratitude never to be repaid—the preserver of my life!”

A gleam of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features. “I am not forgotten, then!” he exclaimed. “You see before you one long supposed dead—him, I trust, of whom you speak.”

“What!” cried the Minister, grasping the stranger’s hand. “Speak! are you the friend of my days of neglect and poverty,—does the Luis d’Almeida I loved so well still live?”

“The same, my friend,” cried the stranger, as they warmly embraced; “and great is my satisfaction to find that I am not forgotten.”

“’Tis a happiness I can seldom, if ever, enjoy, to call any one my friend,” said the proud Minister; and a shade passed across his brow, as he thought how completely he had isolated himself from his fellow-men. He had chosen his station—it was one of power and grandeur, but of danger and remorse. In each statesman of the country he saw a foe eager to hurl him from his post; and in no one who exhibited talent would he place confidence; he perceived treachery and hatred in the glance of every courtier around him, though he felt he could rule them but with a rod of iron.

The two friends talked long and earnestly together, forgetful of the flight of time.

“I have one petition to make to you,” said Senhor d’Almeida, for so we may call the stranger; “it is my first, and it shall be my last.”

“What! cannot I see my only friend without hearing that hateful word?” interrupted Carvalho, and a frown darkened his brow. “Yet let me hear it, for I would not willingly refuse you.”

“I would ask for the pardon of one in whom all my affections are centred—the young Count d’Almeida, my nephew.”

“Ah! I have been deceived in that youth! He is accused of the darkest treason,” exclaimed the Minister.

“I will answer for his innocence—he is incapable of a dishonourable deed,” answered the uncle, warmly.

“He is in prison with others equally culpable, and I have vowed to show no mercy to any,” returned the Minister. “If I waver, they deem mercy arises from weakness, and my power is at an end.”

“Then have I lived and toiled in vain,” said the stranger. “Pardon me, I ask but this grace, and I find that I have presumed too far on the love you bore me.”

“Stay, my friend!” exclaimed the Minister. “You wrong me and yourself: I will not refuse your request, but on one condition: your nephew must forthwith quit the country, and till he embarks, appear to no one. He is not proved innocent, and the guilty must not escape punishment. I will send some one who will, this night, set him at liberty, and conduct him to the house where you reside: from thenceforward he is under your charge; and remember, he must run no risk of being retaken.”

The stranger expressed his sincere thanks to his powerful friend; and at length rose to depart. Carvalho accompanied him to the ante-room, and as he saw the worthy Captain Pinto still waiting—“Senhor Pinto,” he said, “prepare to sail, to-morrow morning, for England; I have despatches to send by you.”

The Captain intimated the readiness of his ship for sea; and, accompanied by the stranger, whom the Minister again affectionately embraced, he withdrew.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.

We must once more return to the cell of the younger Gonçalo Christovaö, in the Jungueira prison. The person who entered, narrowly scrutinised the features of all the occupants; the only one of whom that seemed rather uneasy under his glance being the good Frè Diogo.

“What! you here, and in this disguise, my old friend,” he said, laughing. “Are you caught at last, then?”

“I am in no disguise, but in the habit of the order to which I belong, Senhor Antonio,” said the Friar.

“It matters not—my business is not with you, but with the Senhor Conde d’Almeida, if he will favour me with his company,” said the stranger.

Luis started as he spoke, for he recognised the officer of police who had assisted him in his search for Clara; and he fully believed that he had now come to conduct him to some other prison.

“I shall be ready to follow you when I have taken farewell of my friends,” he answered.

Antonio approached him, and whispered in his ear, “Fear not, I come to set you at liberty.”

Delightful words to a prisoner! A thrill of joy shot through the Count’s heart—he might yet be able to rescue Clara! “Stay,” he answered; “a few minutes are precious. Senhor Gonçalo, I have the means of conveying the order to the Lady Abbess to set your fair daughter at freedom.”

Writing materials were soon procured by the kind-hearted gaoler, and the important document being written, and signed by the fidalgo, he committed it to the care of Luis, saying, as he did so, “Should better times come round, and should you regain your liberty, and your fortune, to no one would I more gladly consign my child’s happiness.”

“My liberty I trust to regain, but my fortune, alas! is irretrievably gone,” answered the Count, despondingly.

Taking leave of Clara’s father and brother, the latter of whom appeared revived by the sight of his parent, Luis signified to Antonio that he was in readiness to accompany him. Frè Diogo followed them from the cell, the door of which the gaoler locked behind them, and then bringing the Count’s cloak, and throwing it over his head, carefully led them along the low, dark passages which Luis had traversed on his entrance, and now sincerely hoped never to see again.

“Farewell, my dear Count,” whispered the Friar, as they were about to enter into a more public part of the prison; “I may as well not be seen with you, for I must take care of my character, you know. May Heaven bless you!” and he gave Luis a hug which almost took the breath out of his body; then, putting his mouth to Antonio’s ear, he whispered, “Have more regard to a holy friar’s cowl and gown, than to allude to days when I was sowing my wild oats: I am a reformed character, now. Adeos!” and, with a low laugh, he glided away.

At a signal from Antonio, the guards at each post allowed him and his charge to pass without question; and soon, to Luis’s delight, he once more found himself breathing the free air. A carriage was in waiting, which quickly conveyed them to the other side of Lisbon, where, stopping at the door of a house, Antonio begged Luis to descend. “Adeos, senhor, we may not perhaps, meet again,” he said; “’tis my last day of service, and an agreeable duty I have performed. You will find friends awaiting your arrival.”

Luis sprung eagerly up stairs, and, entering a room, found himself in the warm-hearted embrace of his kind friend, Captain Pinto. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as soon as he was released, “I am rejoiced to see Senhor Mendez also.”

“No longer Senhor Mendez, but your lost uncle, Luis d’Almeida,” exclaimed the Captain.

Luis threw himself at the feet of his uncle, who, raising him, pressed him affectionately to his heart. “This is, indeed, a happy moment to me, my nephew, after all my sufferings, to find one of my family who learned to love me as an outcast and a beggar!” he exclaimed.

The young Count was soon informed of the means taken to procure his liberation, and of the banishment to which he was doomed; his uncle, however, assuring him, that it should not be passed in poverty.

“Alas!” he answered, after expressing his gratitude, “liberty and fortune are of no value, except I can share them with one to whom my heart has long been engaged;” and he hurriedly described his love for Donna Clara, the position in which she was placed, and her father’s authority delegated to him to rescue her.

His uncle and the Captain looked at each other disappointed. “It cannot be helped, Luis,” said the latter; “you must be on board my ship to-morrow morning, when I sail for England; and all I can promise is, to land you for an hour or so at Oporto, if the sea is smooth; when you can deliver her father’s despatches to the young lady, and pay a farewell visit.”

“That plan will never do,” exclaimed Luis: “contrary winds might delay us, or a rough sea might prevent my landing, and Clara would be lost to me for ever. I will trust only in my own exertions; and I purpose this very hour to start on my journey, for I cannot rest till I know that she is free.”

“I see how it is,” said the Captain; “there is but one way for it. What hour is it? Not ten: then the Minister will yet see me. He is a stern ruler when political necessity demands it, but he has yet a kind heart. Let me see, I know all the story.” Without waiting to hear what anybody might say, the Captain hurried away.

Scarcely had he gone, when Pedro rushed into the room, embracing his master’s knees, in his joy at seeing him alive, and at liberty; but Luis was obliged to hurry him away, to bring a change of raiment from his lodgings, and to procure horses, and make other preparations for his journey.

We need not give the interesting conversation which ensued between the uncle and nephew; one important part of it was, that the former informed the latter that he would find five hundred pounds at his immediate disposal on his arrival in England; and that he had already settled the bulk of a far larger fortune than his family had ever possessed upon him, nor did he doubt, if he was in time to prevent Donna Clara from taking the veil, that her father would longer hesitate to bestow her upon him.

The Captain now returned in high spirits. “I told him the whole story, how the fidalgo had shut up his daughter in a convent, and how you wished to release her: so, as he hates the system of convents, and, I verily believe, would like to thwart what he imagines the fidalgo’s wishes, he has given you a passport, and an order for horses wherever you may require them, besides an order to the Lady Abbess to deliver Donna Clara de Christovaö into the charge of Don Luis d’Almeida: so now, the sooner you are off, after taking a little rest, the better. I sail to-morrow by day-break; and shall land at Oporto, while my ship cruises outside. I will wait for you, and take you on board after you have seen the lady, and restored her to her home.”

This plan being arranged, and Pedro having returned, and reported that he had selected a couple of strong horses for the journey, the Captain repaired on board his ship; and Luis endeavoured to snatch an hour’s sleep before the horses were in readiness. Long before daylight he was in the saddle, after taking an affectionate farewell of his newly-found uncle. He had a journey of full one hundred and fifty miles before him, over rough roads, with dangers of all sorts; but he thought not of them, his only consideration being how he could most quickly perform the distance. The time of year was in his favour, but three days was the very least he could hope to do it in, and all depended on finding fresh horses on the road.

“Pedro!” he exclaimed; “we ride for life and death! You will not desert me? We must place Leiria to the south of us before we rest.”

“Fear me not, my dear master, I will follow wherever you lead,” answered Pedro, with enthusiasm; and away the two horsemen galloped; and before the sun rose, Lisbon was many leagues behind them. So well did the horses perform their work, that it was still daylight when they reached the gates of Leiria. The Count, with the magic order from the Minister, instantly went in search of fresh steeds. Of course, no one had them, till he fortunately encountered an old acquaintance, who indicated to him where they were to be found; and, with delight, he soon discovered two, fresh and strong for the road. The surprise of the inhabitants was great indeed to see the travellers again in their saddles, and galloping out of the town. Night overtook them just as they reached the little inn, where, two years before, their adventure with the banditti had occurred; but they thought not of danger, as they threw themselves from their saddles, and, seeing their horses carefully attended to, were, it must be confessed, after a hasty supper, soon fast asleep. The buxom maiden of former years had now become the landlady, nor did Pedro forget to whisper Frè Diogo’s name in her ear, for which he got a good box on his own. Again they were on the road, and “Onward, onward!” was Luis’s cry. Coimbra was reached safely, and once more they were fortunate in finding even better steeds than before. Pedro was already almost knocked up with the fatigue, but the lover felt it not, as he galloped onward. He thought but of one thing the whole time, the quickest way to reach the end of his journey.

Alas! the end was not to be so prosperous. Within five leagues of Oporto both the horses began to stumble through fatigue, and at last that of Luis came to the ground. He was himself, fortunately, uninjured, but for some minutes the horse refused to move, and at last they found it utterly impossible to proceed further. A small inn was at hand, where they took shelter, and from whence, the next morning, they again set out.

The sun was already high in the heavens when they came in sight of Oporto, rising on its cluster of hills directly opposite to them. The sight of a goal, where his hopes were to be blest or blasted for ever, inspired Luis with renewed ardour. He dashed down the steep hill, through the town of Villa Nova, and reached a pontoon bridge which connects it with Oporto. He crossed without an accident, and the first person he encountered on the opposite side was Captain Pinto.

“Not a moment is to be lost, Luis,” he exclaimed, pointing to his boat, a fast pulling, six-oared gig. “Up that way, and then up a flight of steep steps, you will reach the church—the ceremony has begun, but cannot have concluded.”

Luis waited not to answer him, but, throwing his horse’s bridle to a bystander, as did Pedro, he sprung up the steps near him. He flew like lightning: breathless he rushed into the church. He gazed wildly around—Clara was at the altar. Had she pronounced the fatal oath? He stopped not to inquire; but, thrusting the spectators aside, he uttered the cry which caused her to faint. He sprung forward, he lifted her in his arms, and exhibiting to the astonished eyes of the assembled monks and nuns the orders both of her father and the Minister, he bore her to the open air.

“She is mine!” he exclaimed, “and I confide her to no one else.”

“They are base forgeries,” he heard the voice of Frè Alfonzo exclaim, as he stood in advance of the rest. “Seize the sacrilegious wretch! The holy Inquisition must be his judge.”

Luis waited not to hear more; but, pressing the yet unconscious girl to his heart, he leaped down the steep steps, while Pedro closely followed, keeping any one from attempting to seize him. Captain Pinto caught a glimpse of him as he neared the place of embarkation, and, shouting to his crew to be prepared, he hastened to assist him in lifting the lady into the boat. Pedro jumped in after them, and the boat had just gained the centre of the stream as a group of monks and priests, with Frè Alfonzo, had collected on the quay, uttering their anathemas against the daring marauder, who had robbed the Church of their prey. The young Count, his heart throbbing with joy and fear, heard them not, as he bent over the yet senseless form of the lovely Clara. There was but one course now to pursue. He well knew the dreadful deeds which had been done by the ministers of religion and he could never venture to entrust the rescued girl within the powers of the infuriated monks. He must bear her on board the frigate.

“The only safe plan,” said the Captain. “You have the Minister’s authority, her’s you will soon get, and her father can give his when you return; if not, you must do without it. Give way, my men!”

The boat shot rapidly down the stream, and ere long was breasting the rolling billows of the Atlantic. The frigate stood towards her, the lady was carefully lifted on deck, the boat was hoisted in, and when Clara came to herself she found herself in the cabin, her head supported by the young Count, who was kneeling by her side. She pronounced his name. “Where am I?” she exclaimed, gazing wildly around.

“In safety, and borne onward, I trust, to happiness,” answered her lover; and a very few sentences sufficed to explain all that had occurred.

“Thank Heaven,” she whispered, “I am not shrouded, as I fancied, in that dreadful black veil.”

Favourable breezes carried them to the free and happy shores of England, where, a few days after their landing, they were married, with due pomp, at the Portuguese Embassy, a measure Gonçalo Christovaö highly approved of, when he discovered that the Senhor d’Almeida had settled a handsome fortune on his nephew.

For many years they resided in England, where their generous relative joined them; for his principles but ill agreed with the bigotry and ignorant superstition which he encountered on every side. Clara had the happiness of hearing of her brother’s recovery and escape from prison; but the Conde San Vincente, by high bribes, avoided punishment.

The only person of whose fate we are not quite certain was Frè Diogo, though we have our fears that he figured in an Auto-da-fé in 1765; his crimes being, speaking ill of the holy office, not paying due reverence to the holy sacrament, and entertaining scandalous and heretical opinions.

The fate of the Prime Minister is well known. On the death of Joseph, he was deprived, by Donna Maria the First, of his offices, and banished to his native town, where, at an advanced age, he died, his sons inheriting his titles and property, of which his enemies could not deprive him.

Finis.